My son has a particularly creative English teacher. For a recent assignment she had her students choose 7-10 songs that were important to them at some point in their lives. They were to write a short vignette about why each song was important, create a playlist and link it to Spotify. They even had to make an album cover. Pretty cool way to motivate high school seniors, huh? So, this got me thinking. Here are a few tunes that are signposts in my life.

She Loves You

The Beatles

Written by John Lennon/Paul McCartney

In late 1963 I was seven years old and The Beatles were on the cusp of their maiden voyage to America. There was a small music store in my hometown called Caldwell Studio of Music which sold all the latest hit records. That’s where my brother Ray and I bought She Loves You. This song was being played pretty much non-stop on WABC radio, it was the most joyous music that either of us had ever heard and we just had to have it. It was on the Swan label and I can still visualize the design (silver script letters on a black background). The three part harmonies, jangly guitars and rock solid beat courtesy of Ringo made this the perfect song for jumping up and down on our beds, which Ray and I did with reckless abandon as we played this song over and over and over.

Suite: Judy Blue Eyes

Crosby, Stills and Nash

Written by Stephen Stills

This is the first song on CSN’s eponymously titled debut album and the song  that kicked off their middle of the night set at Woodstock. Right before hitting the now instantly recognizable notes of the song’s intro, Stills confessed to the crowd  of 400,000 that he and his bandmates were “scared shitless.” Hearing this 3-part song suite lamenting the end of Stills’ love affair with Judy Collins was the beginning of my lifelong love affair with Crosby, Stills and Nash. Their music and songwriting have been a continuous source of inspiration to me for nearly half a century. Suite: Judy Blue Eyes was on the turntable the first time my college girlfriend and I made love.

Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright

Bob Dylan

Written by Bob Dylan

In early 1975, I walked into a party at the apartment of a college friend of mine. In the back bedroom, I heard acoustic guitar music playing so I went to check it out. A guy and a gal (soon to become my dear friends Ben and Laurie) were deep into a rollicking rendition of Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright. Their guitars were ringing out, Laurie was singing it like Joni Mitchell and both had smiles on their faces a mile wide. The room was filled with other kids dancing and grooving to the music. I took one look at this joyous scene and decided right then and there that I wanted to be able to play like Ben and Laurie. I’ve been a musician ever since and I can trace it all back to that exact moment in time.

Heart of Gold

Neil Young

Written by Neil Young

Soon after the aforementioned event, I went out and bought my first guitar: a Yamaha FG-160 that set me back a whopping $75. Many in my new circle of college friends were musicians, they encouraged me and tolerated my stumbling initial attempts at playing the guitar. They graciously invited me into their jams and taught me my first guitar chords. I was driven and determined to succeed. The learning curve on guitar is steep though. What finally got me over that curve was Neil Young’s album Harvest. I spent countless hours locked in my room listening to that record until I could play every song. Heart of Gold was the first song that I learned to sing and play in its entirety. I’m still playing it today.

Amie

Pure Prairie League

Written by Craig Fuller

After much woodshedding, I’d gotten to the point in my guitar playing where I could finally hold my own in the jams. My pals Ben, Bruce, Tim and myself formed a little group we called BLT. We were the “headliners” at many a wild party in the dorms and at our friends’ off campus apartments. What a rush it was for me to be making the music instead of being just a spectator. I was lead singer on the majority of our songs not because I had the best voice, it was passable at best, but because I was the only one who could remember all the lyrics. Amie was our signature tune and the song I most think of when recalling that period in my life. It was the perfect song to kickstart a party. Hearing our friends singing along with us and being moved by our music helped give the confidence to move forward as a musician. 

Ventura Highway

America

Written by Dewey Bunnell

Growing up on the east coast in the 60’s and 70’s I was inundated with California culture. TV, movies and most powerfully for me, music were filled with enticing images of sunshine, beautiful girls, endless beaches and freedom. To me California was a mythical place where all things seemed possible. Nothing embodied those possibilities in my mind more than Ventura Highway. The twin acoustic guitar intro, Dewey’s sweet and mellow lead vocal and three part harmonies are gradually joined by bass and drums until the song builds into a rollicking anthem to the promise and beauty of California. Listening to that song as a New Jersey teenager, I’d close my eyes and imagine that it was MY hair the free wind was blowing through.  By the end of the 70’s I would be living in California. Of course, the Ventura Freeway in Southern California is just an ugly and crowded freeway but for me it will always be the road to freedom.

