JOCKO’S AND THE GREAT CHEAT-OFF

by Suzanne Sparrow Watson 
Normally we are healthy eaters, if one can overlook the occasional foray to   Dairy Queen and In 'n Out. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'm the only reason  the local kale farmer is in the black this year. Butwhen we are in Nipomo, as we are now, we throw caution and our cholesterol to the wind and eat at       Jocko's. Jocko's has put Nipomo on the map. Okay, that might be a slight      exaggeration since most people still don't know where Nipomo is. Nevertheless,it is likely that for those who do know where it is it's because they've been to Jocko's. Jocko's inside

As you can see from the picture Jocko’s has all the atmosphere of a cattle barn. I think the last remodel was done sometime in the 50’s. The 1850’s. But people come from far and wide to eat here so they must be doing something right. That something is their beef. It is grilled over an oak BBQ, with just the right amount of charring on the outside and tenderness on this inside. We went there last week with my brother, Jack, and his wife Sharon. It was a Tuesday night and we had a reservation for 6:30. We were not seated until almost 7. For those who didn’t have a reservation the wait is closer to an hour and a half. Let’s just say that the bar business at Jocko’s is quite brisk.

It’s the type of place thatJocko's bar serves drinks in those old-fashioned jelly jar glasses but that’s just what you’d expect at joint that has paper place mats. The wait staff is cheerful, which is astounding given that they serve over 300 dinners a night – every night. The menu has a wide array of beef dishes but their chicken is also out of this world. The steak sandwich is HUGE and comes with a salad, antipasto dish, beans, potato, and then, as if your veins aren’t already coursing with enough fat, vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce.

The price of all this? $17.00. Or, to put it in perspective, $1 less than Bob paid for two beers at Del Mar. JSB NIPOMO

Speaking of Bob, we just had our annual family golf tournament here in Nipomo.
There was a lot of pre-tournament revelry, as you can see from the picture of us three.

I think Bob had just said something about winning the golf tournament. Or some such foolishness. In any event, there was much revelry on Friday night. By Saturday morning there was some talk of needing resuscitation but the group rallied in time to take a stroll through the quaint town of Arroyo Grande. As it turns out, there was a vintage car show on the Main Street and we had a ball walking around looking at all the old cherry cars. Until we realized that we had either owned or ridden in most of them. It is a sad day indeed when you realize that you are “vintage”. Jack decided to sit in front of a local winery with our dog,Dash, and just watch the world go by.

20130728-172158.jpgHe always was the smart one.

In any event, our golf tournament later that day was a bit of a bust. We played the 12 hole Challenge Course at Monarch Dunes. Some of us were more challenged than others. It is a prickly little track with greens that defy the normal logic of putting. To make matters worse, I was in charge of scoring but I completely forgot to record one of the holes. Which on a 12 hole course is pretty pathetic. And tells you everything you need to know about my short term memory these days. But since I was in charge and had the scorecard I just declared that the girls won the tournament and the guys were no wiser. Until they read this.

But never let it be said that a little cheating at golf got in the way of a good time with our family. We all know that we are so lucky to be related…and better yet, good friends.

Opening Day at Del Mar (Part 2)

by Bob Sparrow

DSC00675    On the way to my seat I pass the ‘Cross Over’ – a path through the bleachers where all the horses and jockeys travel  on their way from the paddock to the racetrack – I stop to watch the parade for the first race.   To  my amazement even  the horses are wearing little silk hats on their saddles in the shape of a joc . . ., no wait, that is a  jockey, my gosh they  are small.  I’ve seen a jockey bigger than that on my neighbor’s lawn.

I finally make my way to my seat.  When I bought my ticket over the phone, I was told that my seat was in the ‘pole  position’; I thought the pole position in racing was a good thing – not so much.  Fortunately, my poor pole position  seat  was minimized by my lack of betting acumen, so I never really needed to see the finish line at the end of the race, as my horses were in no particular hurry to get there.  The picture to the right shows that long after the race was finished, I was still waiting for my horse to round the club house turn.DSC00645

“Another beer?”

