On July 27, Carol and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. How did I end up with this amazing woman as my life partner? More on that later.

Twenty years is a significant milestone so we wanted to do something extra special to mark the occasion. Initially we thought about having a big blowout, complete with a live band and all of our closest friends at a site in the redwoods. We quickly realized that the logistics of putting on a party like this were more that we were willing to take on, so Carol and I opted for something a little more our speed.

Since our kids came along eighteen years ago, opportunities for us to spend time together away from familial responsibilities have been few and far between. We also wanted to go somewhere new so the usual places (Point Reyes, Mendocino, Santa Cruz) were out. A couple of months ago one of us suggested the Seattle area. Being the travel agent of the family, Carol started researching places around Seattle and stumbled upon Vashon Island. We did some cursory reading up on Vashon, found a place on VRBO, booked our flight and were ready to go.

Our travel day was seamless. We landed at SeaTac airport, got our rental car and soon found ourselves on the Fauntelroy Ferry over to Vashon Island, a mere 15 minute ride across Puget Sound from the Tacoma area. As soon as we parked our car on the boat, Carol and I headed up top to enjoy the ride. The day was absolutely stellar! A cool breeze blew the hair back from our faces, salt air filled our lungs. Off to the starboard side of the boat the awe-inspiring sight of snow covered Mount Rainier dominated the landscape. It’s easy to see why the native peoples of the Pacific Northwest so revered this mountain. The power and energy emanating from Rainier was palpable.

Vashon Island is a heavily forested, peaceful world upon itself. There’s no traffic, no traffic lights, no freeways, no sirens, no crowds, no homeless camps and except for an Ace Hardware and a Subway, no chain stores. The downtown is comprised of small local businesses. There’s even a vintage single-screen movie theater. Most places were closed on the Monday that we arrived, on the other days nothing opened until 11:00am. We had stumbled upon something beautiful and increasingly rare in modern day Generica: a “real” place. The densely populated urban centers of Seattle/Tacoma are within sight of Vashon Island but they may as well be a thousand miles away.

The drive out to our place took us along the coast, up and down rolling hills and through the forest. Our aptly named Forest Cabin is situated at the end of a long gravel driveway. Nestled beneath huge broad leaf maple trees and towering madrones, this was the ideal place for Carol and I to unplug and reconnect with each other. The dappled light that was filtering down through the forest canopy brought to mind a similar location twenty years ago.

We were married in the midst of an enchanting place near our home in Santa Rosa called Griffith Woods. A small creek meanders through this predominantly redwood, oak and madrone woodland, the air is alive with the sounds of mysterious songbirds. On that day when Carol and I promised to love and honor each other for the rest of our lives, the dappled sunlight that played upon everyone and everything is a sight I will always hold dear in my memories of our wedding day. The light at our place here on Vashon and the light at Griffith Woods reach across time to embrace each other.

We unpacked, settled in then set off to explore our surroundings. A clawfoot tub sat just outside our cabin underneath a small cedar tree. It had running hot and cold water and even a showerhead. Strung beneath two massive maple trees were two hammocks. Carol and I would spend much time over the next few days at both of these places. A chicken coop sat on the other side of the hammocks. Several large birds roamed freely about and were the recipients of all our food scraps. A two minute walk from our little haven brought us to a bluff lined with more towering madrones and patches of huge white daisies. We surprised a bald eagle that was perched atop a snag. Dominated by Mount Rainier, the view across Puget Sound from here was breathtaking. It was one of those moments when I was simply speechless, breathing in the beauty and grateful to be alive. Over the course of our three days here we saw porpoises and harbor seals, osprey, Arctic Terns and Great Blue Herons all from our spot on these bluffs. On this first night we watched Rainier slowly be consumed by the alpenglow of sunset, the windows of the houses on the opposite side of the sound burned with the firelight of the setting sun.

There was much to explore on Vashon Island and Carol and I just managed to scratch the surface. One of my favorite things about this trip was our lack of a plan. We knew next to nothing about Vashon so we just let each day unfold on its own. This made for some wonderful discoveries. One day we decided to explore the west side of the island and happened upon Fern Cove. The pullout on the side of the road was wide enough for just a few cars. A short hike through the forest along an enchanting little creek brought us to the cove. It was a minus tide so the vast mudflats were exposed and easy to walk on. We watched an osprey atop a tall cedar tree devour a fish. A Great Blue Heron patrolled the shoreline, its long slender neck periodically shooting out to catch small silver fish in its beak. A pair of belted kingfishers chattered and flew about. Terns and gulls squawked and wheeled overhead. Ravens poked through the mud for clams and other morsels. Osprey were everywhere, their telltale whistles proceeding them. A lone hiker, walking stick in hand, moved slowly across the flats.  

