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.
I have yet to fully mine the depths of my love for the music of The Beatles. Since I was six years old, The Beatles have been an integral part of my life. I was there from the beginning. My older brother Ray and I bought every Beatles record as soon as it came out. Our mom would take us to the Caldwell Studio of Music where we’d plunk down the 50 cents or so for the latest 45RPM by the Fab Four. The first record I remember owning was She Loves You ( the B side, I’ll Get You). When Meet The Beatles came out that was the first album we bought. Ray still has this copy, collecting dust and memories somewhere in the depths of his archives. In January of 1964, Ray and I watched The Beatles first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. We squealed with delight while our parents looked on with bemusement, wondering what all the fuss was about. I can’t begin to imagine what my life would be like or how much poorer the world would be had The Beatles never existed.
These thoughts came to me today while I was listening to Penny Lane. Trying to pick my favorite Beatles song is like trying to say which Hawaiian sunset is the best I’ve ever seen. They’re all fantastic and unique in their right. However, if I really had to make a choice I can say with confidence that my favorite Beatles song is Penny Lane.
Penny Lane, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I know the word “great” is a relative term and totally subjective but by any definition, Penny Lane is simply a great song. I mean, c’mon there just aren’t enough superlatives to adequately describe it. In case you didn’t know, Penny Lane is a real street in Liverpool, England. This song is about the everyday sights and sounds that Paul McCartney observed while he was there. But where mere mortals like you and I would just see the daily goings on of average people on an average street on an average day, McCartney saw poetry in motion; the interconnectedness of people, place, sights and sounds woven into a unique and unforgettable tapestry, a portrait as perfectly rendered as the Mona Lisa. I listen to Penny Lane and I’m right there with Paul in 1967: the barber showing off photographs of all the different haircuts he’s done, the stuffy banker being made fun of behind his back by little kids, the fireman who carries a photo of Queen Elizabeth around with him, the nurse in the roundabout selling poppies. I can almost smell the aroma of fish and finger pies as it wafts through the air on that rare blue sky summer day in Liverpool. Throughout this song comes the refrain, “Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.” Paul was taking it all in. He probably had the song written in his head before he got home to the piano.
Musically, Penny Lane is a masterstroke. The alchemy of The Beatles and producer George Martin created an enduring and beloved classic of popular music. If I were to teach a college level class on songwriting, this is the song I’d choose. This tune has it all; strong lead vocals, tight harmonies, clever and whimsical lyrics, Paul’s trademark walking bass line, Ringo’s spot on drumming, that unforgettable piccolo trumpet solo and if that’s not enough there’s even a key modulation leading into the final chorus to add a little extra emotional oomph.
Often when I’m listening to Penny Lane I find myself getting choked up. This isn’t a sad or sentimental song, I think I just get overwhelmed by the simple beauty of it all. How Paul McCartney and The Beatles could say so much over the course of 3:00 is nothing short of divine. Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes, indeed.
The guest star is a time honored tradition in rock and roll. Whether it’s during a live performance or in the recording studio, the appearance of an unannounced guest is always a pleasant surprise. I’ve seen thousands of concerts, from intimate nightclubs to baseball stadiums and have been lucky to be on hand many times when a surprise guest appeared, turning an ordinary show into a memorable evening. For this essay, I’m going to focus on the guest star on record. What follows aren’t necessarily the “best” guest appearances, but rather the ones that always give me a jolt, no matter how many times I’ve heard them.
Hungry Heart
Artist: Bruce Springsteen
Guests: Flo & Eddie
The Boss had a big hit with this rollicking tune from his 1980 2LP set The River largely due to the backing vocalists. Best known as the singers for 60’s hit makers The Turtles and later as members of Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention, Flo & Eddie (Mark Vollman and Howard Kaylan) were a great choice for this record. Hungry Heart has that classic E Street Band sound, driven by a solid organ/piano combination and Clarence Clemmons’ baritone sax. Bruce sings a verse and chorus then here come Flo & Eddie on verse #2. Their soaring “Ahhhhhh, Ah, Ah” behind Bruce’s vocal really makes this tune fly. They harmonize perfectly with Bruce on the chorus too. Danny Federici’s spot on organ solo leads us into a key modulation, followed by the last verse/chorus. Bruce improvises on the fade out with Flo & Eddie in the background. It all adds up to one perfectly crafted pop song.
Day After Day
Artist: Badfinger
Guest: George Harrison
Badfinger was by far the most successful band on the Beatles Apple label, scoring several Top 40 hits in the early 1970’s. On Day After Day the band gets a little help from one of the Fab Four himself. With his mega hit My Sweet Lord, George Harrison debuted a distinctive slide guitar style that became a signature sound for him throughout his solo career and is the key to why Day After Day is such a powerful song.