“No, think I’ll have one of those Mint Julep things, you know, kind of get into the spirit of things?”

“You’re not at Churchill Downs.”

 “Where?”

“Do you want some fruit and an umbrella with that?”

 “Hey, are you saying that it’s kind of a girlie drink?  I thought it was a ‘racing drink’.”

“Sir, there’s a line behind you?”

 “Fine, I’ll take one . . . and a shot of tequila!”

Guess I showed her who’s a man!

DSC00679     Aside from a few pre-historic creatures with faces you could bounce a trifecta ticket off of, the crowd was generally  very  young – I kept wondering, ‘Do their parents know they’re here . . . dressed like that?’  And I found that most of  these 20 and 30-somethings paid, even for a single drink, with a card, not cash.  I understand that that generation  really doesn’t  use a lot of cash, but I’m just hoping they were using debit cards and not credit cards; otherwise those $9  beers, with interest, were  costing them about $10.75.

With a bratwurst, a beer (Oh yeah, I got another $9 beer) and my racing form, I sit down in my pole position seat and  watch the people parade.  I must admit that the ladies do a great job at ‘dress up’ – I guess that’s in their DNA; most of them look great.  The guys?  Not so much, although a couple of ‘dandies’ (left) did stop and pose as well as a guy (right) in a seersucker jacket – Sears made it, a sucker bought it.DSC00680

There were a few party fouls perpetrated by ladies who tried to pour their 12-gallon bodies into an 8-gallon dress and top it off with cheesy chapeau; consequently ‘Where the Turf Meets the Surf’, became ‘Where the Hat Meets the Fat’.  Thankfully, no pictures are available.

DSC00681  Here’s me ‘tearing it up’ – my ticket that is, on some nag with a catchy  name that ran  like she was headed to the glue factory.  You can see that the guy sitting  next to me was  less-than-amused with my racetrack antics.

Surprisingly, I didn’t win a race all day, but with great weather, great refreshments and great scenery, I managed to eke  out a good time.

For those worried that I may have been driving under the influence on my way home, worry not; I took the train; not that I was being so responsible, I just couldn’t remember where I had parked my car and OK, I accidentally got on the bus to the train station.  It was just as well, I couldn’t find my keys.

Disclaimers: The Del Mar Opening Day experience was wonderful, my seat wasn’t as bad as it looked, the horses were awesome animals (just not the ones I bet on), the jockeys are courageous athletes, I did see a few over-weight people there, but they all seemed very jolly and, the beers were in fact $9 each, but I only had two of them (honest, Officer).

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Opening Day at Del Mar (Part 1)

by Bob Sparrow

DSC00657      I can count the number of horse races I’ve been to by scratching the ground with my hoof three times, and the number of Opening Days I’ve been to without scratching the ground at all.  But I live about an hour-and-a-half’s drive from Del Mar where Bing Crosby, Gary Cooper, Jimmy Durante, Pat O’Brien and Oliver Hardy, all part owners, celebrated Del Mar’s first Opening Day back in 1937, so I felt it was time for me to join some 43,000 other fans and open up this year’s racing season at the Del Mar Race Track. 

     I was told to get there early and use the entrance by the ‘Turf Club’ – that’s where all the Hollywood stars go in.  As I’m waiting for the gates to open there, I did see a couple that was trying very hard to look like Scarlett Johansson and Bradley Cooper, but came off looking more like Rosie O’Donnell and Alice Cooper, in stupid hats.  It seemed as if Silicon Valley had moved a little south for the day, but this day was not about nipping and tucking, in fact it wasn’t even really about horse racing . . . it was mostly about hats!  One could find hats of every shape, color and description, and some that were beyond description – some elegant, some hideous.

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     The ‘show’ had started and I wasn’t even inside yet, and it became painfully obvious that I was not going to be let in at the ‘Turf Club’ entrance (I think my skin was too loose), so I meandered down to the ‘Steerage’ gate and was herded through.