And so it went for three beautiful days-exploring, relaxing, reconnecting. Carol and I couldn’t have picked a better place to celebrate our love and twenty years of marriage. It was hard to leave Vashon. Watching the island recede on the ferry back to the mainland, we vowed to someday return to this very special place. Oh, to answer the question of how I ended up with Carol? I guess you could say that I hit the jackpot!

By Louie Ferrera

This stretch along the Russian River, just over the hill from Riverfront Park, at times seems like a river otter highway. It’s a rare occasion when I don’t see an otter or two while I’m here. When I least expect it there they are, but always  from a distance. My encounter today with otters was definitely out of the ordinary and unlike any that I’d had in the past.

I was relaxing on these flat rocks a few feet from the edge of the river, it was late afternoon. The group of kids who had been making quite a racket downriver from me had just left. Finally it was quiet. Having just returned to my chair from a refreshing swim, I was drying off on the rocks, digging the solitude and watching the green river on its slow slide to the Pacific. My eyes were closed, my body gratefully soaking up the warmth of the sun when I heard a soft snuffling sound similar to that of a pig. I opened my eyes to find four river otters, their furry heads and puppy dog like faces looking directly at me, from the water just off the edge of the rocks not ten feet from where I sat. Their natural curiosity as intelligent animals must have gotten the best of them, they just had to come and see what this naked human was doing in their house. We looked directly at each other for perhaps 10-15 seconds. I was amazed at how human-like their eyes are. As soon as I made a slight movement they dipped below the surface of the river and were gone. The coolest thing about this encounter was that for those brief few seconds the otters and I had a real connection. I can only wonder what they were thinking. A moment later they  reappeared along the opposite bank of the river. I always bring my binoculars when I come here so I was able to watch them for several minutes as they frolicked among the willows and water hyacinth; mom, dad and the kids out for a late afternoon foray. I marvel at the sleekness of their bodies, nature’s perfect design for water travel. I watch them glide effortlessly, disappearing in a flash, only to reappear a moment later further downriver.

Today’s encounter filled me with joy and wonder. I felt blessed to have been chosen by this otter family for an up close and personal visit. This was a magical experience for sure at a place where magic is a regular occurrence.

By Louie Ferrera

My most memorable moments in nature have been those that were the least expected. A case in point was on a secluded beach along the Russian River today.

To get to this secluded spot Carol and I had to hike about 45 minutes from the parking lot at Riverfront Park. It was a Tuesday afternoon so our car was only one of about a dozen. The ability to avoid weekend crowds is a fringe benefit of retirement. Today is warm and sunny and bright blue. We head down a wide trail, sticking to the edges where the sun angles through the redwood forest, providing us with plenty of dappled shade. We walked in silence, the shuffling of our feet through the dust and pebbles the only sound. Bird life abounds along this trail, the distinctive call of the Spotted Towhee was a pleasant accompaniment to our hike. We saw no other people. This trail circles the glittering gem of Lake Benoist, its cobalt blue waters ringed by emerald green water hyacinth. At the far end of the lake is a spur trail which connects to a second trail that eventually leads to our spot along the Russian River. This spur is overgrown with blackberries and it’s easy to miss even if you’ve walked here many times like I had. We gingerly picked our way uphill through blackberries and poison oak to the second trail. After a hundred yards or so we were looking down on a lazy bend in the river; green and languid on its slow slide to the Pacific Ocean 22 miles to the west of us at Jenner. From here the trail enters the dappled cool of a redwood forest. I looked down into a small eddy below our trail and noticed a half dozen torpedo shaped fish pointing motionless upstream. These were some of the largest fish I’d even seen in the river, several of them looked to be at least three feet in length. Our destination was just up ahead. We half slid, half walked down a steep hill using redwood saplings as handholds and made it to a small rocky beach. This spot is hard to find and not widely known. It was ours for the duration of the afternoon.

Tiny bits of fluff and detritus from the surrounding forest was sprinkled atop the river’s surface, otherwise the water was clear as can be, the sandy bottom clearly visible. Closest to the beach, the water was alive with small darting fish, the current barely perceptible.  A slight breeze gave voice to the trees, the air was peppered with the peeps and chips of unseen songbirds, otherwise the quiet was absolute. We settled in, ready to sink into the solitude of this place. Carol and I were hitting the “pause” button, taking a much needed break from the din and insanity that is the world in 2022.