Great artists have a distinctive style, whether it’s Vincent’s brush strokes or Elvis’ hip shaking. So it is with George’s slide playing. After about two notes of this song’s intro you know it’s George Harrison. His playing on Day After Day is inspired and oh so sweet, George was clearly feeling it during this session. Much like his solos on Beatles records, George wastes not a note throughout this song and gets right to the point. My favorite moment is during the third verse when vocalist Pete Ham and George do a nice back and forth. While the song builds to a crescendo, Pete sings a line and George answers it each time with a soaring slide guitar line. The song ends here as George brings us in for a gentle landing with another solo on the outro.
Teach Your Children
Artist: Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
Guest: Jerry Garcia
In the early 1970s, Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia was a defacto member of Bay Area cosmic cowboy band The New Riders of the Purple Sage. The New Riders often opened for The Dead with Jerry handling pedal steel guitar duties. He’s also featured on their eponymous debut album.
In the winter and spring of 1970, CSNY were in San Francisco recording their soon to be landmark album Deja Vu. The SF music scene was one big happy family back then so it’s no surprise that Jerry was recruited to play pedal steel on Graham Nash’s Teach Your Children. From the intro to the outro, to the fills and the sweet, succinct solo midway through the song, Jerry is clearly the focal point here. His playing is lilting and lyrical and perfectly captures the mood of the song. Much like his work with The Dead, Jerry knows just what notes to play and when to play them. Simply stated, Jerry Garcia’s playing on Teach Your Children single handedly turns an ordinary pop song into one of the most beloved songs in the CSNY canon.
Billion Dollar Babies
Artist: Alice Cooper
Guest: Donovan
Shockmeister Alice Cooper and hippie dippie folk singer Donovan make an unlikely pair on the title tune from Alice’s blockbuster 1973 album. Rumor has it that Donovan was working on a project in an adjacent studio and popped in unannounced to see what Alice and the boys were up to. His appearance on Billion Dollar Babies was totally impromptu. Donovan affects a ghoul-like quality to his otherwise sweet voice which fits the mood of this dark song and is the perfect compliment to Cooper’s sinister snarl. The two singers trade verses throughout the song and do a nice back and forth on the chorus too. The twin electric guitars, a trademark of Alice’s band back then, help to round out an outstanding, one-off track.
Paradise By The Dashboard Light
Artist: Meatloaf
Guest: Phil Rizzuto
This tune, from Meatloaf’s debut album, is about a pair of teenagers hoping to “go all the way” in the backseat of a car and features by far the most unusual guest appearance ever on a rock and roll record.
This rocking Jim Steinman composition kicks off with a ringing guitar riff by producer Todd Rundgren and it’s all up from here. Meatloaf’s bombastic lead vocal is the centerpiece of the song as he recounts the details of his night of sexual awakening when he sings; “We were barely 17 and we were barely dressed.” About halfway through, he repeats over and over the line; “We’re gonna go all the way tonight” and the band slips into the background. That’s when the “play by play” begins.
Phil Rizzuto, aka “The Scooter” was a Hall Of Fame shortstop for the New York Yankees from 1941-1956. When his playing career ended, he became the voice of the Yankees, announcing the games on radio and tv. And so it goes for Paradise By The Dashboard Light. As the song slowly builds towards its climax the band is accompanied by the grunts and groans of the two lovers as they go about their backseat groping. Rizzuto takes us on a tour around the diamond, giving the “play by play” as the boy goes from “1st base” to “2nd base” and so on. The band cooks, the groans grow louder, the boy has “Home” in sight, Rizzuto exclaims, “Holy cow I thinks he’s going to make it!” So do we until vocalist Ellen Foley shouts, “Stop right there!!” We’re left wondering if our hero is thrown out at the plate or if he indeed hits a “home run”. Phil Rizzuto on a rock and roll record? Brilliant!
Comes A Time
Artist: Neil Young
Guest: Nicolette Larson
Comes A Time is one of Neil Young’s most beloved and enduring albums. It’s a return to the gentle acoustic based sound of the Harvest era and contains some of his most introspective and heartfelt songs. However, what really makes this record special are the harmony vocals of Nicolette Larson. Her sweet/smoky voice is the perfect compliment to Neil’s ragged but right lead vocals. Their blend is simply spot on and CSN tight. From the achingly beautiful Already One to Ian Tyson’s Canadian classic Four Strong Winds, and of course the title tune, Nicolette takes these songs to a new level every time her harmonies kick in. There’s one electric song on the album, Neil graciously turns the spotlight over to his singer on the gritty rocker Motorcycle Mama as they trade verses throughout. Nicolette Larson’s appearance on Comes A Time is not so much as a guest star, but rather a collaborator.
The best guest star ever!!
You’re So Vain
Artist: Carly Simon
Guest: Mick Jagger
This song was a #1 hit for Carly Simon from her 1972 album No Secrets. It features one of the greatest guest appearances of all time in the person of Mr. Mick Jagger.
The band wastes no time in setting up a slinky, rocking groove. A rumbling bass riff gives way to some percussive acoustic guitar chords and piano. Carly then comes in with the immortal line; “You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht.” Conventional wisdom has it that this song is about actor Warren Beatty but it could very well be about our guest star, given his well earned reputation as a ladies man.
