A long way back to the top…

 

Excerpt from Bro Dick – a remembrance

 

 

I don’t know precisely when my brother Dick discovered skiing, but I do know where. It was at Strawberry up on Highway 50. I know this because he immediately stuck a picture postcard of Strawberry Lodge in the corner of the mirror in his bedroom, right across from the picture of Teresa Brewer, his ideal woman. I doubt that they still have an operating ski lift at Strawberry, but the lodge with its gables all along the front roofline is still there. It didn’t take long for my brother to figure out that there were far better places to ski, resorts like the old Sierra Ski Ranch and Sugar Bowl, or Alpine Meadows and Heavenly Valley. He was hooked.

We should have saved his first set of skis because they would be considered antiques today. They were made of wood—I think it was hard maple—and the bindings were a lever and cable contraption where the cable wrapped around a deep groove in the heel of your boot. It was amazing that anyone could ski with this equipment and not end up with knee surgery.

As technology progressed, Dick upgraded his equipment and spent all the time he possibly could on the ski slopes. He once told me that when the snow was good, the weather decent, and the crowds small, skiing was the purest form of fun. Experience taught me that he was right.

I had my first taste of skiing on the bunny hill at Heavenly Valley with my friend Dillon Mini. He had tried it a few times and told me that all I had to do was bend my knees, lean forward a little, and try not to fall down. And that’s exactly what I did, zooming from the top of the lift to the bottom in a perfectly straight line. No one said anything about turning.

I’ve never taken a lesson, but when I started tagging along with Dick, he took me aside at the bottom of the hill and gave me a few pointers on some fundamentals, like side stepping, and snowplowing, and how to make basic turns. Then he took me up to the top of the hill and said, “Just follow me and do what I do.” My brother was a smooth, controlled, elegant skier. He made it look easy. It seemed like he was always in control, and I can’t remember him taking a bad fall, though I’m sure it happened. I did my best to keep up with him.

Our favorite place to ski was Heavenly Valley. The hill is so massive and the view from the top of the main lift is breathtaking. We never tried to ski the face, mainly because I wasn’t up for it, but there were numerous trails to take from the top that provided all the challenge we needed. The great thing about Heavenly as far as I was concerned was that you spent most of your time on the hill and less time in line for the lift. It could take a half hour or more to ski all the way down from the top before you had to queue up for the lift.

I have to confess that we got into the habit of doing something that is a no-no. We’d drop down off the groomed ski run and blaze trails down through the trees and the virgin snow. More than once we got ourselves way down into a canyon and had to come sidestepping back up to the main trail. Dangerous stuff, but man was it fun.

We were skiing at Heavenly one very clear cold day and after several runs down the mountain, we went into the warming hut at the top of the main chairlift to thaw out for a few minutes. We ordered cups of steaming hot chocolate and sat down at a table next to a window on the west side of the hut. The afternoon sun was streaming through the window and the chocolate was delicious and before I knew it, I felt my eyes growing heavy. I looked across the table at Dick and he was nodding off too. He grinned at me and motioned toward the door. We finished our chocolate and headed back out to the mountain. If we’d stayed there another five minutes, we’d have been sound asleep. That was nearly fifty years ago, and I can still see my brother sitting across the table from me in that warming hut. It was one of the best days ever.

Dick had a couple of dreams, all wrapped around his love of skiing. The first was to finish his bachelor’s degree and I think he lacked about sixty units to reach that goal. He worked out a plan to attend the University of Utah in Salt Lake City where he could live with our Aunt Teresa and Uncle Dude. Aunt Teresa adored my brother and was excited to have him stay with their family. The skiing tie-in was the magnificent powder snow at resorts nearby such as Alta. For my brother, it was like going to school in paradise. Unfortunately, he could never convince the good folks of Utah that he was a resident, and the out-of-state tuition was a deal breaker. He completed one year at Utah and then returned to California.

