I've always loved to write. I'll often bring a journal to record my thoughts and observations when I'm out in nature. I've done some international travel and have always kept a journal on my trips. As a musician, I've been writing songs for over 25 years. I recently completed a creative writing class at the local junior college. This class got me reenergized about writing. I decided that I wanted to share my writing with a wider audience, not just friends and family. So here it is, my maiden voyage into the world of blogging. If you like what you read, leave me a comment, I'd love to hear from you.
Among the endless stream of frightening news about COVID -19 came a piece the other day that really stood out for me. Evidently the European Union has asked Netflix to slow down their streaming for fear of some type of Internet crash. With movie houses, museums, theaters, restaurants, bars and music venues all shuttered, millions of people are stuck inside, many of them binging endlessly on Netflix. I began to wonder whether this hypothetical crash would also effect music streaming platforms like Spotify and Pandora. Most people that I know have long ago sold off their vinyl and cd collections, so they’re limited to streaming music online or listening to what they’ve uploaded to their various devices. I do have much of my music collection on the hard drive of our Mac, but I’ve also held onto hundreds of cds and even 150 or so vinyl LPs. We have an old school audio set up in our living room complete with cd/dvd player, powerful floor speakers, analog amplifier and…a turntable! No Bluetooth or Internet connection required for operation. If the entire online music system were to temporarily crash, I’d still be able to bust out an actual hard copy of The Rolling Stones 1969 classic Let It Bleed. A world without hugs and real human contact is difficult enough. A world without Merry Clayton’s incendiary vocal turn on Gimme Shelter is unbearable.
There’s a real comfort in owning something tangible. If you’ve downloaded Let It Bleed, what do you actually have? A bunch of 0’s and 1’s, that’s what. With a vinyl or cd copy you own something that you can hold in your hands. Pop it in and hit “play” or drop the needle and be transported to the dark side by the haunting guitar licks of Keith Richards. Then of course there’s the cover, one of the most iconic in all of rock and roll. That wild “layer cake” consisting of, from bottom to top, the album master tape tin, a clock face, a pizza, a bicycle tire and finally an actual cake topped with figurines of the band members. Below all of this the actual LP sits on a turntable spindle waiting to spin its magic. If you own the vinyl LP you get the dust sleeve with full song credits plus the band’s instructions, in no uncertain terms that THIS RECORD SHOULD BE PLAYED LOUD.
One of the reasons this virus is so scary is because of its intangibility. You can’t see it, you can’t touch it, you can’t smell it. It could nowhere. It could be everywhere. At this moment I am incredibly grateful for the real, tangible things in life; Carol and our children, our friends, the soft purr of our kitty when we rub her tummy, the smell of coffee in the morning, the avian traffic jam at our bird feeders, the solid wood feel and steel string jangle of my acoustic guitar, sunrises, sunsets and music, sweet, sweet music. I’m heading for the cd player right now with Let It Bleed clutched firmly in my hand and I plan on following Mick and Keith’s instructions to the T!
“Who Knows Where The Time Goes?” Judy Collins’ sad, sweet and achingly beautiful voice fills the room. I recently picked up a vinyl copy of this album for $1 at the only record store left in my town. The minor pops and scratches adding a little extra warmth and authenticity to the song. When Judy Blue Eyes first sang this song she was in her twenties. Like most twenty year olds her whole life stretched out before her; a seemingly endless road of unlimited possibilities. At that age time moves at a snail’s pace and the future is alive with promise. No need to look back when there’s so much still ahead. Through her interpretation of that song, Ms Collins was able to brilliantly convey so much of the sadness, longing and melancholy that comes with the passing of time. Not bad for a 28 year old.
When I was in my twenties I never wondered, nor did I care, where the time had gone. I was too busy looking ahead and planning for my future. Now of course more of my life is behind me than there is before me. I have no idea where the time is going but I do know wherever it’s going, it’s going much faster than I’d like it to go. A friend of mine recently compared this phenomenon to an exhibit at The Exploratorium in San Francisco. There’s this large funnel type thing, four feet or so in diameter with a hole at the bottom. A marble is released at the top of the funnel and makes concentric circles as it descends towards the hole. The circles are long and slow at first but the marble gradually picks up speed and the circles get smaller the closer the marble gets to the bottom. Right now time for me feels like that marble heading for the end of the funnel.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am not a fatalist. I’m certainly not sitting around marking time just waiting for the end. I’ve got a lot of living to do and I’ll live life to it’s fullest until I draw my last breath. Like Dylan Thomas famously wrote, I plan to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” The pace at which time seems to be moving however does add a real sense of urgency to my life.