All good things are worth waiting for so it goes that we get a verse, chorus and a second verse before Mick makes his first appearance on the second chorus. This is the point where the song really takes off. The band is in high gear, Mick and Carly are perfectly in synch with Jagger’s electric charisma taking this song to new heights. Would I have loved to have been a fly on the wall at this session!
You’re So Vain is one of those songs that I never want to end. Even the fade out is great as we get to hear Mick sing the chorus once all by himself. Mick Jagger is uncredited on the album. Does it matter? You’d have to be from Mars to not recognize one of the most distinctive voices of all time.
Writing about music is kind of like trying to describe colors to a blind person. You’ve just got to experience it yourself. I encourage you to go to your favorite music streaming service and make a playlist of these songs so you can really hear what I’m talking about. Enjoy!
My mom, Marie Ann (Spadone) Ferrera passed away on October 15. Mom was a strong willed woman, mother and grandmother who would do anything for her family. She gave me so much and I loved her dearly.
Thank you for teaching me how to ride a bicycle. You took me to the dead end part of Dodd Rd. that day. It was probably the spring or summer of 1964 so I was seven years old. This watershed event in my life and a key moment in our relationship happened 60 years ago, yet there are pieces of this memory that are still so clear to me. I don’t remember what my bike looked like or what kind of day it was but I do remember this: I got on my bike and began pedaling, you were behind me holding onto the back of the seat, jogging along as I headed down the road. I knew the moment that you’d let go because it instantly felt different. Once I sensed this, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw you standing in the middle of Dodd Rd., receding into the distance as I pedaled forward. You had let me go. I was on my own, wings spread wide and moving into the future.
Thank you for instilling the love of reading in me. You took me regularly to the library, specifically the Julia Potwin Memorial Library. The library was housed inside a quaint old building built around the turn of the twentieth century. The building is still standing but the library is long gone. You’d park in the small lot at the rear of the building and we’d enter into the bottom floor which housed the children’s section. I recall this being a warm, quiet and welcoming place. There were so many books! We’d sit at one of the small round tables and I’d just read, read, read. As an emergent reader who was just discovering the magic of books, this place was heavenly. I glommed onto a series of books featuring a young boy named Danny Dunn. In each book, Danny got involved in a series of exciting science/nature based adventures. I couldn’t get enough of these books and hungrily devoured each and every one. I’ve been a life long reader ever since then mom and I have you to thank for getting me started. Oh, your granddaughter Denali is an even more avid reader than I am.
Thank you for teaching me the importance of persistence, or as you used to say: “Sticking to your guns.” You and I were always very strong willed so it’s no wonder that we’d often butt heads. Once you locked onto something mom, you wouldn’t let go. That wasn’t always easy for me but I admired you for the way you’d go for what you wanted. Case in point: You began your career in movie theaters behind the glass in the ticket booth and ended it as the manager of a prestigious theater in our town. What makes this accomplishment even more impressive is the fact that you achieved this level of success as a woman in an industry dominated by men…in the 1970s! You eventually quit to spend more time with your family, otherwise you probably would have made district manager. I took a page from your playbook when I turned 40. I quit my job, went back to school and became an elementary school teacher. That took focus and drive, both of which you had in spades. I had a goal in sight and was not going to stop until I achieved it.
Thank you for instilling the love of music in me. Music filled our house when we were growing up. It was either you singing, or the radio and records playing. Like a sponge my young mind soaked up every note, every lyric, every vocal nuance from the masters of American popular music who you idolized: Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett and of course your main man Frank Sinatra. I play the guitar, sing and write songs. I have you to thank for starting me on the road as a musician. You once told me that when you listen to music, you feel it deep down inside of you. That’s me too, a part of you that lives on.
Thank you mom for bringing me into this world. Thank you for loving me so fiercely. Thank you for always worrying about me. Thank you for the single autumn leaf wrapped in plastic that you sent me every year for the first ten years or so after I moved west.
Love always,
Butch
ps
Just so you know, I never liked that nickname grandma gave me, but I was afraid if I signed this letter “Louie” you wouldn’t know who it was from.
How many ways are there to mark the passing of time? The slow sweep of the second hand as it makes its way around the face of a clock. The imperceptible, glacial movements of the minute and hour hands. The magical transformation of LED numbers as one bleeds into the next. The ticking of a clock. Do clocks even make a tick tock sound anymore? I’m sure you could program your cell phone to do so.
Before the invention of clocks, the passing of time was measured in much larger increments; the sweep of the sun as it arcs across the sky from horizon to horizon, the waxing and waning of the moon, the march and retreat of the tides. Machu Picchu, Stonehenge and the pyramids at Chichen Itza in Mexico are some of the original clocks. Built with unbelievable precision, these stone monoliths were used by ancient people to, among other things, mark the passing of the seasons.