“I’d like to buy a  . . . schedule . . . a list of the races . . . a program, a . . . ”                                                                                                                                         “Racing Form?”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         “Yes, that’s it, thank you”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     “Good luck buddy!”

With racing form in hand, I pretend to study it, or do whatever it is one does with a racing form.  It makes me thirsty and son of a gun if they don’t have plenty of places to buy a drink.

“That’ll be nine dollars”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           “I’m sorry I just wanted one beer”                                                                                                                                                                                                                       “That’s all you’re getting for nine dollars”                                                                                                                                                                                                           “But it’s only 10 ounces, that’s almost a dollar an ounce!”                                                                                                                                                                                     “Sir, there’s a line behind you”                                                                                                                                                                                                                               “Fine!”

     The beer went down too quickly (Hey, it was only 10 ounces!) and I soon find myself back in the $9 beer line reading the racing form and having a little trouble understanding some of the jargon therein.  I asked another $9 beer line-stander for the definition of a ‘furlong’; he said, “Let me put it this way, with your racing knowledge and proclivity for drinking, your money won’t last furlong.”  I didn’t like his answer, so I turned to another line-stander and ask him to explain what the ‘odds’ meant.  He said, “All you need to know is that they’re always against you”.  I quit asking, but continued to study the racing form and found out that horses in a ‘Maiden Race’ and I have a lot in common, neither of us have ever won a race.

     But today the horses and racing are really secondary to the festivities, and I don’t want to bury my head in racing form statistics while all the ‘festivities’ walk by in short skirts, high heels and bodacious . . . hats.

     I asked a group of young ladies if they wouldn’t mind posing for me for a picture.  The picture below shows their response.

    DSC00648

 

Thursday: Opening Day at Del Mar (Part 2)  My ‘pole position’ seat

NIPOMO – FOREIGN OR DOMESTIC?

Capt_Dana_Tree_Nipomo

Captain Dana Tree
Hopefully he didn’t hang people from it

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

This week we’re doing the best thing you can do in Scottsdale in the summer.  Leave.  I can hardly contain my excitement.  If it weren’t so darn hot I’d do a dance, but blinking my eyes while lying in a heap on the couch will have to suffice.  For several summers now we have spent a few weeks in Nipomo.  If you’re typical of my friends you have just asked yourself – where in the heck is Nipomo?  I’ve had people guess that it’s some quaint village on the coast of Italy.  One person thought we were going to a remote city in Japan.  I have even discovered that if you write it in a blog, spell-checker doesn’t recognize “Nipomo”. Fact is, most people have no idea where it is and that’s what makes it so good.

Nipomo is a quaint coastal village and it is remote (sort of) set between Santa Maria and San Luis Obispo in the Central Coast of California.  We discovered it several years ago as we were driving on Highway 101 from San Francisco to Los Angeles.  There was a Trilogy development that had just opened in Nipomo that we wanted to check out.  For those of you unfamiliar, Trilogy is the name Shea Homes has given to all the “active adult” communities they’re building. Guess it sounds better than “old geezer housing”.   Being active and adult (okay, not always but at least sometimes) we wanted to see if it might be a place to live one day.

We told the sales person we had never heard of Nipomo and he said that it was once the answer to the “Jeopardy” question: “Where is the most consistent weather in the United States?”   Given that NO ONE I know in California has ever heard of Nipomo, much less contestants who might be on Jeopardy, I suspect that it was just one of the many lies that the salesman told that day.  But we were intrigued enough with the surroundings to come back the next summer and stay in the Blacklake Golf community and have done so most summers ever since.