Bertha

The Grateful Dead

Written by Jerry Garcia/Robert Hunter

My entry point for the Grateful Dead, in Deadspeak when I “got on the bus,”was their 1972 double live album. Eponymously titled Grateful Dead, this record is also known as Skull and Roses. Bertha is the lead track on the album.  What grabbed me at the onset about this song was surprisingly not just Jerry Garcia’s guitar work but rather the inventive and melodic playing of bassist Phil Lesh. With Phil at the helm, the bass is front and center throughout this album, providing the perfect counterpoint to Jerry’s  interstellar meandering and Bob Weir’s inventive rhythm guitar work. It’s hard to overstate the importance of The Dead in my life. I met my wife and virtually every friend I have directly or indirectly through The Dead. This merry band of fun seekers and chance takers opened up a world of possibilities for me. I was inspired by them to take the road less traveled, so to speak and to live a more free spirited and adventurous life.

My Sweet Lord

George Harrison

Written by George Harrison

My Sweet Lord  has been a part of my life since finding the 45rpm record of this song under the Christmas tree in 1970. Songs come and go throughout our lives. Some blaze like a shooting star, others are constant like the sunrise. My Sweet Lord is my sunrise. The power and beauty of this song has not diminished one iota in the half century I’ve been listening to it. It never fails to send a chill up my spine and bring tears to my eyes. I believe that George and producer Phil Spector were tapped into something truly divine during the recording of My Sweet Lord.

I get here and and just wait for the magic to happen. Sometimes the magic manifests itself in obvious ways like the sudden appearance of a river otter or the piercing cry of an osprey as it circles the sky above the river. Quite often though the magic of this place is felt in subtle and barely perceptible ways. Today for example we’re on the cusp of the autumnal equinox and I can feel the magic of seasonal transition all around me. The angle of the sun, the quality of the light and the difference in the breeze are all undeniable signs of change.

The transition from summer to autumn is one of my favorite times of the year. The blistering heat, drought and relentless sunshine gradually give way to cooler temperatures, cloudy mornings and eventually the welcome rains. Last year at this time our area was covered in a suffocating blanket of toxic smoke as terrifying wildfires were once again burning out of control and threatening our community. Weeks on end of relentless smoke, fire and blistering heat obscured the seasonal change that was going on all around us. By the time the smoke cleared and the fires were finally under control, it had already become autumn.

I feel so much gratitude today. At least for now, no fires are burning nearby. The sky is robin’s egg blue, not apocalypse orange and the air is so clean! I fill my nostrils with the  sweet, subtle smells of earth, river and forest. After the horrific fires of the past four years I deeply relish and will never again take for granted how wonderful it feels to breathe cool, clean air.

The river is barely flowing. It acts like a mirror: the reflection of the surrounding trees is broken only by the whisper of a breeze that ripples across the water, the occasional jump of a fish and a few early autumn leaves that corkscrew their way down to the surface. The branches of the trees shimmer and wave; some have already begun to surrender their leaves to the timeless march of seasonal change. Many will soon be bare, only to burst forth once again into the glittering greens of spring.

Ravens and turkey vultures wheel overhead, black chevrons against the blue. The screech of a red shouldered hawk and the chatter of a Stellar’s Jay temporarily break the silence. Fallen leaves swirl slowly in the eddy before me. There’s a resident squirrel here, it’s “whoop, whoop” voice is either a welcome or a warning. The rattle of a belted kingfisher tells me that this diminutive aquatic predator is active nearby.

There are powerful forces at work here. You could call it God or magic or whatever you like. Summer is dissolving into autumn. I breathe it all in and let the magic of seasonal change flow through me. Today is truly a gift and I’m not letting it slip by unnoticed.

You don’t need no gypsy to tell you why you can’t let one precious day slip by.

Greg Allman

I was awakened at 1:20 this morning by the hypnotic notes of wind chimes; one deep and sonorous, the other high pitched and tinkly. The wind had picked up, something was happening.