The other dream was to have a neat little A-frame ski cabin somewhere in the Sierras. In the mid-sixties, my brother got really close to realizing this one. He bought a lot at a newly developed ski resort called Bear Valley and started pouring over plans and architectural drawings. We even took a late summer trip to Bear Valley to check out the site. Some of Dick’s friends from work came along and we camped at a lake near the resort. On one of the days we were there, we found ourselves standing at the top of what would be the main chair lift and we decided to hike all the way down the hill that would be the primary ski run. As we started down the trail, there was a neat little sign that said, “It’s a long way back to the top.” We just laughed and went on.

If memory serves, it took about a half hour to get to the bottom of the hill, and about two hours to work our way back up. The sign wasn’t kidding. When we got back to the top, Dick popped the trunk of the car and unloaded what he liked to refer to as a skier’s lunch. He had packed salami and crackers and two kinds of cheese. There were grapes and plums and nectarines. There was a cooler filled with ice-cold soft drinks and beer. And, of course, Mom had sent along homemade chocolate chip cookies. I swear food never tasted so good.

Dreams have a way of changing. My brother never did build that cabin and he wound up selling the lot, but it was a sweet dream while it lasted. Our cousin Margie was an accomplished artist and Dick asked her to paint a picture of the Bear Valley ski run from photos he had taken. That oil-on-canvass hung on the wall of his home for many years. I’m sure it’s still around somewhere.

We should have had Margie add that little sign: “It’s a long way back to the top.”

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Remember the Firebirds

The patio table was loaded with chips, dips, salsa, bite-size veggies, and a fresh guacamole that was very special. A large cooler held a variety of beverages on ice. A local pizza parlor was standing by, ready to deliver its finest when halftime rolled around. It was Super Bowl Sunday and a half-dozen friends were gathered to enjoy the spectacle on large, flatscreen television sets, including one outdoors on the patio. Nick Shane sat at the table, an ice-cold lager in hand, enjoying the guacamole and the California sun peeking in and out of puffy clouds.

“Got everything you need, Mr. Shane?” Ted smiled and clapped a hand on Nick’s shoulder.

“I’m good, Ted. You’re a stellar host. Thanks for having me.”

“Hey, mi casa su casa. Know what I mean?” The young man laughed and scooped salsa onto a tortilla chip. “You and Del are always welcome.”

Nick’s son, Del, approached the table. “You okay, pops? Behavin’ yourself over here?”

“Yeah, just sitting here trying to remember a Super Bowl from a long time ago. I think it was 1971. What was that, Super Bowl V?”

“Really? What’s up with that?”

“The pregame hoopla was different back then.” Nick paused to sip his beer. “I remember they played a documentary film, about an hour long. I’m pretty sure it was 1971.”

“Yeah? What was it about?”

“All about the Pottstown Firebirds.”

Del and Ted laughed and glanced at each other. What was Del’s old man conjuring here? Several guys came to the table to fill small plates with snacks and join the conversation. They were all in their forties. Nick was the odd man, having recently celebrated his eightieth birthday.

“Is this a real thing, Dad? Or are you spinning some fiction here?” Del smiled, wondering how many beers his father had downed. Game time was still thirty minutes away.

“Oh, it’s real all right. The Firebirds were a minor league football team in Pottstown, Pennsylvania. They played in—I’m trying to remember—I think it was the Atlantic Coast League. I think that’s right. Can’t remember how many teams, but they were made up of former NFL players, former high school and college kids hoping to move up, and guys who just couldn’t give up the game.”

“Minor league football? Really?”

“Yeah. Anyway, the Firebirds were a colorful bunch of misfits, led by a head coach—can’t remember his name—who didn’t wear sox or underwear. There was a defensive lineman who was a hippy and lived on a commune. Another lineman who was a poet and had a drug problem. And a quarterback who called himself The King. Jimmy ‘The King’ Corcoran.”

“And all of this was in a documentary?”

“Yep. Produced by NFL Films, if I remember correctly. So, the Firebirds were having a great season in 1970, fighting to go undefeated and win a championship. At that time, no pro team at any level had gone undefeated.”

“Need another beer, Mr. Shane?”

“Sure. Thanks, Ted. So, here’s the conflict—The King was almost un-coachable. He was a total narcissist. Had to be the center of attention at all times. And he and the head coach were in a constant battle. The coach wanted a disciplined offense, primarily a strong running game. The King wanted to open it up and pass, pass, pass.”