Turns out that Nipomo was first settled by the Chumash Indians.  Ne-po-mah is the Chumash term for “foot of the hill”.  It probably should have been “footing the bill” given the success of their current day casino.  Rancho Nipomo was one of the first and largest of the Mexican land grants in San Luis Obispo County.  Modern day Nipomo was founded in 1837 when the Mexican governor granted William Dana, a Boston sea-captain, 38,000 acres in the area.  He married a woman from Santa Barbara and in 1839 they built the Dana Adobe, which served as an important stop for travelers between Mission San Luis Obispo and Mission Santa Barbara.  It also became the exchange point for mail going between Northern and Southern California, thus becoming the first regular mail route in California.  I wonder if they lost as much mail back then?  But I digress.

Migrant Mother

Migrant Mother

Nipomo became a large farming area and was a major stop for the Pacific Coast Railway from the 1880’s through the 1930’s.  Turns out that one of my favorite photographs (right)was taken in Nipomo:  “Migrant Mother” by Dorothea Lange .  Apparently during the Depression Ms. Lange worked for the Resettlement Administration and would travel the old US Highway 101 photographing migrant farm workers.  The name of the woman in the picture is Florence Owens Thompson.  In the 1950’s the current Highway 101 was built west of the old road.  Fittingly, the old highway was re-named Thompson Road.

Blacklake

Blacklake Golf Course
Odds are I’ll be in that trap

By the end of 1942, the train tracks had been removed for the war effort and Nipomo became just another small farming community.  Today, it is known for two things:  golf and Jocko’s steak house.  The golf is good, with 27 holes at Blacklake, 30 holes at Trilogy (including a fabulous 12 hole 3-par course) and a beautiful course in Arroyo Grande, just a mile from Nipomo.  Notice I said it was good – not great.  The Nipomo Chamber of Commerce describes the golf this way: “The prevalence of golf has led some to refer to Nipomo as a mini Pebble Beach, only with better weather.”  I think the “some” they’re referring to are a) members of said chamber and b) people who have never actually been to Pebble Beach.  But then again, in Nipomo you don’t pay $500 (plus cart and caddie) per round.  Nor do the golf courses in Nipomo require that you stay at their lovely Lodge for two nights at $700 per night in order to play there.    So all in all, it’s a good experience and you don’t have to take out a second mortgage to hit a little white ball.

Jocko’s Steak House is famous up and down the coast of California.  Even on a Tuesday night the line to get in wraps around the corner.  It’s so good that, well, I’ll just say this:  I don’t eat red meat and I make an exception once a year to eat at Jocko’s.  In fact, it is SO good that I will devote my next blog entirely to Jocko’s – assuming that I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest before I can write my review.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ooops, Forgot Someone

by Bob Sparrow

I mentally went through every neighbor that lived in the ‘hood or ever lived in the ‘hood when putting the last post together, but apparently the ‘mentally’ isn’t working so well.  I was reminded that I change Steve Seeley’s name to Richard Seeley, but other than that I thought I did a pretty good job of being all-inclusive.

Not so fast, sparkler breath, there was a family that I forgot, but I think when I make my case for why I forgot them you’ll understand.

First, here’s a picture of the family I forgot.

DSC00595    DSC00616

Mark & Kathy Johnson, Kristin & baby Brielle                      Kenny, Brielle and Kristin Overby

Yes, I missed the Johnson family, but we barely knew them; case in point

  • We’ve lived in the same neighborhood for over 28 years
  • We’ve been best friends for about 27 years
  • Our son, Jeff and their son Garrett have been best friends since they were about 6 months old – they’re 28 now.
  • Our daughter Dana and their daughter Kristin are the best of friends
  • We’ve only been on 20 – 30 vacations together with them
  • We attended Kenny & Kristin’s wedding in Mexico a couple of years ago

So I think it’s fairly obvious how easy it was for me to forget about them completely.

SORRY JOHNSONS!!!!