I think I’m in better physical condition than most 63 year old men. I work out. I swim. I bike. I have a happy life with a loving family and close friends. I don’t think of myself as old but one look at the thinning grey hair, age spots and little paunch around my middle belies that belief. Frankly, the mirror these days isn’t exactly my friend. Being the father of twins and an elementary school teacher have helped to both keep me young and age me. You can damn well believe that I’ve earned every grey hair on my head.
One of the unsettling things about aging for me is that it’s totally new and previously uncharted territory. We often fear what we don’t know and this is definitely a little scary. I can observe people around me who are aging and talk with them to gain their perspectives. However, the bottom line is my experience with aging is unique to me. Yes I can learn from others and the key I think is to apply that knowledge to my own experience. Being at peace with and accepting the facts of aging are important steps in fully coming to terms with the process. Much like a journey on psychedelics, the only way out is through.
There are upsides to all of this business of course. Take for example the Senior Discount. There’s nothing like getting a dollar off at the movie theater to help assuage my fears and anxieties over growing old. I recently ate at a health food restaurant in San Diego and received what was euphemistically called a “wisdom discount.” Let me just get a few more years under my belt and I’ll qualify for priority boarding on airplanes along with parents of small children, people in wheelchairs and members of the military. When my gnarled, arthritic fingers can no longer manipulate laces, buttons and zippers there will always be velcro. So at least I’ve got that going for me.
Today is crisp and clear, typical for a winter morning in Sonoma County. A thin layer of frost clings to the roofs of the houses and cars in our neighborhood. The sun has just begun to rise, painting the eastern sky in pastel hues of pink and orange. My son Sam and I head out to the car like we’ve done a thousand times before only today is different. I get in on the passenger side because Sam is driving to school.
I look over at my son sitting so tall in the driver’s seat, he’s such a handsome boy. His long brown hair hangs in his eyes and spills over the collar of his bright pink hoodie. He’s looking a bit like a Revolver era Beatle. Sam did not pass the vision test at DMV so his impossibly blue eyes are now framed by a pair of stylish glasses. We fasten our seatbelts. Sam presses the power button on the Prius, eases the car out of the driveway and swings it around the arc of our cul-du-sac. Over the course of the past six months, Sam has had ample opportunities to pull the car in and out of the driveway and to practice around the court. This morning however, he’s going a little further. Sam puts on his blinker, checks for cars and crosses the Rubicon. He’s driving into the future and I’m along for the ride.
Sam drives with a calm confidence. I give him a few pointers that he doesn’t really need and the ride is uneventful. Eighteen minutes later we arrive unscathed at the parking lot of El Molino High School. “I love you buddy.” I say and watch him, backpack slung over his shoulder, disappear into the crowd of other kids.
Life is a series of firsts; first kiss, first date, first job. We always remember our firsts. When and where these firsts occur define us and help shape who we are. Today is a big first for Sam and an equally important one for me and my wife Carol. Like all parents we plot the trajectory of our life together by the milestones of our children. Like most transitions that our kids have gone through so far, this one is bittersweet. I can’t help feeling wistful, sitting here beside Sam as he drives us up Guerneville Road. His first “vehicle” was a three wheeled kind of mini chopper. There was a handle attached to the back of the seat that was used to push him along. When Sam’s legs got long enough to reach the pedals, we removed the handle. He was now able to propel himself. Next came his first bicycle, a sporty looking deal with green racing stripes and a horn on the handlebars. Training wheels were firmly attached to the rear wheel. It wasn’t long before Sam declared that he was ready for us to remove the training wheels. Off came the wheels, now here I am steadying his bike from behind while he pedals like mad. He picks up a head of steam and I let go. Just like that he’s off on his own and has never looked back. The bicycles got bigger and so did Sam. Add to that rollerblades, scooters and skateboards, all of which lead to this moment.
When our children were born Carol and I were told to cherish every moment with them because, as the cliche says, “It goes by fast.” We have and it did. Along with the wistfulness this morning comes an enormous sense of pride and love for our son. This is a great accomplishment for him. Sam has worked hard in order to be sitting behind the wheel today. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Sam’s twin sister is on the cusp of getting her permit. Lucky me. In a couple of months I get to relive this moment!
The 80’s were a pretty sad time for popular music. For most of the decade, the radio played some of the the worst pop drivel ever to have hit the airwaves. Then along came MTV and now we were forced to look at the bands too! Flock of Seagulls, Culture Club, Depeche Mode and their ilk seemed to be playing 24/7 and there was no escape. Well almost none.