“But they’re undefeated?”

“Right. I think it was the final regular season game, very close, right down to the last minute. The Firebirds were deep in the other team’s territory, and they just needed to keep the ball on the ground for one more play, then kick a field goal for the win. Coach sent in a running play. The King thought he saw a crack in the defensive alignment. He called an audible at the line of scrimmage and threw a pass. It was intercepted. The Firebirds lost. The undefeated season was gone. Even though they went on to the championship game and won, they finished the season with one loss.”

“Wow! How did the coach take it?”

“He went nuts. It was his chance for immortality. The first undefeated season ever in pro football, even if it was minor league. He benched The King for the championship game. They won with a backup quarterback. I think I remember the coach’s name. It was DeFillipo. Don or Dave DeFillipo.”

“Dad, are you sure this isn’t some dream? You know you need to lay off the spicy food.”

“Yes, I’m sure. The NFL should replay the damn thing. It was a great film. But don’t take my word for it. Remember what Casey Stengel used to say…”

“Oh boy. Casey Stengel? And what did Casey say?”

“He liked to say, ‘You could look it up.’”

“Okay, Dad, we’ll ask Siri. I think I’m switching you to water.”

It was time for the coin flip, followed by kick off. The group started to move inside, fresh drinks in hand, excited for the start of the game. Super Bowl Sunday. Almost a national holiday, even in Pottstown, PA.

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A Christmas kiss to remember…

Excerpt from Bro. Dick - a remembrance

 

Winter vacation was one of my favorite times of the year. Two full weeks with no school, lots of basketball to be played, and the holiday season in full swing. It was always a special time at our house in Vallejo. My mom would be baking up a storm in the kitchen, making fruitcakes to send to all of our relatives. The house would be filled with the aroma of baking apples and walnuts and candied fruit and spices. I’m sure there were cousins out there who had a small stack of fruitcakes from years past, reluctant to throw them out, and even more reluctant to eat them. Fruitcake is an acquired taste. I, for one, loved my mother’s fruitcake, especially when it was still warm from the oven. No wonder I was a chubby little kid.

The smell of a fresh juicy orange is another thing I associate with winter vacation. Every year, a rancher from the Napa Valley would call and take our order for tree ripened navel oranges, which he would deliver by the case. I’ve never tasted better oranges. We’d go through a case in nothing flat, most of them consumed by me.

Then of course, there was my dad and his homemade Tom ‘n Jerrys. He’d whip up a batch or two during the holidays and fill the kitchen with the smell of cinnamon, clove, and nutmeg, not to mention the rum and brandy. It’s a strange thing, but every time I get a whiff of those spices, I’m suddenly a kid again, back in the old house on Russell Street. I still have my dad’s special Tom ‘n Jerry mugs. And I still remember the recipe!

One winter vacation—I think I was about fourteen—I was coming home from playing basketball with my friends and I noticed my mom’s car was gone. My bedroom had been added on to the house and I had my own private door off the patio in back. As I went around past the garage to let myself in, I heard my dog George prancing and whining, anxious to be let into the warm house from the cold garage. I let myself in, tossed my jacket on the bed and went to see who was at home. As I entered the living room, there was my brother, stretched out on the couch, a pillow tucked under his head, sound asleep. The lights of the Christmas tree were on, and he was thoroughly enjoying a cozy afternoon nap. I knew right away what I had to do.

I went through the kitchen, opened the door to the garage and let George in. I quickly removed his collar so that his license tags wouldn’t jingle and wake my brother. Then I led George into the living room and pointed to Bro. Dick. George was so happy to see him! He went into a full-body wag and trotted over to the couch where he promptly stuck his ice-cold nose in Dick’s face and gave him a big slurpy kiss.

I swear my brother elevated three feet off the couch and let fly a stream of expletives that sent George running for cover. Then Dick saw me standing there, laughing so hard I nearly wet my pants. Now the expletives were flying at me, which only made me laugh harder. After a minute or so, Dick was laughing just as hard as I was. It took George a little longer to recover.