Diving into the cool, emerald waters of the Russian River was a baptism, cleansing for body and soul alike. I sank in up to my neck, positioned myself at eye level with the current and just allowed the river to flow past me. While floating on my back, the view was all blue sky and towering trees. We brought no books or cell phones. Our conversations were minimal which allowed us to have our own private dialogue with the natural beauty surrounding us.

Tiny miracles kept popping up. A raft of twenty nine ( I counted ‘em) mergansers appeared seemingly out of nowhere. These are such stunning looking ducks, their head feathers glowed like copper in the afternoon sun. They were in no hurry as they swam upriver past us. A belted kingfisher announced itself with a distinctive chattering call. We watched it hunt from its perch in a willow tree. The bird and us were both rewarded when one of its dives yielded a tiny, black fish. How cool to witness the predator/prey relationship in real time. An osprey gave itself away with a high pitched “cheep, cheep”. We spied it nestled like an ornament atop a redwood tree just downriver from our beach. We almost always see a river otter or two in the river here. In the back of my mind I was expecting to see one today, which is exactly why I think we didn’t see one. I’ve learned that it’s best to enter nature with an open mind, an open heart and as few expectations as possible. Be open to the magic and just maybe you’ll be there when it occurs. Which brings me to the eagle.

A year or so ago, reports of bald eagle sightings around the lakes at Riverfront Park started coming in. On a couple of occasions, Carol and I were fortunate enough to have seen this majestic bird soaring high above us or sitting atop one of the redwood trees that line the west end of the lake. These were distant views however, brought closer with the help of binoculars. Our encounter today with a bald eagle was a bit more personal.

Having just awoken from naps, we were deep into the Zen like quality of our day when the silence was broken by the rush of wind through wings. Carol and I looked upon at that instant to see a huge bald eagle flying directly above our heads. I had no time to grab my binoculars but didn’t need them. This bird was maybe twenty feet above us. It was so close that I could see its powerful wing muscles pumping and make out details in its feathers. It’s pointed yellow beak, pure white head, yellow eyes and coal black feathers were all in motion. This bird flew with intensity and purpose. In a matter of seconds the enormous power from its nearly three foot wingspan carried it past us, up above the trees and into the forest. This encounter was short, it came and went like a dream. Carol and I were speechless. We sat there and just let the magic of this once in a lifetime encounter wash over us.

Indigenous cultures throughout the world have always believed that encounters with certain animals were a portent of things to come. Whether that was an event to anticipate with joy or dread depended upon the animal and the circumstances of the encounter. Bald eagles are powerful birds. Our experience today was a powerful one for sure, the meaning of which I may never know but that’s ok, I’m content to just let the mystery be.

By Louie Ferrera

About and hour north of Santa Rosa, CA on the 101 freeway, the Welcome to Mendocino County sign promises: “Wilderness, Waves and Wine”. Perhaps another time for us, this weekend we’re here for the music.

Self proclaimed hippie icon and Woodstock legend Wavy Gravy is hosting a three day music festival on his land in southern Mendocino County. Known as the Hog Farm, this oak-studded slice of heaven is the perfect place to let it all go and to proudly let your freak flag fly. For over a quarter of a century the Hog Farm has been the site of many music festivals, most notably the annual Kate Wolf Festival which honors the late, great Sebastopol singer/songwriter.

This year it’s the Hog Farm Hideaway. Headlining all three nights is the reason Carol and I and our merry band of fellow travelers have made the trek north: The String Cheese Incident. We’ve been following The Cheese since discovering them at the 1996 High Sierra Music Festival. Over the years, this Colorado based bluegrass cum jam band has built a loyal following that’s Grateful Dead-like in it’s intensity and the envy of any touring band. Like The Dead, no two String Cheese shows are alike, they rarely play the same song the same way twice and a typical show lasts three hours or more. When The Cheese is firing on all cylinders, the crowd is transformed into a swirling cauldron of ecstatic dancers. Tie-dyes, long hair, sparkles and smiles all combine to form an intoxicating brew of bliss. This is what keeps us coming back for more.

The world of 2022 is fraught with seemingly insurmountable problems. The news media does its best to provide us with an endless stream of doom and gloom. It’s easy to fall into despair, to think that it’s all shit. If you were at the Hog Farm last weekend, you would quickly have seen that it is most definitely not all shit. Beauty and hope and love permeated every square inch of the place. The event was impeccably organized. If there were any fights or hassles or violence, I didn’t hear about it. For three days thousands of us treated each other with kindness and respect. It was about “us and we” not just “me”. There’s no cell service at the Hog Farm so instead of being slaves to our phones, we were present and fully in the moment. Our troubled world desperately needs a healthy dose of the kindness, love and straight up silliness that abounded at the Hog Farm Hideaway. I saw a guy with a shirt that read Unfuck The World. Taking some of the vibes from this past weekend and spreading them over the planet would be a good way to start.

