By Louie Ferrera

While listening recently to the Crosby, Stills and Nash version of David Crosby’s “Guinnevere” I had a bit of a vision. Here’s what I saw.

She is all green cat eyes, her liquid gold hair doing the wind dance, waving wild and free like ribbons in the salty sea breeze, the wind and the waves and the hair and the eyes converge in a single burst of pinpoint brilliance, blinding and beautiful. Sweet Guinnevere raises her arms to the sky in celebration as she welcomes the gulls who are wheeling and diving and dancing above in the blue and the sea, as it has always been, as it always will be crashes and retreats and Guinnevere moves in sync with the timeless rhythms of the unknowable Pacific.

In my mind’s eye I can picture Guinnevere alone in her garden, the gentle rain that had been falling all night has ended leaving everything; the plants, the trees, the air, clean to sparkling. Having just awoken Guinnevere has come outside to welcome and to give thanks for this most glorious of mornings. She wears a simple white cotton nightgown, sleeveless and long, flowing nearly to her ankles, the cool wetness of the grass soothes her feet as Guinnevere swishes along and her eyes match the color of the grass which matches the color of her brilliantly painted toenails. She pauses beneath an orange tree and plucks a perfectly dimpled sphere of fruit, cold and wet to the touch after the evening rain. She breaks the skin of the orange with her fingernails (painted green of course), removing the peel in one long, lazy spiral. Guinnevere slowly savors each slice tasting of rain and sweet summer sunshine. Of course the peacocks are there too, glittering jewels that strut and preen in pairs, silent sentries to the blessing that is this day.

Guinnevere has a secret and only I am in on it. When she’s certain that no one is watching she disappears into the forest, making her way through a tangle of trees and underbrush util she arrives at her special place, an ancient abandoned stone cottage. The walls inside are cracked and weathered and covered with exquisitely detailed drawings of birds, each one is enclosed inside a pentagram shaped cage and only Guinnevere has the power to free them which she does and the wrens and thrushes, jays and hummingbirds burst forth from the confines of their five-sided prisons back into the glittering green of the forest. The birds are finally free and so too is Guinnevere.

By Louie Ferrera

Blue is many things, it’s a color, a feeling, a state of mind. There is much under the umbrella that we call blue.

It is said that eyes are the window to the soul and for me, no eyes provide a clearer view than blue eyes. I’ve often become mesmerized when  I look into my son’s eyes, they are a deep and vibrant shade of blue that defies description. His eyes came from his mother, who’s eyes came from her father. Carol’s  lovely blue eyes are the first thing I noticed about her when we were first introduced. The gentle, laughing eyes of my friend Peter were a key element of an acid trip that we took together at a Grateful Dead show back in the 90’s. My mom’s all time favorite singer is Frank Sinatra, famously known as Old Blue Eyes.

How about the sky! The word blue was surely invented in order to describe its’ color. I love watching a cloudless sunset at the beach. Once the sun dips below the horizon is when the real show begins. Every shade of blue that ever was or will ever be exists in one of those sunsets; from the palest of baby blues to the deepest of indigos. Speaking of that pale blue, my dear friend Marise has those color eyes and I think of her every time I see a sunset like that. I know there’s a scientific explanation as to why the sky is blue, but I like to think of it as pure magic.

The planet Neptune is blue, have you seen the photos? It’s a perfect lapis lazuli marble against the infinite blackness of space, by far the most glittering jewel among all of the planets in our solar system. Viewed from space Earth is aptly know as the Blue Planet because of the color of our oceans. At the beach though, the deep blue sea isn’t always so. On a cloudy day the sun dips in and out of hiding, painting the sea in shifting hues from olive green to cerulian blue. The turquoise waters of Hawaii never fail to fill my heart with wonder.