Closer to home the arrival of migratory birds tells me that spring is here, their departure heralds the onset of fall. Buds, then leaves appear on trees. Blossoms become fruit which ripens and nourishes us. Some fruit falls to the ground where secretive critters come in the silence of night to eat their fill. I know this by the half gnawed apples and Asian pears that I discover every morning throughout the summer and fall. Flowers provide nectar for hummingbirds and bees, they eventually wither and fall to the ground once they’ve served their purpose. When flowers and fruit are no more, I know that winter is on the way.
There’s a subtle shift around mid September as summer transitions into fall. I feel that today for the first time. The quality of light is slightly different from the way it looked yesterday, the angle of the sun a bit lower. The trees look different too. The way that the light is hitting their leaves softens their infinite shades of green. The leaves on our cherry trees have begun to curve inward, a prelude to their transition from green to vivid yellow. The wind will soon lift them from their branches to create a lemony swirl of color that will blanket the ground. The millions of tiny leaves on our neighbor’s Japanese maple tree have already begun to turn. The explosion of colors on this tree becomes our own private Vermont, New England in miniature. This seasonal shift is being ushered in today by the breeze, it’s soft and warm, almost tropical in quality, a harbinger of fall.
When the rains arrive they are a blessing, wet and wonderful and oh so joyous. This is yet another marker of the passage of time and a cause for celebration in the era of climate uncertainty. I always sense a collective sigh of relief when the first rain soaks the earth and washes away months of dirt and dust from buildings and trees.
This is the way Dali sees it.
Our children are a long measure of time; a linear progression from infancy to childhood, adolescence to young adulthood and beyond. Has our son always been taller than me? Has his voice always been this low pitched? When did that wispy mustache first appear on his upper lip? Wait! He’s going to college, working a part time job and driving a car? Hell, he can take that car apart and put it back together again. His smile, electric blue eyes and gentle, sensitive nature haven’t changed, it’s just that he’s grown more deeply into them.
Our daughter is in college too. She lives on campus three hours south of here. We recently helped her move into her dorm for sophomore year. Letting go is hard. I squeezed her python-like with a tearful goodbye hug. She’s a brilliant visual artist, dean’s list student and a track and field athlete too. Her legs and upper body are muscled and toned. Where the hell did that intricate octopus tattoo on her torso come from anyway? Her wacky sense of humor continues to delight me as it always has. Those hazel eyes and freckles still shine as brightly as ever.
I still see our kids through the unblinking eye of a new parent, not wanting to ever avert my gaze for fear of missing even the most minute aspect of their development. To be a parent is to experience long time. You think they’ll be in diapers forever until they’re not. A crawl becomes a first step, a jog around the bases, a sprint up the soccer pitch, a joyous and confident stride as they receive their high school diplomas. As a parent, the passing of time is bittersweet and an experience to be savored.
I mark the passing of time by our friends and families, by my darling wife and by myself too. There are outward appearances; the lines on faces, the growing streaks of grey, a bit more of a jowl here, a growing paunch there. There’s a mellowing of attitude too and a sense that there’s no time to waste. With age and the passing of time the love and appreciation that I have for these most precious people in my life deepens by the minute. No one lives forever so each moment that I get to share with a loved one is a gift. Both of my parents are 94. Mom has advanced dementia and is in a memory care facility. For her, time has been put into a blender and gotten all mixed up, it’s like a jigsaw puzzle that can never quite be put back together again. Dad still lives at home but only with the help of my siblings. Mom and dad were born during the Great Depression, talk about the passing of time!
My dear Carol, love of my life and soulmate, has thus far ridden the timeship with grace and humor. Her sparkly eyes and 100 watt smile still delight me. The lines around her eyes are the sum total of all the smiles and love that we’ve shared on our journey together through this beautiful life that we’ve created.
I look in the mirror and can see quite clearly the passage of time on my own face. Sometimes I wonder just who is that old grey beard and what’s he doing looking back at me? How did I get old? Old is a relative term anyway. That saying “You’re only as old as you feel” still rings true for me. I still feel young at heart and can muster up the enthusiasm of a kid whenever I feel passionate enough about something. I guess you’d say I’m just trying to move forward and enjoy the passage of time.
I listened to Jim Croce today and America and Seals and Crofts. Harry Chapin? You betcha! England Dan and John Ford Coley? Why not? Hell, I even sat through Bread’s syrupy confection Make It With You. You know what, I loved it all!
Sirius XM station #17 is called The Bridge, their tagline is “mellow classics,” or in other words “songs that were popular before 911, before Trump, before climate change, before the apocalyptic trio of fire, drought and hurricanes, which threaten the very survival of planet Earth and all living things that depend on her continued health”. Whew!