Being a Deadhead was like being a member of a secret club. Being a Deadhead in the Bay Area in the 80’s was like being a member of an exclusive chapter of that secret club. You see, we Bay Area heads had a secret. While the Grateful Dead played in cavernous hockey arenas and football stadiums all throughout the country, we still got to see the band perform at relatively intimate venues. Mention the Greek Theater, Frost Amphitheater, Berkeley Community Theater or Cal Expo to any Deadhead who was around during that time and their face will light up in a beatific smile. Everyone has a story or two to tell about an epic show or transformative experience inside one of those places. These venues were hallowed ground.
One of those hallowed places was the Henry J. Kaiser Convention Center on the shores of Lake Meritt in Oakland, California. The Kaiser was a funky old place with loads of charm. A small grassy park in front of the building was the setting for a vibrant pre-show scene. Hundreds of Deadheads would gather there to drink, smoke, play guitars, listen to music, or just chill out before the show. If you needed to meet up with someone, this is where you found them. Bubbles floated lazily over the scene like translucent butterflies. Frisbees zinged back and forth. Hackysack is the official sport of Deadheads so numerous games would be in progress. Some of the players were pure acrobats, it was fun watching them work their magic. Much of the lawn was covered in brightly colored Balinese tapestries where vendors would display their wares. Homemade t-shirts, pipes, Guatemalan clothing, crystals and jewelry were just some of the many items that could be found at this patchouli soaked tie-dyed bazaar. Guitar players sat in circles jamming on Dead tunes. You could often hear a tape of the previous night’s show playing on someones boombox. For those needing to fuel up for a night of non-stop dancing, there were veggie burritos, stir fry, spaghetti, cookies and many other scrumptious homemade delights. Of course, various mind altering substances were readily available for sale if you wanted to feed your head. This scene continued during and after the show as well. When the show ended, you could stumble outside and always be able to find a cold beer and something to eat. A mainstay of the post show culinary offerings was food sold by a guy we affectionately referred to as Noodle Man. This fellow, his wife and two small children had a table piled with delicious homemade Chinese noodles and crispy egg rolls. You could eat your fill for just a couple of bucks. My friends and I made a beeline for Noodle Man as soon as the show let out!
When it came time to go in, you got into a line that snaked around the side of the building. As you approached the front entrance, you’d be greeted by a deep, welcoming and cheerful voice calling out, “Have you tickets out and ready!” This voice belonged to a legend among Deadheads and a mainstay of the Kaiser scene. Clyde Williams, affectionately known as Willie, was the front door security guard. Wille never had to do much real securing, as us heads were always so blissed out and happy to be there. Wille was an African American fellow of medium build, around 60 years old. A close cropped, salt and pepper afro peeked out from under a cap that he wore at a jaunty angle. His police style uniform had a badge on its chest. Willie’s eyes were sparkly and alive and he was always smiling. Here was a man who clearly loved his work. He was so sweet and good natured. Everyone hugged on Willie, girls were always kissing on him too. He’d usually have mardi gras beads draped around his neck, flowers in his cap and Grateful Dead stickers on his jacket. He was one of us. You hadn’t really arrived at the Kaiser until Willie told you to have your ticket out and ready.
My favorite homemade Grateful Dead t-shirt, purchased outside the Kaiser.
You entered the building into a narrow hallway. The doors to the main floor were open so you could see all the way to the stage at the far end of the room. Those of us who needed more room danced out in the hallway. Speakers were set up on either side of the doors so we could hear the music. Once The Dead began to play, the hallway was transformed into a swirling mass of flailing arms, spinning skirts and twirling hair. Lithe and kinetic, the hall dancers moved together as one living, breathing organism; whirling dervishes doing the psychedelic do-si-do. It was as if each one of us had our own build in sonar. No one ever collided unless they wanted to. It was a beautiful, randomly choreographed dance of sheer, unbridled ecstasy. During one of the Mardi Gras shows in 1986, Charles Neville of the Neville Brothers danced out there with us.
