I’m sitting here at Doran Beach with my eyes closed, deep in meditation and listening to the waves in stereo. In the absence of sight, sound is all I have so the sounds of the waves become intensified. I’m hearing four distinctive sounds. First there’s a woosh as the wave begins to break, then a pronounced crash when it hits the shore, followed by a sizzle and finally a hiss, as what remains of the wave retreats back to the sea. No two waves sound alike. The larger the wave, the louder the woosh, crash, sizzle, hiss. However, I use these onomatopoetic words just as a loose frame of reference as there are endless variations in a wave’s tone, pitch and volume. Occasionally there will be no wave breaking at all. The silence is brief but profound as I anticipate the arrival of the next set.
After listening to waves for a while, these sounds meld into a soothing type of white noise. I get lulled into a dream state and my mind begins to drift. I wonder, as a fetus inside my mother, was this the sound I heard? The sound of waves is such a primal sound. The Pacific Ocean existed eons before there were beings alive who could hear its voice. It will exist long after we’re gone.
I’m watching the birds come and go, they flit and flutter from tree top to branch to feeder. The titmice peck contentedly at the seed feeders until they are supplanted by a larger species like the towhee or golden crowned sparrow. When the magnificent scrub jay with its sky blue feathers decides it wants to eat, all of the other birds scatter as they defer to the King of the backyard. This cool, grey morning is absolutely still, however the two feeders that hang from the naked branches of our plum tree sway ever so gently with residual motion as the birds alight and fly away in a pecking order known only to them. What are a pair of white breasted nuthatches doing here? I’ve only seen this bird in and around a forest, yet this couple has apparently set up shop somewhere in the vicinity of our backyard. It’s impossible to miss the brilliant white and gun metal grey color combination of this little jewel of a bird. Like it does on a tree, the nuthatch eats with its body against the feeder, head pointed down.
The birds are all starting to pair up. The finch couple are back again, the crimson head and throat of the male adds a flash of brilliance to this grey day. In our front yard on an oak tree hangs a small bird house that our son built in junior high. We’ve recently spied a pair of oak titmice exploring its opening. I hope they find the accommodations to their liking. Next to the bird house is a twenty foot tall privet tree, it’s covered with thousands of deep purple, pea sized berries which the cedar waxwings and robins have been gorging themselves on. This is a destination tree, especially for the waxwings, so I wait until every last berry has been eaten before cutting the tree back. Next winter the berries will return and so will the birds.
In addition to the seed feeders and the privet tree we’ve also hung a variety of hummingbird feeders around our yard and a suet feeder too. This feeder is especially popular with the Nuttall’s and downy woodpeckers. One morning a few weeks ago I counted eleven different species of birds either feeding on the suet or waiting their turn in the dormant apple, pluot and cherry trees that surround it. Along the borders of our yard grow thick shrubs and numerous cypress and citrus trees which provide cover and nesting sites for birds. Our fountains provide water for drinking and bathing. The sight of a hummingbird taking a bath is simply magical, their wingbeats are a blur as they joyfully splash water over their tiny bodies. Since moving to our home nearly twenty-two years ago, Carol and I have put a lot of effort into making our yard a safe and welcome haven for birds.
If you’re one of my regular readers you probably know that the love of birds is a common thread that runs through my writing. I’m endlessly fascinated by them. A bird focused hike allows me to slow down and blend in with my surroundings. Binoculars become an extension of my eyes and I soon settle into a Zen-like calm, the birds often seem to just come to me. My excursions into nature are deepened by my knowledge of and love for birds. Of course I don’t always need to be in a forest or at a wetland to have a peak bird experience, the next avian epiphany often awaits me right outside my back door.
This Cooper’s Hawk sometimes hangs out in our yard.
How long does a second last? As long as it takes for a hummingbird to beat its wings 70 times, as long as it takes for you to blink your eyes. The difference between winner and runner up in the Olympics is one second, it could also be the difference between life and death.
Were angels watching over my son when that huge redwood tree narrowly missed crushing him to death inside his car? Do angels even exist? And if so are they always benevolent beings who look out for our well being and keep us safe from harm?
Sam’s car was a 1994 Mazda Miata, a tiny bug of a sports car with a convertible fabric roof. The redwood tree was at least 50 feet tall. A couple of weeks ago Sam was driving home from work down a narrow side street a few miles from our house, it was the night of that nasty “atmospheric river” winter storm. It had been pouring all day and high winds were whipping tall trees around like blades of grass. The redwood came down without warning, striking the front bumper of his car just below the headlights, stopping it dead in its tracks. We figured it was a matter of one second. Had Sam arrived at that exact moment in time one second later, that tree would have come down on a very different part of the car. One second. The blink of and eye, 70 beats of a hummingbird’s wings.
When Carol and I got home with Sam that night, we were all in shock. I think he realized how close he came to being seriously injured or killed, but in the moment was more upset about his car being totaled. When you’re 19 years old you’re bulletproof and can’t imagine your own demise.
On my way to bed I could hear wind and lashing rain outside as the storm was still going strong. I went by Sam’s room to say goodnight. When he came to the door and I pulled him close, hugging him as if to take in his entire being. I breathed in his scent, feeling the muscles in his back and the outline of his collarbone against mine. I hugged my son like I’ve never hugged him before, the gratitude I felt at that moment was overwhelming. I didn’t know who or what to thank. “I love you more than anything in the world” I whispered.