Technically, blueberries are a shade of purple, but who makes up these silly rules anyway? Blueberries look pretty blue to me. Every spring and summer, the railing on our backyard deck is covered in a riotous tangle of morning glory vines There are many different colored blossoms, my favorites of course are the blue ones, they are a deep hue that vibrates whenever the sun hits their faces. Our resident flock of hummingbirds love these flowers too and spend lots of time probing them for their sweet nectar.

On my trip to Egypt in the summer of 1995 while wandering through a vast outdoor market in Cairo one afternoon I stumbled upon a long table covered with multi-colored, pyramid-like piles of spices. Among these mini pyramids was a striking voilet-blue pile of the dye indigo. How did the Indigo Girls get their name? Perhaps they too were enchanted by indigo at an Egyptian market?

One of my most treasured books is Beneath The Blue Umbrella by renowned children’s  author Jack Prelutsky. This book was given to me by my wife Carol. She wrote a sweet inscription to me inside the front cover. These poems are whimsical and sweet and were a favorite of the first and second graders that I once taught.

Of course blue is also sad. You know, feeling blue, got the blues, in a blue mood. Not sure where that comes from. What would music be like today without the blues? Blues music is the seed kernel that begat rock and roll. No blues, no Elvis, no Chuck Berry, no Beatles, no Stones. The likes of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf are the roots from which all rock and roll sprouted. Blue by Joni Mitchell is widely recognized as her finest album and a record that has inspired a generation of singer-songwriters. A photo of Joni is barely visible among the blue, almost black of the albums’ cover. On Blue, Joni took the deep sadness and uncertainty of her life at the time and turned it into a timeless masterpiece. One of the most joyous songs in the Allman Brothers’ catalogue is Blue Sky. Written by guitarist Dickie Betts, this love song was inspired by his girlfriend at the time Sandy Blue Sky. “You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day. Lord you know it makes me high when you turn your love my way.” Anyone who’s ever been in love has most surely felt like this, it’s the moment of loves’ inception when you look past the eyes and into the heart. 

A “blue dichotomy” exists all over the music world. You’ve got your “blue happy” songs (Irving Berlin’s Blue Skies), and your “blue sad” songs (Elvis’ Blue Christmas).  All of the blue songs, happy and sad, are too numerous to recount here! There’ve been blue bands too. Sixties one hit wonders Swingin’ Blue Jeans and psychedelic garage rockers Blues Magoos. Blue Cheers’ definitive version of Summertime Blues is a “grunge before there was grunge” feedback drenched classic.

If you’ve raised a child over the past twenty years you must be well acquainted with Blues Clues. Hosted by the affable Steve (and later Joe) this beloved kids tv show for the five and under crowd featured the eponymous “Blue”, a large animated dog who helped Steve/Joe solve mysteries by leaving clues. We and our kids never missed an episode.

Remember those double-barreled popsicles, the ones with the two wooden sticks? I wonder if they still make them. As a kid I loved these, my favorites being the blue ones, “blue skies’ I called them.

The tastiest tortillas I’ve ever eaten were made from blue corn. One day while Carol and I were traveling in Guatemala we watched a Mayan woman at an outdoor market in a tiny mountain village make these from scratch. We later ate these tortillas with slices of fresh cheese. I’ll never forget the flavor. 

Blue has always been my favorite color. I’m generally a “blue happy” person. Blue is soothing and peaceful. Blue is a crisp autumn day in October. Blue is a windswept expanse of deserted beach. Sometimes I can just get lost in blue.

By Louie Ferrera

I love autumn. The cool, clear nights, the cold, foggy mornings, the cloudless blue skies and Goldilocks temperatures during the day, the sunsets with those endless gradations of blue followed by a final blaze of orange-to-pink-to red. The low angle of the sun at this time of year creates a soft and magical quality of light, especially at sunset, when the trees light up in alpenglow worthy of the granite walls of Yosemite. 

I love when I hear for the first time the call of a Northern Flicker. This strikingly beautiful bird of the woodpecker family is a harbinger of autumn when it appears in our area around mid-September.