Winter vacation was always special—the sights, the sounds, the smells—but this was one I’ll never forget. It is a wonderful gift when you can laugh at yourself. My brother had that gift in spades.

_____

Sam - Memories of a good dog

from Yeah, What Else?

Early in 1977, my wife Barbara and I moved into our new home in Citrus Heights, California. It was a two-story, four-bedroom house with a good-sized lot and we’d watched it being built from the foundation up. It may seem odd, but the first acquisition we made for our new home was a puppy.

It was the era in Sacramento of the East Area Rapist, a man suspected of upwards of a dozen sexual assaults, all of them in the eastern suburbs of the city. I occasionally had to work nights and travel for business, and we decided that we’d feel safer with a dog in the house, preferably one with big teeth.

Barbara watched the ads in the local paper and saw one for German Shepherd  puppies ready for adoption. She drove to the address, checked out the litter, and brought home a beautiful little female with black and tan markings. We consulted with my daughters, Kim and Cheryl, and decided that a right and proper name for this new member of the family would be Samantha. And so, Samantha it was, which we immediately shortened to just plain Sam. (Of course we couldn’t know that thirty-five years later, we’d have a beautiful granddaughter named Samantha.)

I’d grown up with a pet dog, a terrier mutt named George, but this was a first for Barbara. She and Sam formed an immediate bond. Sam wasn’t pure bred—I suspect there was some Husky in her bloodlines—but she was a smart little puppy with a sweet and loving nature.

One of the first things Sam learned was to fetch the newspaper for me. I’d open the front door and she’d run out on the walk and bring in the paper. What a good dog! But it was too good to last. One morning, she picked up the paper, turned and looked at me, and then took off running down the walk and across the street. I was in close pursuit, yelling at her to stop, and she made it only as far as the neighbor’s yard before she plopped down and waited for me to reach her. Unfortunately, my neighbor had recently planted his lawn and it was just beginning to sprout. Sam wouldn’t budge, so I had to walk out onto the new lawn, leaving giant footprints, to retrieve her. I think Sam came to associate the incident with the words “bad dog,” because she never again retrieved the paper.

Sam was a healthy puppy. There were only a few occasions when we had to take her to the vet. She was spayed at the appropriate time and came through just fine. She picked up a bad case of kennel cough once when we boarded her for a weekend. But the illness we’ll never forget was the vaginal infection.

We could tell that she wasn’t herself, so we took her to the vet. He diagnosed the infection, prescribed some pills, and also gave us a tube of salve. We were supposed to insert the extended nozzle and squeeze the tube to apply the medication. Sam was nearly full-grown at the time and she was having none of this. Can you picture trying to pin down a seventy pound German Shepherd to administer this treatment? After what seemed like an hour (it was probably fifteen minutes), in a full sweat and with a cloud of dog hair around us, we finally gave up. The infection went away without the salve.

Sam was very intuitive and quick to pick up on our clues. We planned a camping trip to Bodega Bay one weekend and as I backed our Pinto station wagon into the driveway and started to load the gear, Sam jumped into the back of the car and refused to get out. There was no way we were leaving home without her. It was an interesting trip. Every noise outside the tent at night—be it a raccoon, a bird, or a lizard— would set Sam off barking. We didn’t get much sleep that weekend.

As she matured, her watchdog instincts really began to develop. I would say, “Sam, what’s that?” and she would take off barking at every door and window, using her best big-dog voice.

One weekend, my mom came to stay with us. In the middle of the night, Sam suddenly started barking like crazy. I sat up in bed and saw someone standing in the hall just outside our bedroom door. I jumped up, grabbed a baseball bat I kept under the bed, and in a very shaky voice said, “Who are you and what are you doing here?” The figure replied, “Charlie, I just have to go to the bathroom.” It was my mom.

After things calmed down, I said a little prayer of thanks that it wasn’t a gun I had stashed under the bed.

In the fall of 1978, we learned that Barbara was pregnant—with twins! We had also realized in the time Sam had been with us that we were allergic to her fur. Now with two little babies on the way, we decided some changes had to be made. I would build a dog run for Sam in the backyard and we would convert her to being an outside dog. The dog run turned out quite nice—large, partially covered, paved, with a shepherd-size dog house. Only one problem: Sam hated it. She just didn’t understand why she couldn’t be in the house with her people.