 

Norman Rockwell Attends ‘Hood’s 4th of July Celebration

by Bob Sparrow

Rockwell  Norman Rockwell attended our annual 4th of July gathering.  Yes, I know he’s been dead since 1978, but I’m sure he’s there in spirit every year.  Let me explain.  First, I’m fortunate enough to be part of an incredible neighborhood – hereafter referred to as ‘the ‘hood’ (pictured below), that knows how to celebrate this great occasion.  Second, thankfully Independence Day has, for the most part, escaped the crass commercialism that tarnishes most of our other national holiday celebrations.  Perhaps it’s because we still think it incredible what a cadre of very courageous young men did to create this amazing country.

DSC00594

Sharon Hendrix as Uncle Sam

For the 25th year in a row the ‘hood has started the 4th of July with a softball game on the local high school field.  This year, like all the rest, the festivities officially opened with Sharon Hendrix, dress as Uncle Sam, playing a recording of our National Anthem, with each of the teams lined up on the first and third base lines, singing along.  At the end, a chorus of “Play ball” rang out.  In the late 80s and through the 90s it was fathers and mothers against son and daughters, where the parents made sure the kids won.  The next few years we didn’t have to make sure they won, it was pretty even, and then . . . I’d like to say the ‘kids’, now in their teens and 20s, made sure the parents won, but they pretty much kicked our butts.  This year we finally mixed the teams and the kids basically played against each other while the parents tried to get out of the way of those screaming line drives.

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Doug & Julie Bynon

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Bob & Jeanne Pacelli

DSC00604

Vicki, Danielle & Lorenzo Reyes

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Pam & Patrick Michael

Those in the Hood who chose not to play would find a seat on the grass under an elm tree and cheer on the participants and catch up on the latest gossip in the ‘hood.  After the game we’d usually adjourn to the Sullivan house for a spirited game of horseshoes, however this year Rick said his pits were in bad shape (I sat next to him at the BBQ and I can vouch for that!).

pam

Britney & a better picture of Pam Michael

DSC00596

Larry & Robin Affentranger

DSC00600

A.J. & Althea Smith (Terry MIA)

DSC00599

Scott & Dexter Lanois (Diane cooking)

By late afternoon we’d make our way to the ‘host house’ in the ‘hood, this year the Michael’s, for a barbeque of brats and brisket, with everyone (ok, the women) bringing a side dish.  The Michael’s had decorated the back yard in red, white and blue and had patriotic music playing over their outdoor speaker system as we watch the Angel, on the TV at their outside bar, pull out a dramatic 9th inning victory over the Cardinals.

DSC00597

Sharon, Caroline & Cap Hendrix

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Heather, Sandi & Bob Baldwin

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Marge Dunn (Bob MIA)

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Bob, Jeff & Linda Sparrow

A day of baseball, barbecue, beer and brotherhood -it doesn’t get any better than that!  Toward the end of the evening, I read the Declaration of Independence aloud.  I was told by many afterward that they were expecting me to create my own, less-than-serious version of this document, and although I did interject, after the list of heinous things King George III did to provoke this declaration, that he seemed like a real bastard, I was not going to lampoon this sacred document. At the conclusion of the reading, the Bauaschis, our only British-born American citizen, were offered equal time, but respectfully declined.

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Beth, Matt, Kara & Rick Sullivan

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Dianne & Dennis in their mini roadster

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Lisa & Marc Webb

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A better picture of Lisa & Marc Webb

As the day came to a close, we heard the bombs bursting in air around the ‘hood and hoped that 4th of July revelers everywhere truly understood the importance of this day.  I think Norman Rockwell and our founding fathers would be proud of the ‘hood’s annual celebration. I know I was.  I think we all felt very proud and very lucky to be part of such a great neighborhood and such a great country.

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Richard & Kere Bauarschi

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Fern & son

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Mascot ‘Bacon’ stealing second base

A tip of our Uncle Sam hat to those “Hood-lums” that couldn’t join us this year: Richard & Reta Wade, Mike & Tanis Nelson,Don & Gale Avril, Randy Davis, Shelly Davis and Danna Campbell.

And we lite a sparkler to the “Hood-alums”, those who have moved away: Steve & Carolyn Seeley, Jim and Pat Crandall, Helmet & Sheila Nittmann, Tim & Carol Scovel and Dave & Sharon McKinley.