I love seeing the leaves change color. We don’t have nearly the explosion of reds, yellows and oranges as the east coast does but what we do have are the vineyards. Right about now hillsides all around Sonoma County are gradually being transformed into postcard perfect oceans of gold.

On our property is a towering oak tree and many fruit trees, all except the citrus shed their leaves. I love bundling up on a cloudy morning and going outside to rake the fallen leaves that cover our lawn. The rustling sound and smell of decaying leaves as I swoosh them into piles transports me back to a time in my childhood when leaf pile diving was an annual rite of passage.

I love watching the transition that our vegetable garden goes through in autumn. The tomato, cucumber  and green bean plants are gamely trying to put out a few more pieces of ripe fruit, but for the most part they’ve given all that they can. The strawberries have gone dormant, their sweet fruit just a memory. The carrots have all been harvested, the lettuce gone to seed. All our hard work of  tilling the soil, putting in seeds and starts and nurturing them since spring has payed off in an impressive bounty of fresh vegetables. My gratitude is deep for all that these plants have given us.

The blazing heat of summer is thankfully behinds us. My heart is now filled with the hope of rain. I anticipate the rat-a-tat sound of raindrops falling on the roof of our deck and the glistening green of leaves washed clean of their summer coat of dust. I long for the smell of wet earth and the sight of greening hillsides as grasses are finally awakened. I dream of running creeks and filling reservoirs.

I love Halloween; the smell of freshly carved pumpkins and the crunch of roasted pumpkin seeds, the glow of jack-o-lanterns around our cul-du-sac and the delightful squeal of trick or treaters.

I love the World Series; the annual drama know as the Fall Classic. I love baseball, a sport that begins with the promise of spring and ends with the harvest moon of October. 

I love Thanksgiving; the warm kitchen, the aromas of roast turkey and stuffing, the Pinot Noir and a home filled with the love of family and friends. I love frost in the mornings and clear, starry nights.

I love autumn!

By Louie Ferrera

In our garden four perfectly round lemon cucumbers sit among a tangle of vines, the largest is the size of a baseball, two of them look like ghostly billiard balls and the third is just downright tiny. The two largest ones have begun to take on streaks of pale yellow as they ripen, These are strange fruit. I never knew that cucumbers could be pale and orb-like until Carol and I began to garden. All cucumbers are supposed to be green and tubular, right?

Lemon cucumbers are not widely available so if you want them you’ve got to grow your own. I’ve only ever seen them at farmer’s markets and even there they are pricey and hard to find. It’s best to peel lemon cucumbers before eating them, as the skin is tough and not very tasty however, a recent visitor of ours stood out in the garden and munched one down like an apple, peel and all. This variety of cucumber does not keep well so once you’ve picked one, you better eat it!

Among the mature fruit on our cucumber plant are several bright yellow, five petal blossoms and a few baby cukes the size of my thumb and smaller. This morning is blanketed in a peaceful layer of fog, the light is flat and diffused, the greens and yellows of this sprawling plant are deep and saturated, its tendrils wrapped wildly around a tepee of thin, six foot poles that were pruned last winter from our plum tree. The cucumbers dangle from the vines like Christmas ornaments, a yellow blossom is the star on top. From the tips of the uppermost leaves hangs a solitary drop of water, tiny crystal balls for the hummingbirds to gaze into. The design of these leaves is exquisite. The largest of them are the size of my palm and fingers stretched apart. Each leaf has three points, a long central point with one on either side, all three bend gracefully forward which allows the dew drops to gather at their tips. Each of these leaves sits at the end of a slender, pale green stalk.

Over the past three months, this plant has provided us with many pounds of sweet, crunchy fruit, but as autumn slowly gathers steam, the vines are beginning to die back, the leaves yellowing and splotchy with brown spots. We sowed and nurtured this plant since spring and in turn it has given us all that it can give. My gratitude is deep.