Most heads actually went inside while the band was playing. The main floor was oval shaped. Low bleachers lined the walls on either side of the oval. I heard, but never actually witnessed, that couples would crawl behind the bleachers and make love during the show. I don’t doubt this. The main floor was open for dancing except for an area in the center where the soundboard sat. The heady aromas of patchouli oil and pot smoke filled the air. It is said that smell is the strongest jogger of memory. Whenever I catch a whiff of patchouli oil on a women’s body or the smell of some fine herb burning, I’m transported straight back to the Kaiser. The entire upstairs was seated. Kaiser was a small venue, the capacity just 5,100. The intimacy of the place was a major reason why it was such a wonderful space to see the Dead in. It was on a human scale. It didn’t take long to make a circuit of the entire place. You could always find people you wanted to hook up with. Downstairs there was a small, dimly lit bar. A chance meeting I had with a woman there in the fall of 1985 resulted in an eight year relationship. The Dead typically played three or four show runs. During some of those runs if you got inside early enough, you’d see a volleyball net set up at the back end of the hall. Anyone could get a team together and participate in the tournament. These were Bill Graham Presents shows so Bill himself could alway be seen around. He would usually get a group of his employees together and field a team. Bill was gruff and unsmiling, but would always take a moment to say hi or shake your hand.
The collective energy of so many hardcore Deadheads packed into such a small space was the perfect recipe for magic to happen. And happen it often did. On those nights when everything was, as Bob Weir once put it, “exactly perfect “, we’d be in the heart of the second set, the band bathed in purple light and deep into one of their many hued psychedelic jams. It was at times like these that I remember feeling as full and happy as I’d ever felt in my life. When I think back on those nights at the Kaiser, it makes me miss The Grateful Dead so much that it hurts.
I kept records: a set list from 1987.
Alas, as the old cliche goes, “all good things must come to an end”, and end they did. By the close of the decade the Grateful Dead juggernaut had become too big to be contained within the intimate confines of the Kaiser. One price of the Dead’s astronomical success was that they had outgrown the small venues we’d become accustomed to seeing them in. I feel blessed to have experienced the band as often as I had at the Kaiser. Like all euphoric and transformative experiences, it enriched me beyond words.
When navigating the rough patches in life, I sometimes envision myself back at the Kaiser. The sights, sounds and smells of that wonderful old building come flooding back and I can almost hear the crystalline notes of Jerry’s guitar as the bad launches into Jack Straw.
It’s not necessary to travel very far from home in order to witness small miracles. Case in point is the view from the large window in our kitchen. The window looks out onto our side yard. In spring and summer most of this area is taken up by a vegetable garden and strawberry patch. But now it’s winter. The garden is just weeds and dirt and the strawberries are dormant. There are four fruit trees; a pear, Gravenstein apple, pluot and a cherry. The trees are dormant now too, their bony branches silently awaiting the bud break of spring.
About 100 yards away in my neighbor’s yard sits a large Coast Redwood. Using the “stick method” for measuring the height of a tree that I learned on YouTube, I found this tree to be well over 100 feet tall. The other day I came into our kitchen and pulled the blinds up to let in the morning light. The redwood is one of the first things I see. I just love looking at this tree. Like a silent sentinel it towers above everything else in our neighborhood. On this particular morning the sky was overcast and gray, a light mist was falling which added an extra glow to the scene. I noticed a large bird fly towards and land in the very top of the redwood. It’s not uncommon for me to observe raptors like Red-tailed and Red-shouldered hawks perched up there. I grabbed my binoculars for a better look and was amazed to see that this bird as a Peregrine Falcon. Over the years, I’ve seen many different species of birds in and around our yard but never a Peregrine. Several decades ago this bird was an endangered species. In all my years of birding I’ve only see them a handful of times. This made my sighting extra special. Peregrines typically eat other birds. They hunt from a high perch. When prey is spotted, they dive down at speeds of up to 200mph. Their prey never has a chance. Now my eyes are really open and on the lookout. Sure enough, the Peregrine returned to the same spot the next day. It made me wonder, just how long had this bird been coming to this tree? I’m sure this wasn’t the first time it had been up there, it was just the first time I had noticed.
Another object that dominates the view from our kitchen window is a 25 foot tall privet tree. These trees start out as bushes but can quickly grow quite tall if not pruned back. Our neighbor clearly has not done any pruning. Every winter the privet is covered with thousands of small purple berries which hang in grape-like clusters. It is a favorite stop for many different birds but the one species that appears to love these berries above all others is the Cedar Waxwing. Waxwings are handsome birds. They are a lovely buff brown. Their crest sweeps back in a kind of hipster hairstyle terminating in a point behind their heads. A dark Cleopatra type mask frames their eyes. The very tip of their tail feathers is bright yellow. When the privet berries are ripe, I often observe flocks of 15-20 birds gorging themselves. I look forward to this spectacle every year. When the berries start to ripen, I know the waxwings are on their way. When the berries are gone, so are the birds. It is a fleeting and beautiful moment.