One of our neighbors had a beautiful tan Boxer named Hosang who was about Sam’s age. Hosang would come over to play and he and Sam would romp and tumble and race around the backyard until they were both exhausted. But as soon as she had to go back into that dog run, she was miserable. She spent most of her time biting the dog wire, trying to chew her way out.

Our twins, Matt and Rachel, were born in May 1979. When they were nearing their first birthday, we learned that Barb was pregnant again. Gabe would be born when the twins were eighteen months old. It would be like having triplets. All of our energy and attention would be going into caring for three little ones. We knew that we were not giving Sam the care and attention she deserved. We started to talk about trying to find a good home for her.

Then fate intervened.

I was working for Roseville Telephone at the time and the company newsletter hit my desk containing a notice from an employee who was looking for a good dog. Her name is lost to memory, so let’s call her Mrs. Parker. I called her and told her I thought I had just the dog she was looking for. We chatted for a while and she told me that she and her husband had a five-acre parcel of land, what was called “horse property” in our area, and that they had two other dogs. The dogs had free run of the property. From our conversation, I could tell she was a true dog lover.

Then she asked her big question: “Is she a barking dog?” I thought, Uh oh, this could be a deal breaker. Should I tell a white lie and say Sam was a nice quiet little lady, or should I tell the truth? I took a deep breath and told her all about Sam’s watchdog instincts and that, yes, she was a barking dog. Mrs. Parker said, “That’s exactly what we’re looking for.”

We made a date for the Parkers to come over on Sunday and meet Sam. I told them we were having friends over for a barbeque, but to just come around to the gate on the side of the house and I’d let them in. It was understood that if they liked our Sam, they would take her home.

Sunday arrived and we were relaxing on the patio in back of the house when I heard a car pull up out in front. I heard doors slam and I figured it was the Parkers come to see Sam. I said, “Sam, what’s that?” and she charged for the gate barking furiously. I took her by the collar and calmed her down, then let the Parkers in. I could see them nodding their heads and smiling at each other. They were sold.

We visited for a while and then they were ready to leave. Barbara hadn’t realized that they were taking Sam with them, thinking they would talk it over and call us later. Now she had about five minutes to say goodbye. She sat down on the patio and took Sam in her arms, tears streaming down her face. And then the Parkers clipped a leash to Sam’s collar and led her away.

About a month later, I was out at our Citrus Heights central office facility for a meeting. I parked in back of the building near the loading dock and walked over to the fence that bordered the property. It turns out the Parker’s five acres were adjacent to the Company’s land. I looked out across the field and there were three dogs playing along the fence on the west side. One of them was Sam. I gave a shrill whistle and yelled “Sam!” She stopped dead still and turned to look at me. Just then, her companions took off running at full speed down the fence line. Sam stood for a few seconds and then turned and sprinted after them.

It had been a long time since I’d seen her so happy. For love of Sam, we’d done the right thing.

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The reviews are pouring (trickling?) in...

Foster …and other stories is a real treat which provides a range of stories and emotions, all of them told in a sensitive, warm, human way. It’s a great read and I recommend it to everyone who enjoys reading.

-Casey Dorman, author of Ezekiel’s Brain, The Oedipus Murders, Murder in Nirvana, I, Carlos, contributor to The Truth That Can’t Be Told 2, and more.

 

A fast-paced, engaging, heart-tweaking novella that captures the essence of what happens when ‘bad things befall a good kid.’… If you’re looking for everyday heroes, you'll find them in Foster, and in the bonus selection of short stories that follow the novella. There is a thread of the quiet hero in every one of C.W. Spooner's stories – ordinary people doing ordinary things with a degree of integrity and high-mindedness, qualities that seem to be what we're all longing for in this particular moment of history.

-Billie Kelpin, author of Falling Idols, Lucky the Left-pawed Puppy, Polly and the Measuring Stick, contributor to The Truth That Can’t Be Told 2, and more.