By the early 1970s America was wrung dry from the violence and social upheaval of the Vietnam War, the civil rights movement and the horrific political assassinations of the 60s. The rise in popularity of the style of music featured on The Bridge was a direct result of our collective exhaustion back then. Music reflects the time in which it’s created so it’s no surprise that artists like James Taylor, Cat Stevens and Carole King rose to prominence beginning around 1971. The anger and strident political posturing of the previous decade had faded into the background and we needed a break. We were tired of being shouted at and wanted someone to tell us everything was going to be alright. So in stepped James, Cat, Carole and their ilk. Their music was gentle, its message one that focused on love, lost and found, interpersonal relationships and peaceful coexistence with our fellow humans. When I hear songs like Ventura Highway, Summer Breeze or Moonshadow I literally feel the tension drain from my body. This is the soundtrack of a gentler, simpler time, almost unimaginable now given the current state of the world. It’s easy to look back on this music and chuckle over some of its sappiness and naiveté (remember, this was also the era of The Carpenters and Captain and Tennille). But god knows, we could all use a healthy dose of Peace Train or You’ve Got A Friend right about now.
With the recent fires on Maui, the daily reports of climate chaos and the endless nightmare that is the monster Trump, I feel like I’m living in a constant state of existential dread, on pins and needles waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s hard to believe that it hasn’t always been like this, that there was actually a time in our history like the era popularized by The Bridge.
I wonder, will we ever stop shouting at one another? Are we so hopelessly polarized that it’s become impossible to ever reach the consensus that the world desperately needs in order to try and reverse or at least halt the effects of climate change? It’s all so overwhelming! I want to stay informed, to try and affect some small measure of positive change within my family and my community but every time I swipe right on my phone or pick up the newspaper from my driveway in the morning, I’m being told that we’re fucked. I try and cover my ears but the volume is often so loud that I sometimes wish I were deaf.
Lucky for me, I refuse to believe that things are hopeless. There’s goodness everywhere, more than we realize; good people committing random acts of kindness every day, volunteering for community based organizations and working for political change. I’m one of those people. It’s this realization that gives me hope. Despite the current state of our planet, I still see the glass as half full.
If ever there was a time in our country when we needed a collective hug, this is it. Will the craziness of the past decade eventually subside? Is it possible to reach a state of political equilibrium? Could our fractured country somehow be healed? For heaven’s sake, could we just mix that red and blue together to make purple? If that time ever does come, will this generation’s version of James, Cat and Carole be there to help usher in a new era of harmony, acceptance and cooperation? Music reflects the times in which it’s created. Time will tell.
In the meantime, when the shouting gets to be too much, I punch up The Bridge. I can always count on artists like James, Cat and Carole, at least for the duration of a pop song, to help ease my troubled mind.
It was around nine years ago when I first discovered it. Poking out of the ground in our backyard where the kitchen wall meets the ground, this tiny redwood shoot couldn’t have been more than three inches tall. I remember in the spring of that year purchasing several bags of a type of mulch known as “gorilla hair”. This “hair” is actually shredded redwood bark. We had spread it all around the roses, shrubs and other ornamental plants in our yard. A redwood seed had somehow made its way into one of the bags of mulch. Redwood seeds are very small, one would fit comfortably atop one of my fingernails. Think about it: the tallest and most massive trees on Earth sprout from a seed not much larger than a grain of rice!
So, here was this tiny living thing, its dozen or so slender green leaves reaching bravely towards the light. The conditions in our yard had to be just right in order for this seed to sprout. We had a unique situation here so Carol and I decided to just let our proto-tree be. I can’t recall exactly how long we let it grow where we found it, but at one point we realized that it probably wouldn’t be a god idea to have a redwood tree growing so close to the foundation of our house. Very carefully we uprooted our little tree and transferred it to a small clay pot. We left the pot in the sun and made sure that it was watered. Other than that, we just let it be. Gradually our little redwood became no so little. Over the next couple of years the clay pots got bigger and so did the tree.
By the fall of 2016 our redwood was nearly three feet tall and had outgrown the large pot it was currently living in. We wanted to plant this tree in the ground but had to choose our spot wisely. Under the right conditions, a redwood tree can grow to be over two hundred feet tall and require many adults holding hands to circle its base. We ultimately decided on an unused corner of our backyard where the fences meet at a right angle.
Election Day of that year was a dark day for our country. I awoke the next morning to the horrible reality of Donald Trump as our new president. I was teaching second grade at the time and I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of doom despair all that day. When I returned home from school, both Carol and I had a strong desire to do something, anything, that would be positive and life affirming. We decided that this was the time to plant our redwood tree.
We sunk a shovel into the ground, mixed the soil and removed all of the rocks and weeds. When the hole was deep enough, we added a healthy amount of compost and mixed that in too. We turned the redwood tree’s pot upside down, tapped the bottom a few times and out it came. We carefully placed the tree into the center of the hole, covered it with soil, added some mulch on top and we were done. We stepped back and admired this tiny, brave little tree, standing in the ground for the first time in its life. Looking back, I remember at that moment feeling truly hopeful for the future, despite what had transpired at polling places the day before.