For Carol and Me, our relationship had its genesis in the context of the summer festival scene. Our love blossomed while dancing to our favorite bands at High Sierra, Kate Wolf, Strawberry, Whole Earth and the Oregon Country Fair. Our twins came along in the spring of 2004 (they were conceived at the 2003 High Sierra Music Festival). We didn’t miss a beat and just brought them along for the ride. For the first eight years or so of their lives, Sam and Denali were our festival companions. Being exposed to so much love and freedom has definitely informed their lives in a positive way. However,  as our kids grew older we gradually phased out of the festival scene, our month long trips to Hawaii becoming the focal point of our summers. 

While driving up to the Hog Farm, I realized that it had been more than a decade since Carol and I last attended a multi-day music festival. I began to feel a bit apprehensive. After such a long absence from the scene, a few questions swirled through my brain. Would we still fit in? Would It still be as fun as I remember it to be? Did I still want to do this or was it best to leave this scene in the past? In short, could I “go home” again?

Well, all doubt quickly evaporated as we drove through the main entrance to the Hog Farm. In short order we showed our tickets, got our wrist bands and found our friends in the campground. All the while we were greeted by smiling and helpful people. The energy was so positive, so happy.  Fond memories of festivals past came flooding back. Now I knew why we were here.

For three days this was a feast for the senses. Three stages ensured that music would be happening from early afternoon into the wee hours of the morning. Temperatures were in the low 90’s for the first two days but a cool off was just steps away. Ten Mile Creek bisects the property and was still flowing thanks to late spring rains. There were “clothed” and “clothing optional” sections. We chose the latter and happily floated naked with our festival brothers and sisters. The Hog Farm Hideaway was also part family reunion. We ran into so many people who we hadn’t seen in years. Just because we’d dropped out of the festival scene didn’t mean that they had.

There were art installations, a particularly trippy one featured an array of a dozen doors standing straight up from the ground and painted in outlandish psychedelic swirls. At night the doors were lit from below to create a truly otherworldly effect. There was a camp dedicated solely to unicorns complete with a Unicorn Advice Booth. I saw a huge day-glo ocean diorama complete with neon tropical fish and jellyfish (jellyfish being one of the many String Cheese icons, in honor of their zany song of the same name.) Someone had set up a giant sling shot along the road to the campground. Dozens of stuffed animals were provided for anyone who wanted to launch them into the air. There was a myriad of handcrafted wares for sale at the many vending booths. I had one of the tastiest slices of pizza ever from the food court on Saturday night. The carb load gave me the energy to keep dancing during The Cheese’s second set that night.

And String Cheese Incident? This sextet of virtuoso musicians never fails to deliver. They reached musical heights that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. You never know what you’re going to get with these guys. A straight up bluegrass tune can quickly devolve into a feverish techno-infused jam into a choice cover song back into the bluegrass. Like the Grateful Dead, so much of the String Cheese concert experience is about the symbiosis of audience and band. We are full participants in each show, The Cheese and their fans always pushing each other to new heights.

Speaking of the Grateful Dead, that beloved band’s presence, particularly that of Jerry Garcia, was felt heavily all throughout the weekend. Jerry’s image was everywhere, from t-shirts and banners to buttons and bumper stickers. My favorite Jerry “sighting” was the Trip Advisor logo altered to feature Garcia’s grinning face in each sunglass lens. There were two Dead cover bands. Every band we saw played at least one Grateful Dead song. The currently thriving jam band scene arose from the ashes of the Dead’s demise following Garcia’s untimely death in 1995. I could feel Jerry smiling down on this wonderfully freaky scene that he was so instrumental in helping to create.

With a nearly full moon shining above the main music meadow, String Cheese Incident sent us home on Sunday night with a spot-on cover of the Peter Rowan gem Midnight Moonlight. They had played over nine hours of music throughout the weekend and never repeated a song. We made our way back to camp sweaty, spent and sated. This was a weekend to remember for sure and an affirmation of all that’s still right with the world.

My mom is a musician. There weren’t any instruments in our house when I was growing up. My mom didn’t play the violin or strum the guitar. As a teenager she did play a bit of piano. Mom often spoke of that period in her life. There was a piano in the small flat that she shared with her parents and five sisters. Mom took a few lessons and learned a bit but the piano was left behind when her family had to move. But make no mistake, my mom is a musician.