Sleep did not come easily for me that night but when it did I knew that Sam was safe and sound…and alive. When I awoke the next morning, I walked into his room and did something that I hadn’t done since he was a baby: I stood beside his bed and watched him as he slept.
On a typical day at Tower Records there was sex, there were drugs and there was most definitely rock and roll. Rock stars and movie stars were regular customers, members of the San Francisco Giants and 49ers could be spied browsing the racks. Famous bands would make in store appearances to promote their latest records. There was coke, weed and everything in between. You never knew which couple you’d stumble upon grunting and groaning in one of the many hidden nooks in the backroom. I was 22, on my own for the first time, living the California dream and working at the best job I ever had.
Being from New Jersey, I had never heard of Tower Records. When I arrived on the West coast in 1979 Tower had yet to expand nationwide and only had stores in California. My college friend Kenny and I washed up in the Bay Area fresh from a two week cross country odyssey, decided to stick around and needed to find jobs. Someone told us to head over to Tower so we did. We walked into the store one at a time and walked out with jobs. I actually had a resume and handed it to the gruff, bear like manager. I think it was all he could do to keep from laughing in my face and throwing me out of the store. He must have been in a good mood that day because I got hired. I still remember my “interview”:
Me: “I’m looking for a job.”
Manager: “Ever work in a record store?”
Me: “No, but I know a lot about music.”
Manager: “It’s minimum wage, lots of nights.”
Me: “I don’t care, I need a job.”
Manager: “Come in on Monday.”
On our first day of work we received our “training” from flamboyant Assistant Manager Randall. This guys wasn’t much older than Kenny and me, maybe in his late 20’s. and unabashedly, openly gay. In New Jersey most gays were deep in the closet so to meet someone so open and unapologetic was a revelation. While showing us around the store, Randall treated us with thinly veiled contempt, telling us that if we wanted to do drugs, to do so “across the street.” Thankfully, the days of drug tests and zero tolerance were still a few years away. If random drug tests were even conducted at Tower back then, virtually every employee would fail, including the managers, especially the managers!
There was a lot of drug use at Tower. Most of us were between the ages of 17 and 25 and into experimentation. Pretty much any substance you wanted was available. This was the cocaine era, so there was always lots of that going around. Since I was making minimum wage and barely getting by, I rarely bought it, hoping instead to occasionally get my nose packed for free. One guy almost aways had an ounce or two of mushrooms in his locker. Up until my Tower days I had only smoked low grade Mexican marijuana, since that was the only type available on the East coast. I soon became acquainted with a fellow employee named Travis, an ultra-mellow dude who grew his own weed. He never sold it, just got his friends high. I quickly discovered the many virtues of California marijuana. “Trav weed” became the stuff of legend at our store.
Tower in Mountain View, CA…where it all began for me.
Tower was the greatest record store in history. They were a deep catalogue store, meaning they carried every title that an artist had in print. If it was an official release, Tower had it. They were open 9am-midnight, 365 days a year so if you were a music junkie you could alway get your fix. Kenny and I had no idea what we were getting into and had no idea how totally cool Tower was. When you told someone you worked at Tower Records you were treated kind of like a rock star. At work we’d sometimes even cop rock star attitudes, treating the customers with smug indifference while at the same time availing them of our musical expertise. One day a customer complained to Randall about the music he was playing. His response? “If you don’t like it, go to Sears!” During your eight hour shift you’d be responsible for a two hour stint running the front register. You could play whatever music you liked at basically any volume you liked. You ran the show and set the tone for the store during that time. On nights when customers were lingering too close to closing time we’d play some late period atonal John Coltrane or Hendrix at ear splitting volume in order to flush them towards the exit. It almost always worked. Tower was THE place to go, everyone knew it. If you wanted to shop there, you played by our rules.
One of the best aspects of Tower was the people who worked there. Yes we definitely could cop an attitude now and then but we were also extremely knowledge about music. On any given day there was always someone on hand who could help a customer find a record or answer a musical question. We worked there because of our passion for music, not for the $3.10 per hour. Of course there were other perks; the promotional copies of records and free concert tickets helped to supplement the minimum wage. Tower employees were better than Spotify or Pandora will ever be, we were human beings who lived and breathed music, not a algorithm.
Tower Records existed in an analogue world, albums and tapes that’s what we sold. If you wanted to hear new music or were curious about a band you had seen live or heard on the radio, you’d most likely find their music at Tower. You had to get off of your ass, drive to the store and interact with an actual person. A human connection would be made, especially if you and that employee had a mutual affinity for that artist. Music wasn’t available at the touch of a screen, it took some effort on your part, you had to earn it. One night Kenny and I rushed to the store right before they closed because we absolutely had to hear Stop Your Sobbing by The Kinks. Of course Tower had it. When a much anticipated new album by a popular artist dropped at Tower, people would be waiting outside before we opened. They’d gleefully snatch up their copy, holding it in their hands like a treasure.
Simply stated, Tower Records was about the power of music and the joy that it brings to people. I’m grateful to have played a small part in that. My time at Tower was a watershed event and served as a springboard to the rest of my life. It was without a doubt the best job I ever had.