It’s August of 2023, nearly seven years since we first planted our little redwood tree. In the spring of this year, Carol created a beautiful Zen garden centered around the tree. There’s a solar powered fountain, numerous succulents and climbing plants, a wind chime that sings whenever there’s a breeze and a hummingbird feeder that’s become the place for these tiny birds to sip their meals. There’s also a bench where we can sit and take it all in. When I’m sitting here, I have to crane my neck in order to see the top of our not so little redwood tree. I measured it today, it’s 14 feet tall! Every spring we see light green leaves of new growth on the tips of its branches. Redwood trees can live a very long time. Unless someone comes by someday with a chain saw, our tree will outlive us, and our kids and our kids’ kids and…
Plants have an uncanny ability to emerge and thrive in the most unlikely of places; through a crack in asphalt or along the median strip of a busy freeway, in the searing heat of the desert or the frozen tundra of the arctic, or even in our own backyard, hidden in plain sight. Keep your eyes open!
We gradually make our way along the bluffs, a slow snake, we slither and wind. Limantour Beach gradually dissolves, consumed by the march of fog until it is engulfed in a cocoon of pure white. The trail describes a wide S as it makes its way upward and away from the coast. The transition from coastal to forest habitat is abrupt and we find ourselves walking along a narrow path through a dense and mysterious forest of mostly poplar trees and tangled underbrush. It’s late afternoon but the canopy is so thick that it appears to be evening. A dark, slow moving creek, its surface speckled with bright green splotches of duck weed, runs to our left along the edge of the trees. It’s as silent as a dream and completely still. We spot a small solitary bird flitting among the lowest branches of a tree just off the trail. Olive green with a suggestion of yellow dusting its breast, dark wing bars, white eye rings and a flat crest that sweeps slightly backwards tells me that this is a Pacific Slope flycatcher, a secretive bird of the forest that’s more often heard than seen. We’re granted a minute or so of its time, an eternity in birding, before it disappears into the impenetrable trees. The appearance of this bird feels like a blessing. There’s an unfathomable mystery to this spot. Our progress slows to a crawl. We don’t speak. I breathe in the deep green aromas that surround us and try to take it all in.
We continue on, the trees thin slightly and that’s where the flowers appear. These are a type of lily, with several six-petal blossoms running alongside a tall, thin stalk. The brilliant red/orange color of these flowers makes them literally vibrate against the green of the surrounding forest. Around a bend, the creek crosses the trail and runs beneath a makeshift metal plate bridge. All around are cattails, fuzzy brown hot dogs atop dense, sword-like foliage. A breeze suddenly kicks up and gives voice to these plants. A rustle and swish breaks the silence, the forest spirits speak. Just as quickly, it’s quiet once again.
As we emerge from the trees into a more open section of the trail we hear a strange and unfamiliar sound, like a cross between a braying donkey and a creaky metal gate. At that moment we look about a quarter of a mile into the distance and notice several large tule elk, well know residents of Point Reyes, grazing on a hillside. This strange sound continues intermittently for a few more minutes until we put two and two together: these are elk that we’re hearing. The brush is very dense along the right side of the trail but we can tell that there are also elk directly below us where the trail slopes downward.
The trail ends just beyond where our car is parked. We run into a starry eyed group of college freshmen, out here on a pre-semester team building retreat. Judging by the smiles on their faces I can tell they have been touched by the magic of Point Reyes. We chat up the group leader for a few minutes, he’s a friendly young man with dreadlocks spilling out from under a backwards baseball cap. This is his first visit here and he too appears to be dazzled by the experience.
Over the course of the past forty years, I’ve spent countless hours exploring the vast wilderness of Point Reyes National Seashore just north of San Francisco in West Marin County. I always come here with no expectations, open to any and all possibilities that may present themselves. There’s deep magic here and a positive energy that permeates the air like a force field. While at Point Reyes I can feel the timeless wisdom of its many plants and animals, the towering trees, the gently flowing creeks, and the roar and whisper of the mighty Pacific. There is much to learn here and many corners of this wilderness that I’ve yet to explore. Every time I’m here, I come away with a deep sense of fulfillment, aways yearning for more.
Throughout the years, the beach has been a consistent source of wonder and inspiration for me. The following short pieces all had their genesis on recent visits to Salmon Creek along the Sonoma County CA coast.
Barefoot
I love walking barefoot. With nothing between the soles of my feet and the ground I feel a rock solid connection with Mama Earth. By far my favorite place to walk barefoot is at the beach. I live a little over half an hour from the coast so when I want to have the ultimate barefoot experience, that’s where I head.
Whenever I sink my feet into sand I’m a kid at the Jersey Shore, running wild and free with my cousins and siblings; I’m wandering along a deserted Northern California beach; I’m in Hanalei on the island of Kauai with my wife and kids, as happy as I’ve ever been.