Cedar Waxwings at work.
How many other small miracles have been going on around me unnoticed as I go about the mundane tasks of everyday life? Miracles small and large are happening everywhere. We simply need to open our eyes to see them.
Last October, for the second time in three years, my family and I were forced to flee our home in the wake of the Kincade Fire. Fortunately, our home and neighborhood escaped unscathed. Having to decide once again what to take with us as we evacuated was a sobering experience. This is what I took:
My wife Carol and I bought our first house, the one we currently live in, in November of 2002. Our home sits at the end of a cul-du-sac in a quiet neighborhood on the northwestern edge of Santa Rosa, CA. On one side of our front yard is a thick row of hedges. They’re about ten feet high and give us complete privacy from the neighbors. These hedges are also the home to various nesting birds in the spring and provide shade in the hot summer months.
A couple of years after we moved in, I came home from work one afternoon and noticed a tiny oak tree peeking out from the hedges. This tree was perhaps five feet tall and only a couple of inches around. It was trying to escape the darkness of the hedgerow so it was growing at a weird angle, almost perpendicular to the ground, its tiny branches reaching bravely towards the sun. I immediately fell in love with this little tree. I thought it was so cool, the randomness of it all that this tree had managed to survive long enough to grow out of the hedges and show itself to me. I was seeing one of the wonders of nature in action right here in my own yard.
Seeds spread in many ways. Some hitch a ride on the fur of an animal or at the bottom of a shoe. Some drift down a river or sail across the ocean. Others are carried by the wind. Still others are pooped out by animals. Eventually a few of these seeds land, take root and grow. This is how a forest begins. The acorn that spawned our tree was most likely carried here, buried and forgotten by a squirrel.
The first thing I did was to drive a metal fencepost into the ground beside the tree. I pulled the tree as straight up as I could and secured it to the post and cut away some of the surrounding hedges to allow more sunlight in. That was it. I figured if this tree was strong enough to survive to this point, it didn’t need much more in the way of help from me.
As I write this our little tree isn’t so little anymore. The circumference at its base is 40 inches. I estimate it to be around 20 years old. About ten feet up from the ground the tree starts to branch, with one thick limb growing out from each side of the trunk. Another seven or eight feet up and it branches again, this time in a “v”. The branching continues, with limbs getting progressively thinner until the tree tops out, its spindly fingers touching the sky at around 35 feet.
It’s winter now, the tree is bare except for a few oak galls that cling stubbornly to the branches. I love watching the seasons change through our oak. The first tiny shoots of spring give way to the verdant leaves of summer. This tree is so tall and broad now that when fully leafed out, it shades our entire front yard. The foliage is thick enough to offer birds sufficient cover to build their nests in. Flocks of bushtits move through the tree, foraging for food. Downy and Hairy woodpeckers can be seen drilling its bark for insects. Our resident Black Phoebe uses its branches as a taking off point for its hunting forays. Cedar Waxwings, Ruby Crowned Kinglets, titmice, scrub jays and mockingbirds can all be found at one time or another in its branches. I often see the Hooded Oriole, a spring and summer resident, sitting in the uppermost branches, its flaming orange breast and jet black crown catching the first rays of the rising sun. In autumn enough leaves fall for me to rake a respectable pile. I’m tempted to behave like a five year old and dive right in. Of course there are acorns, many of them. They litter our lawn, driveway and the sidewalk in front of our house. They’re a bit of a hassle to deal with but I don’t mind. Our yard has become a favorite gathering place for squirrels. Which brings me to this morning.
As I was planting bulbs in the flower beds underneath our front window, I noticed several small plants that had just barely broken through the soil. Their stems were pale red and covered with tiny, very fine hairs. Atop each plant were four tiny pale green leaves. I dug down with my spade and saw that each of these shoots was connected to…an acorn! Clearly this was a good place for our oak tree to start a family. There was something about these tiny trees that put a smile on my face and filled me with hope. Perhaps it was seeing first hand the miracle and beauty of new life, of rebirth. If an acorn can survive being eaten by animals or getting stomped on by humans long enough to grow into a majestic oak tree like ours, then anything seemed possible.
We are living in angry and uncertain times, I don’t need to tell you that. As author Kurt Vonnegut once said, the world situation is “desperate as usual.” One of the most distressing things I see is people losing hope; hope for themselves, hope for the future. Well, I refuse to give up hope. I firmly believe that love is stronger than hate, hope more powerful than despair. I also believe that we can find a way out of the mess the world currently finds itself in. How about we start right now, one acorn at a time.