 

A beautiful look at how we hold onto hope when the world has consistently let us down. Readers will delight in C.W. Spooner’s gift for showcasing the humanity of his flawed yet charming characters.

-Cassandra Rendon, author of The Good Bad Lands, All the Ways You’re Important to Me, contributor to The Truth That Can’t Be Told 2.

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Read complete reviews here >  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BHL43MRH/ref=tsm_1_tp_tc

Foster ... Chapter 1, the adventure begins...

 

Trick or Treat

 

Gray pulled into the parking lot and skidded to a stop, the brakes on the old pickup screeching.

“Stay in the truck and keep the engine running,” Todd snapped. He slammed the door and headed for the liquor store entrance, his brother Tim close behind.

“Hey, wait, I gotta take a leak,” Gray shouted.

“Just stay there, damn it!” Todd barked over his shoulder as he and his brother barged through the front door, stumbling drunk.

It made sense for Gray to keep the motor running on the beat up ’51 Ford, twenty years old with a sticky float in the carburetor. Shut it down and he’d have a hassle getting it started again. That didn’t change the fact that he had to go—bad! There was a dumpster at the side of the building, just a few steps away. He opened the door and ran around the large metal box, unzipped his pants and let fly.

POP! POP! The sound came from inside the store. POP! Again. What in the hell? The bell attached to the door rang wildly, followed by Tim and Todd’s shouts.

“Come on, get in the damn truck!”

“Ow, my leg, Todd, he shot me in the leg!”

“Just get the hell in. Hey, where’s Gray? I told that sonofabitch to stay here.”

“Ow, my leg—”

“Did that bastard take off? I’ll kill him!”

Doors slammed, the engine roared, and wheels screamed as the Ford tore out of the parking lot. Gray zipped his pants and peered around the dumpster. Jeez, what just happened? He walked around the corner of the building, along the front of the store, the plate glass window full of old Nixon-Agnew stickers. He pulled the door open. Behind the counter, flat on his back, a man stared at the ceiling, a neat hole in his forehead, blood pooling on the dirty linoleum floor. Oh my God, they shot the clerk! Shot him dead. The man held a gun in his right hand. He’d fought back and lost. Gray recognized the dead man. Holy shit, it’s old man Antonelli. He couldn’t remember the man’s first name. Gray looked around. The store was empty, but it wouldn’t be long until somebody walked in, found the body, and called the cops. And who would believe Gray? A foster kid, no parents, no family. Just a foster kid—with a record. He had to get out of there…

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Feedback welcome: cspiggidy2@hotmail.com

Click to buy: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BHL43MRH/ref=tsm_1_tp_tc

 

Time to say Thank You...

 Acknowledgements

 

Foster ...and other stories has been in and out of the proverbial drawer for several years. Many times, I threatened to leave it there, an artifact for my grandchildren to discover. The fact you are reading this is due to the support and encouragement of several collaborators.

Billie Kelpin read the opening chapters when they were new and very raw, offering nuanced and insightful suggestions that colored everything to follow... Lee Milton and Don Brunelle read later versions and provided much needed encouragement... Tom Campbell, a go-to guy through several of my books, stepped up once again with valuable feedback and support... I thought the work was finished until Cassandra Rendon read the manuscript. Her in-depth review and excellent suggestions sent me into a major rewrite… If Foster is a “good read,” I have all those trusted readers to thank.

Officer Jon DeLiema of the Huntington Beach Police Department served as my firearms consultant, though he probably didn’t realize it at the time... Diana Huang created the cover design and was a joy to work with. This is the third cover she’s done for me, and this one required extreme patience… Billie Kelpin (yes, her again!) shared her experience and expertise in formatting the edition you are reading.

I included seven short stories in this volume, all published during the heart of the coronavirus pandemic. They are here simply because they need a home on the shelf. There is no assurance they will have brothers and sisters to fill out a volume of their own. If you enjoyed just three of the seven, it means I batted .429. I’ll take that any day.

Finally, a huge thanks to all you faithful readers. I hope you found yourself somewhere in these pages.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BHL43MRH/ref=tsm_1_tp_tc

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