At the beach there are several different types of sand, each one offers its own unique barefoot walking experience. The sand closest to the surf is compact, cool and changeable. One minute it’s hard, my feet barely making an impression but quickly turns the consistency of oatmeal when a wave comes in. Sometimes I’ll just stand facing the water and let wave after wave wash over my feet until I’m buried in sand up to my ankles. Move a short ways up the beach beyond the surf line and that’s what I call the “Goldilocks zone”. The sand there is not too hard, not to soft, it’s just right. My feet sink into the sand perhaps a quarter of an inch and I can move along at a descent clip without getting bogged down. On a long walk I’ll often look behind from where I came to see my footprints fading into the distance like ties on a railroad track.
Still further up the beach and that’s where the going gets tough. The sand there is completely dry and super soft, my feet sink in a couple of inches which makes walking a slow process. The warm sand does feel good on my feet but this zone can be unwalkable during summer.
I walk barefoot a lot so the calluses on the bottom of my feet are thick and tough. I can walk barefoot on pretty much any type of surface with little discomfort. However, there are the occasional thorn, cut or bee sting, tradeoffs I’m more than happy to make for the freedom of shoelessness.
Sea Glass
I’m continually fascinated by sea glass; the infinite sizes, shapes and textures, the process by which it’s created, the treasure hunt like quality of the beach combing required to find it. I understand the scientific explanations behind rainbows and shooting stars but still find these phenomena mysterious and magical. The same goes for sea glass. What began as a beer bottle or pickle jar is magically transformed into a glittering gem of color and luminosity scattered among the sand and sea stones at the low tide line. Of course this process never ends. Bits of sea glass are continually tumbled and tossed about by the surf until they become even smaller bits. A look at a handful of sand through a magnifying glass often reveals minuscule pieces of glass among the equally minuscule bits of rock and shell.
Sea glass colors are predominantly green and clear, with the occasional brown thrown in. Once in a great while I’ll stumble upon a rare color like dark blue or turquoise. I even found a red piece once. The shades of green run the full spectrum from grass green to olive and all points in between. I can tell the older bits from the newer ones by their opacity and smoothness. Occasionally there’ll be a raised letter or two on a piece of sea glass or the recognizable lip or bottom of a bottle, giving me a hint to their previous lives. A piece of sea glass never looks as brilliant as when I first spot it in the wet sand. The quality of sunlight at the beach gives it special kind of glow.
I have no idea how long it takes for the ocean to make sea glass. Is it weeks? Months? Years? How many times does a bit of glass have to be tossed about by the ocean until it’s opaque and smooth? How did these gems of glass get here in the first place? I’m sure there’s someone out there who can answer al of these questions, but like Iris Dement sings; “I think I’ll just let the mystery be.”
I was catching up recently with an old friend during a lengthy phone conversation. After the initial exchange of pleasantries, she posed the inevitable question, “What have you been up to?” My reply? “I’ve been busy, very busy.”
I’ve been busy watching the lilies. Planted as bulbs in winter, the plants have grown straight and strong, each single stalk sporting between eight and ten zeppelin shaped yellow blossom pods. We were beginning to wonder if these pods would ever bloom when the recent onset of hot summer weather forced the issue. A few of the pods began to show signs of opening at their tips, however, nothing prepared me for what I saw this morning shortly after sunrise. One of the pods had burst forth in a dazzling display of form and color. Six petals had fully opened, each sword shaped tip bent gracefully backwards revealing a bright pink flower outlined in pure white with six stamen at the center. These flowers will be a feast for our eyes for weeks to come as well as a feast for the bees and hummingbirds who no doubt have been anticipating this bloom as much as we have.
I’ve been busy watching the hummingbirds. Throughout the cool spring and early summer their presence had been limited to an occasional bird or two. But it seems that the heat has brought out the hummingbirds too. From the first light of dawn to the last rays of sunset these delightful birds are a constant presence, their zips, clicks and buzzes add a joyful note to the soundtrack of each day. We have five feeders scattered throughout our yard, each one seems to have an “overlord” and an “interloper”. The overlord stands guard over its feeder from a nearby perch. When the interloper tries to steal a sip, overlord zips over and chases away the intruder, both birds doing a crazy corkscrew dance of persuit and retreat. It’s like my own personal Nature Channel, only the voice of David Attenborough is missing.
I’ve been busy watching the other birds too. Spring was alive with the arrival of migrants like tanagers and orioles. Along with the year round residents (towhees, jays, titmice…) all of the birds were busy finding mates and building nests. There was a short period of calm as they went about their domestic business, so many of the birds were a lot less visible. Lately the action has picked up, most notably with the arrival of the juveniles. These youngsters behave much like human children, they’re curious and often allow me to approach them much closer than an adult bird ever would. I can tell they’re trying to figure me out. They’ll soon realize that they need to steer clear of humans.
I’ve been busy watching the bees, their hind legs thick with pollen as they crawl slowly across the lemon yellow and popsicle orange faces of sunflowers. When the clover is in bloom, our lawn is alive with bees too. As they fly from one blossom to the next, I can put my ear up close and hear sweet bee music.