What did she play? My mom played records. When the record player wasn’t spinning she’d be playing WNEW-AM. When the radio wasn’t on mom would be the music. While our dad was at work, mom ran the house. In the tireless fashion of women of her generation she cooked and cleaned and got us dressed and off to school on time every day. And all the while mom would be singing. She had an absolutely beautiful voice, it was expressive and sad and soulful. Mom couldn’t just carry a tune, often she would be the tune. To be a effective singer one really has to feel the music, and man did my mom ever feel it! It’s one thing to have chops as a musician but to really stand out you’ve got to have soul and a true love for the material. My mom had all of that and more. I truly believe that given the opportunity, my mom could have been a professional singer.

Mom’s greatest hits ran the gamut of the best pop and jazz singers of her generation. Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Sarah Vaughn, Barbara Streisand, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Tony Bennet, Johnny Mathis and of course, The Chairman Of the Board, O’l Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. To say that my mom worshiped Sinatra does not do justice to the depth of her love for Frank’s music. Mom’s take on the melancholy Shadow Of Your Smile was heartbreaking. When she’d get into Fly Me To The Moon, she could swing with the best of them. Years ago when I heard of Sinatra’s passing I immediately called mom. She was crying.

Of course as a kid I never liked any of mom’s music. A child of the 60’s, I was all about The Beatles and The Stones and Motown. Sinatra? Ella? Streisand? Give me a break! But all the while I was listening. Like a sponge my young mind was soaking up every note, storing them away for future use. It took me well into adulthood to finally appreciate these songs for what they are: timeless and enduring classics of American music. One of my most memorable concert experiences ever was seeing Ella Fitzgerald perform in San Francisco shortly before her death. If only my mom could have been there with me.

I’ve been a Giants baseball fan ever since moving to the San Francisco area. I go to lots of games. After every Giants victory a collage of iconic San Francisco locations is projected onto the huge scoreboard above the outfield. Accompanying this video is Tony Bennet’s signature tune I Left My Heart In San Francisco. I always sing along at the top of my voice and imagine my mom singing there beside me.

Because of my mom I too have become  a musician. I have a great ear for music. I play guitar, sing, write songs and have recorded two cds of original music. Throughout my long career as a teacher, my classroom was always filled with music. I can’t imagine my life without music. Music is the greatest gift that my mom has ever given to me, it’s a gift that keeps on giving.

Our daughter Denali is eighteen years old and about to graduate high school. When she was little I’d come into her room and often hear her humming these soft, lilting melodies. There was never any set tune to her singing and no two tunes were alike. I believe that this was a subconscious act, I don’t think Denali even realized that she was singing. Just like my mom who was always singing around the house, our daughter was doing the same. A part of my mom, the musician, that lives on in her granddaughter.

Mom is 92 now, in failing health with advancing dementia. She doesn’t sing much anymore. Mom is currently at a long term care facility, rehabbing from a recent stay in the hospital. It was a sobering sight to see her the other day, looking so frail and lost sitting in her wheelchair. I sat down beside mom, kissed her then pulled out my phone. I dialed up the Mom’s Mix playlist that I had made especially for this visit, held the phone to her ear and pressed “play”. As soon as the opening notes of Fly Me To The Moon came through the speaker, mom changed. Her face lit up in a beatific smile and she began to sing. Frank Sinatra’s voice and my mom’s voice became one. Of course she knew all of the words. Like I said, my mom is a musician.

Back in the 1970’s there was this thing on FM radio called “Desert Island Discs.” From time to time DJ’s would pose the question, “If you were stranded on a deserted island, which ten albums would you take?” A friend and I were reminiscing about this recently and she wondered about books. Along with my chosen ten albums, what three books would I take? Now that’s a tough choice. I’ve been a life long reader and have read many hundreds of books, but which three to choose?

My love of books dates back to my early childhood. When I first became a reader, my mom would take me and my older brother on weekly sojourns to the public library where I’d just devour books. My first “biblio-love affair” was with a series that featured a young boy named Danny Dunn. In each book, this kid would get into some sort of exciting science/nature based adventure. I found these tales irresistible and couldn’t get enough. Danny Dunn showed me that there’s magic in books, he started me down the road of reading, a road that opened up worlds of possibilities that I had only dreamed of. That journey continues to this day.