 

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BUT IT’S A DRY HEAT

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

 

weather mapWell, here we are. The dog days of summer only…oh yeah, it’s only the first of JULY! Everyone on the West Coast is experiencing a heat wave but aside from Death Valley (aptly named this time of year I might add), Arizona is as hot as a place can be without actually experiencing spontaneous combustion. Right about now our nickname of “Valley of the Sun” changes to “Face of the Sun”. But just as people prepare to live in Minneapolis or Fargo in January, we denizens of the desert have also learned the best way to adapt to summer: we make lists. Those of us who spend any time here frying in the summer heat start making lists of projects to undertake when it’s just too darned hot to venture outside. Usually my list is filled with really exciting stuff – alphabetizing the spice rack, sorting socks, reviewing just how it is that I didn’t lose those last 10 pounds over the winter.

One staple on my list is “clean out closets”. I don’t know what happens over the course of a year to mess them up. Surely it isn’t anything I’ve done. I’ve long suspected that little elves come at night with U-Hauls full of crap to dump in my storage areas. However, as it happens, each summer I spend a good part of my time throwing stuff out. My litmus test for every piece of paper, dusty lampshade or two-year old box of oatmeal is this: if we sold our house would I pay to move or store this item? It’s amazing how quickly that separates the wheat from the chaff. Or in this case, the possible antique from the junk that wouldn’t sell at a garage sale.

So on Saturday, when the temperature reached 119, my choice was to begin to work on “my list” or spend the day looking at the beach on Google Maps. I chose to clean closets. I started with my office – or as I like to think of it – the low hanging fruit of closet cleaning. Amongst all of the paraphernalia I found a box from my working days. It was a treasure trove of useless junk, most of which no longer has any appreciable use. For example, I don’t know why I brought the desk plaque with my name and title on it home. I’m fairly certain that my husband and the dog know my name. I found a file that contained every performance review that I had received since 1987. Really. What in the heck did I ever think I would do with them? Surely the neighbors are not interested in coming over for a robust discussion about my goals in 1994 no matter how much wine I give them. I had congratulatory letters from my promotions and cards that people had written to thank me for something that I can no longer remember. Worst of all, I had saved all of the cards I received when I retired. Worst, not because I had kept them, but because I couldn’t remember who half of those people were. (On the flip side, I was amazed how many people I do stay in touch with. Thank you, Facebook.)

At the bottom of the box was a file labeled “Interesting Articles” . Over my working years I would collect magazine articles or newspaper columns that I found either motivating or inspirational. Anyone who ever worked for me became familiar with my “worth sharing” memos. And now, looking back on it, I suspect that most of the time my pearls of wisdom went to the bottom of their reading pile and then mysteriously found its way into the waste paper basket. But now that I’d found the file I was curious to read them again and see if they stood the test of time. And you know what? They have. I guess whether you’re a business executive or just the head pooper scooper, there are some things that remain constant.

For example, one of my favorite articles was titled “Not Everything Is Worth Doing Well”. When I first read it back in 1986 it was a real revelation for my Type A-perfectionist-drive everyone crazy personality. Back in the day there wasn’t much I did that was slap-dash, if one can overlook some rather unfortunate hairstyles. Even now, some people might say that I’m wound a bit too tight. Some people like my husband or anyone else who has spent more than an hour in my company. But the gist of the article is that you can drive yourself crazy trying to do absolutely everything to perfection. The author suggests that we prioritize our tasks and give our all only to the items at the top of the list. For example, she says that housecleaning doesn’t always need our very best effort. See? I told you it was a great article. Now if people look at my dusty coffee table with disdain I can tell them with clear-eyed conviction that “dusting” simply isn’t near the top of my list. Think of the possibilities. If I really focus I think I can add several more domestic chores that simply aren’t worthy of my time. Like cleaning closets. Next year, it goes to the bottom of the list.  I’m going to the beach.