I’ve been busy watching the tomatoes; the pendulous Romas, the pumpkinesque Early Girls, the perfectly spherical cherries. The latter are always the first to ripen. To bite into a Sungold tomato, aptly named for their sunshiny orange color, is to taste summer itself. I crunch into their skins and the warm, sweet-tangy flavor fills my mouth and nourishes my soul. Many of these tomatoes never even make it into the house. All of the other varieties we planted are still green, but a few have begun to take on the first blush of color, promising a summer of fresh, organic salads. With the bounty of veggies we’ve planted, that salad is but a short walk from our back door, waiting to be created.
I’ve been busy watching the days unfold. The soft yellow light of dawn, the bright white light of midday, the alpenglow of sunset, the purple light of dusk. When it gets dark enough, the various solar lights that we’ve placed around our yard begin to randomly blink on. The globes, lanterns and strings of LED lights add an air of enchantment to the evening.
I’ve been busy watching the moon go through its phases. I understand the scientific explanation for this phenomena but I still find it mysterious and magical.
By now the anticipation level was pretty high. Think kid in a candy store. Think six year old at Christmas. Over the past week I’ve tried to keep my expectations in check but sitting here at UC Berkeley’s Greek Theater, the scene of so many evenings dancing to the Grateful Dead, I’ve reached the point where I just couldn’t wait any longer. In 15 minutes Neil Young would be taking the stage.
It’s hard to overstate the impact that Neil’s music has had on my life. I was 14 when Deja Vu came out (I still have my original vinyl copy). There’s not a dead spot on that album. I loved it all but there was something about the Neil Young songs Helpless and Country Girl, that really grabbed me back then. The high pitched whine of his voice, the inscrutable lyrics, his unique approach to acoustic guitar playing, the distorted tone and manic electric guitar solo on Woodstock all set Neil far apart from the other parts of the CSNY equation.
In the summer of 1974, I caught a show on the big CSNY reunion tour. This was the first time I’d seen Neil Young live. What really stuck in my mind that night was Neil’s brooding presence and the way he stalked the stage. It was evening and he was wearing sunglasses. His songs brought a dark biting edge to the show. Neil was part of the band but I could tell he had one foot out the door, prowling around the edges already thinking where his next musical journey would take him.
Harvest era Neil
That fall I entered my freshman year of college. I had always wanted to learn how to play the guitar. Fortunately I quickly fell in with a kind and welcoming group of friends, all of whom had varying levels of proficiency on guitar. We had many common musical interests and Neil Young’s music was one thread that ran through us all. Denise and Carol had worked up a unique arrangement of Old Man, Laurie could sing like Joni Mitchell, Tim, Ben and Bruce were all solid pickers and singers. I was determined to play and sing like them so I went out and bought my first guitar, a Yamaha steel string model for $90. My new friends showed me some chords and gave me a few pointers on how to play. They tolerated a beginning hacker like myself and it was their patience and friendship that gave me the encouragement to keep playing.
However, the learning curve on guitar is steep. I had to really be committed in order to get over that hump. What eventually got me there? The music of Neil Young. I was 18, I had my own guitar and a copy of Neil’s seminal album Harvest. This is the perfect record for a beginning guitarist. The chords are basic folk type chords that could all be played in first position, the melodies and arrangements fairly straight forward and easy to follow. I basically locked myself in my room and played along with Harvest until I could play all of the songs. Needless to say I was obsessed and driven. I copied Neil’s percussive acoustic guitar style. I wanted to play like Neil, hell I wanted to be Neil!
The original release of Harvest came with this cool insert, with the lyrics written in Neil’s handwriting. I wrote the chords above the words when I was learning to play.
There’s no end to learning on guitar, but I remember when I could comfortably get all the way through Heart of Gold without any mess ups as being a key moment in my musical development. I’ve been playing guitar, performing and writing songs ever since. I’ve recorded three albums of original material. One of the musical highlights of my life was playing to a packed club in Santa Cruz as part of a tribute to Neil Young. I led the band as we closed the show with a rollicking version of Rockin’ In The Free World. Music is a deeply integral part of who I am. Neil Young’s music continues to inspired me and has been a thread that’s run through my life. I am eternally grateful to him for that.
So, it’s a warm summer evening, the setting sun casts a pink glow on puffy clouds that dot the darkening sky. Towering eucalyptus trees frame the lawn at the top of the amphitheater. The place is packed. Tiny blue lights line the stage which is set up like a living room. There are four pianos, an old fashioned weather vane and a faux fireplace circled by a running set of trains. The stage backdrop is lit from below in a fiery orange hue to match the sunset. It’s weird and wonderful and as it should be and here comes Neil. He strides onto the stage in that slightly stooped, shambling style of his. He’s dressed like a train conductor from the 1800s. The long narrow brim of his cap obscures his eyes so I can only see his face from the nose down. His denim jacket is blue and pinstriped and appears to have white paint stains on it. His t-shirt reads: “Support Local Music”. Jeans and sneakers round out this unique fashion statement. The place is going nuts but I can only sit there and breathe it all in. One of the most influential people in my life grabs his 12-string Taylor acoustic guitar and begins to sing.