So…how do I possibly choose just three books to take with me to this hypothetical desert island paradise? There are record albums that I’ve listened to thousands of times. With the best of them (Let It Bleed, Abbey Road, Crosby, Stills and Nash…) I still hear new things. But books? I usually read a book once and am done with it. There have been the occasional rereads (I’ve read the Lord of the Rings trilogy twice and am contemplating a third go), but rarely do I revisit a book. When making my choices, I had to consider which books have spoken to me the loudest, which ones have had the biggest effects on my life, which books would I like to read over and over? So here goes nothing, my three books are as follows:

 At the top of my chosen trio is the counterculture classic, Tom Robbins’  Another Roadside Attraction. This was Robbins’ first novel and and my introduction to him. Getting turned on to Tom Robbins’ books has had a life changing effect on me. His psychedelic zaniness, strong and sexy female characters and profound Zen utterances have shown me that there’s a different way to live life, that there’s goodness and beauty and wonder and fun all around us if we just take the time to open our eyes, that to smile and laugh in the face of adversity is not a bad strategy, and that we absolutely must question authority. Robbins once described the crescent moon as “a clipping from a snowman’s toenail”…brilliant!

Next up is Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan. At one time or another throughout our lives we all come across a teacher who gives us a priceless gift, something that has enriched our lives. I am forever grateful to my high school English teacher Ms Nancy Friedlander, for it was she who introduced me to Kurt Vonnegut. As an impressionable 16 year old I was questioning everything and itching to bust out of small town New Jersey into the wider world. Vonnegut was like nothing that I’d ever read before, his humor, irreverence and world view struck a chord in me that reverberates to this day. The Sirens of Titan is an outlandish, time tripping and brilliantly original work of science fiction and unlike anything I’d read before or since.

My final choice is The World According To Garp by John Irving. This was his fourth novel and the point at which I jumped on the Irving bandwagon. I’m still traveling down that road today. Garp is the quintessential John Irving novel. It’s a sweeping epic spanning many years, there’s a “story within a story” and more twists and turns than a mountain road. Throughout his many novels, Irving has his finger firmly on the pulse of the joy and sorrow, tragedy and ecstasy of what it’s like to be human. In The World According To Garp, he seamlessly blends tragedy, comedy, chance encounters and fate into an unforgettable story. I read this book when I was in my twenties. Little did I know then that I would someday have children of my own and become just like the doting, worrying and loving dad that is T.S. Garp

So there you go. I had long ago chosen my ten albums, now I’ve got my three books. All I need now is a bucket of cold beers, sunscreen, my Tommy Bahama chair and a destination. I’ll send ya a postcard. In the meantime, tell me which three books you’d choose.

The Northern Mockingbird is so entertaining. From sunrise to sunset it sings incessantly and I have no idea what its actual voice sounds like. Its palette of sounds is seemingly endless: chirps, trills, whistles, peeps, coos and everything in between. You see the Northern Mockingbird is a mimic and there doesn’t seem to be another bird’s voice that it can not replicate. It will rattle off the songs of a scrub jay, white crowned sparrow, house finch and black phoebe in a staccato  burst that can last a minute or more. I read somewhere that mockingbirds have even been known to mimic the sounds of car alarms. Amazing, huh?

These birds are year round residents where I live so I see and hear them often. It’s in springtime that I appreciate them most though as that’s when their songs are especially vociferous and celebratory. On most spring mornings I find a mockingbird perched atop the tallest cypress tree in our backyard, catching the first rays of sun and welcoming the new day with its repertoire of  tunes. I never tire of listening to this bird sing. Like springtime itself, the mockingbird’s happy chirping fills my heart with joy, hope and a feeling that on this day, at this moment, all things seem possible. When the mockingbird is onstage, there’s no room for fear and negativity and all seems right with the world.

When I was in my mid-30’s, I shared a house near the beach in Santa Cruz with my girlfriend at the time Michelle and our close friends John and Diane. Our backyard was a green haven surrounded by tall shrubs and a mini-bamboo forest, it was often the setting for spring and summer parties. Many in our circle of friends were musicians, when we got together we’d fill this tranquil green space with our voices, guitars and drums. On one particularly golden Saturday in April, my friend Mark and I were deep into a spirited version of the Grateful Dead gem “Birdsong.” Throughout the entire song we were accompanied by a mockingbird. This tuneful little sprite seemed to have a real feel for what Mark and I were playing. As we jammed, it chirped and bebopped right along with us, weaving its voice in and out as the music flowed between us. Luckily, one of our friends recorded this human/avian duet. It was upon listening back that we were able to hear how perfectly the mockingbird’s song blended with our own. Also audible on the tape was the voice of our dear friend Suzy, who six years later  would succumb to ovarian cancer at the age of 36. She was a middle school teacher and an adventurous soul, who loved to travel and dance. Suzy was all flowing auburn hair, hazel eyes and acerbic wit, she squeezed every ounce of joy that she could out of life. She and I were good friends. For many years Suzy was a mainstay of our scene. She played congas and was usually part of our jam sessions. She left this world much too soon, her passing was a shock that left a gaping hole in our tightly knit little hippie confederacy.

So once again spring is upon us. The myriad voices of the Northern Mockingbird figure prominently in the soundtrack of the season. In the mockingbird’s song I always hear a little piece of Suzy and that luminous morning so many years ago when we made music with a mockingbird.

I stood before the large picture window in our kitchen this morning and watched a Coopers Hawk systematically devour a small bird. Bit by bit he picked it apart until there was nothing left but a few feathers fluttering in the breeze.

This window looks out upon our side yard which is dominated by an apple tree, a pluot tree, and two cherry trees in various stages of spring awakening. Just beyond our neighbor’s fence stands a tall, dead plum tree. I spied the Coopers Hawk going about its breakfast business on one of the large limbs of this tree. This was an immature bird who’s markings are quite different from those of an adult so it took me a few minutes to correctly ID it. What a striking bird! It looked to be about a foot and a half tall. Its long tail feathers, horizontally striped in alternating bands of dark and light brown hung over the branch where it was perched. Its wing feathers were dark brown with scattered patches of white. When it turned to the side I noticed its breast streaked in light brown and white, its hooked beak and yellow eyes intent on gobbling up its prey.

I knew that I was witnessing something special and not often observed by humans. This was the same bird that I spotted in the same tree four days ago. I was hoping to see it again but never thought that I’d be treated to such a show. There’s much mystery surrounding the workings of nature, especially the behavior of animals. The goings about of animals is more often than not hidden from our view. Equal amounts of patience, luck and awareness of my surroundings came into play this morning as the scene with the hawk unfolded outside our kitchen window. I could just as easily have missed it but I always scan these trees hoping to spot something special.

While reading up on the Coopers Hawk in my bird guide, I learned that it preys mainly on small birds which it catches in mid-flight. It can often be found around bird feeders. On any given day I routinely observe ten or more species of songbirds flittering around our suet-filled feeder. While the hawk was feeding, our yard was devoid of birds and birdsong. With an apex avian predator in their midst, they knew better than to hang around.  With such variety and easy pickings this Coopers Hawk will most surely be back.

When I first met you you were wrinkled and red, covered in that white powdery stuff, fists clenched, eyes closed, wisps of hair dark and damp and plastered to your scalps. A few inches of umbilical chord, your lifeline to mom, was left protruding from your soon to be belly buttons. I asked the nurse, “Can I touch them?” she smiled, “Sure, they’re yours.” She handed me a pair of scissors, the metal gleaming in the blinding lights of the delivery room. I did a symbolic snip at the end of each of your umbilical cords and you were off, you lives on this earth just begun.

We were new parents suddenly faced with these two impossibly beautiful, totally helpless beings that were entirely dependent on us. This was a difficult to comprehend and overwhelming responsibility. It was and still is scary, terrifying really, how much I loved you, love you, will always love you.

Now you’re toddlers. It’s getting harder every day to contain your endless curiosity and desire to explore and expand the boundaries of your ever expanding world. For you, everything is new and mind blowing and amazing, your hazel eyes, your blue eyes, wide with wonder; touching, tasting, seeking; the dawn of a lifetime of exploration and discovery.

Your first steps are a game changer. The boundaries of your world suddenly have no boundaries. If we were to turn you loose outside you’d keep walking to the ends of the earth or whenever you run out of energy, whichever comes first, with nary a backwards glance. Your world is exploding with color and sound and tastes and wondrous aromas. A hummingbird is magic, tulips and daffodils miracles of color. We can barely keep up with you on this open ended psychedelic adventure called life.

Birthday cakes come and go, up to your elbows in frosting. Sleepless nights for us. Diapers, diapers, diapers! Story time at bedtime. You absorb these wondrous words and images like little sponges, your appetites are voracious for knowledge, your desire to experience and to know show no limits… trips to the ER, fevers, cuts and bruises, worry, worry, worry. I’ll take the sickness and injuries if you could somehow give them all to me.

Did we blink? We must have because somehow you’re both off to preschool, climbing the steps of your new school with your new clothes, new shoes, tiny backpacks strapped to your backs. The door close behind you. The only tears were ours.

The years tick by, the wheel picks up speed. No matter how hard we try to slow it down it just keeps going ‘round and ‘round as it should.

Kindergarten…grade school…just when we’re all in a groove, boom! Another  milestone comes around. Gotta roll with it, evolve right along with you both…More birthdays, more cakes, more frosting finally gets into your mouths instead of all over your bodies. The candle count is rising. You’ve learned to ride bicycles? When did that happen? Training wheels are on then they’re off, a push from us and off you pedal into your future. You’re wobbly at first and there are many falls but you grow steadier and more self assured with each spin of the wheels.

Artwork on the fridge, a hundred pieces of original art drawn just for us. Like Van Gogh you sign your own names at the bottom of each masterpiece. The days stretch behind and before me. The four of us plus kitty become a tight unit. It’s called a family. So this is how a family should be! Loving and warm, sharing and encouraging and supportive.

T-ball, baseball, soccer, basketball, climbing, skateboarding, sports is a thread that has run through both of your lives for as long as you could run or throw or kick a ball. Wins, losses, tears and smiles. Guiding you through the ups and downs. So proud and bursting with joy just watching you compete. So adorable in your uniforms. When it starts to become all about winning some of the joy fades.

Grade school gone in a flash. First day of school photos on our front lawn, growing taller, filling out a little more each day. The “little kidness” in your faces gradually replaced by a more mature look…Junior high, it’s getting “real”. School suddenly no longer all rainbows and unicorns. Challenges, struggling to fit in. I desperately want to make everything ok even though in my heart I know that I can’t. Your independence grows, you start to pull away. It’s subtle at first, your wings are getting stronger, the desire to fly becomes more powerful with each passing day. Your mom and I watch these test flights with a mixture of joy, pride and sadness, it’s a bittersweet experience that only a parent can truly understand.

High school hits like a tsunami! One of you loves it and thrives, the other struggles to fit in. Remembering my own struggles in high school, I think I can understand some of your mind. High school will be just a blip on your radar screen, but the only way out is through. The focus is now on friends and social life and challenging mom and dad; questioning, never stop questioning. Seeing you put up your walls is difficult. You’re pulling away. It’s nothing personal and I’ve got to remind myself that this distance that you’re putting between mom and me is an inevitable part of growing up. So I take the conversations and time spent together when and where I find them, knowing that in time this distance will grow shorter.

I love you both with a ferocity that I never dreamed possible, an intensity of feelings that I had no previous experience to compare to. The pride I feel over the beautiful, creative, caring, bright, funny and fun loving young adults that you’ve become is deep, it wells up inside me and bursts forth from all aspects of my being. Happy eighteenth birthday my darlings!

May you build a ladder to the stars and climb on every rung and may you stay forever young.

Bob Dylan

Our teenage twins are constantly in motion. If you blink, you miss ‘em!

Denali Dazzles

Denali dazzles when she runs. Pippi Longstocking braids fall past her waist and become scarlet jet trails that fly behind her as she whizzes past. It’s a blur of freckles- hazel eyes flashing with determination, all long gangly legs and pumping arms. The air is whipped into a tornado, a monsoon, a Santa Ana whopper of a windstorm when Denali flashes by. If you blink, you miss the show, it’s as simple as that! The birds, bees, flowers and trees shake their heads, wings, blossoms and branches in amazement. What the hell was that anyway? All that’s left behind is a cloud of dust, just like after the Roadrunner once again pulls the wool over Wile E. Coyote’s eyes.

When Denali jumps, watch out! Flying through the air like a whirling dervish, arms helicoptering with reckless abandon, she splits the sky with a sonic BOOM! Falcons, hummingbirds and swifts can’t hope to keep up with Denali. She lands with a tremendous splash, sand flying madly all around, completely engulfing her in a yellow-brown haze. Denali stands and flips her head from side to side, braids shedding sand like a dog shaking water from its fur. She’s focused and determined, hazel eyes burning with joy and purpose. Denali dazzles, she razzles, she never frazzles!

Sam Spins

When Sam spins, he always wins. Lucky 7 coming up roses, paying off with a jingle-jangle of gold, cascading down the run. Sam spins like a dervish in a turban, a turbine whirling, crackling with electric energy, always charging forward. His skateboard flies through the sky; four wheels spin, Sam spins, the world turns, our blue planet whirls through time and space. Sam is riding this cosmic twirling wave into the future. Brown hair- wild, free and freaky, flying out from under a black skater’s cap, earrings of silver dangling, glinting, reflecting back the sun’s energy. How does he do it? The board goes this way, then that way, Sam goes yet another way, all arms and legs; baggy jeans billowing out like parachutes when he goes airborne. Say hello to the hawks and eagles circling up there son. Float back to earth just in time to crash down perfectly on your board. The wood bows, almost breaks, but somehow manages to stay in one piece. Grinding, wood on cement, wood on metal. Like a cowboy bucking a bronco Sam stays with it until both board and boy run out of steam, only to start up again and again until the last bit of daylight melts into indigo, into purple, into black. Stars light the way now. Roll on my boy, roll on!