The rain began slowly at first, barely a whisper as the drops fell through our pear tree. It gradually increased in speed and intensity, the whisper became a woosh and was joined by the rat-a-tat of raindrops on the plastic roof that covers our deck. I wanted to wake my wife up but her rhythmic breathing told me she was in a deep sleep. I wanted to throw off my shorts, run outside and do a dance of gratitude to the rain gods for this unexpected gift; but instead I just lay there in the darkness and pinched myself to make sure that this was no dream. As quickly as it began, the rain subsided. For the next hour however, this pattern repeated. Wind chimes sing, whisper, woosh, rat-a-tat, silence. And the smell! There is no sweeter aroma on our blue planet than that of the Earth as it drinks in the first quenching raindrops after a long and parching drought. It’s the smell of hope and renewal, the perfume of gratitude. The dirt, grass, flowers and trees all letting our a chorus of “thank you.”

Twelve hours later I sit and write. Nothing is as it was yesterday. The leaves of our fruit trees glow with a freshly scrubbed brilliance. A crisp, clean smell permeates everything. The haze and smoke has been cleansed from the air, leaving the sky the deepest of blues that bathes our community in peace and comfort. The breeze is in absolutely no hurry, it finds its voice in the music of the wind chimes.

The quality of light has suddenly shifted. Seemingly overnight summer has finally given way to the first glimmer of autumn. Is the drought over? Unfortunately it will take more than a magical late summer rain shower  to put this drought behind us. But for at least this brief moment, the Earth and all living things is letting out a collective sigh of relief.

The first thing that strikes me as soon as  I settle into my seat in Section 315 at Oracle Park is just how far I can see. The Easy Bay hills and its’ million dollar homes are clearly visible, miles away across San Francisco Bay. When conditions are just right the windows of these houses are ablaze with the rays of the setting sun. The massive dinosaur like cranes at the Oakland waterfront loom in the foreground. Just beyond the outfield walls, watercraft of all types, from kayaks to container ships, ply the cobalt blue waters of the bay. Like brushstrokes on canvas, white caps appear when the wind kicks up.

A massive scoreboard towers over centerfield. The words “Oracle Park” are framed by an arc of nine pennants that dance and dive in the wind. Each pennant represents one of the Giants’ World Series championships. Light towers stand like castle parapets on either side. The players, already larger than life, appear almost God like when their images are projected onto the video screen. To the left of the scoreboard is a giant sculpture of a 1920’s vintage baseball mitt and next to that a green Coca Cola bottle inside of which is a slide. During a game kids can begin at the mouth of the bottle and slide all the way to the bottom.The bleachers and outfield stands are a constantly shifting multicolored mass of humanity which stands, sits and sways to the polyrhythms of the game.

And the grass! How do I begin to describe the impossibly green grass of a major league baseball field? To this day, the memory that sticks with me from my first visit to Yankee Stadium as a child is just how green the grass was. Up until that day I had only watched baseball games on an 18” black and white tv set.  I had no idea grass could be that green. Looking out onto the field today I see the green of an Irish hillside after a quenching rain.

The infield dirt is the rich brown of a freshly plowed Iowa cornfield, the bases perfectly, brilliantly white squares marking the three corners of the infield. The pentagon of home plate is where it all begins. During a game, the umpire keeps the plate clean with the occasional swipe of his pocket whiskbroom. The foul lines radiate out from here, arrow straight and terminating at the base of bright yellow foul poles which rise nearly to the top of the upper deck.

And the sounds! The crack of the bat, the snap of ball on leather are grace notes in the music of a baseball game. The crowd noise ebbs and flows like waves on the beach, rising from a whisper to a scream and back again as the game unfolds below. The explosion of ecstasy as a game winning homerun sails into the stands, the collective groan when a Giant strikes out at a pivotal moment in the game. My favorite sound? The timeless voice of Tony Bennett. The stadium’s PA system plays Tony’s signature tune I Left My Heart In San Francisco after every Giants victory. Tony croons, seagulls wheel above the field, swirling winds lift random food wrappers into the sky, and I file out with the rest of the crowd into the cool San Francisco night.

“Who knows where the time goes?” I awoke at dawn today with that bittersweet Judy Collins song swimming through my head. I pad down the hallway towards the kitchen to make my coffee, pausing at our daughter’s room to let her meowing foster kitten out. I get the coffee brewing and the kitty fed then settle down to breathe in a new day. I take in the view from the kitchen window, it’s all but consumed by a riot of bean, cucumber and tomato plants; all of them heavy with the fruit of our springtime labor. A flock of tiny bushtits peck away at the suet feeder. Our cat Ella patrols the garden on her morning rounds. It’s not too different from any other morning so far this summer except for one thing. Today is the first day of senior year for our two children. 

Neither of the twins had any trouble rousting themselves this morning. Normally, getting either one of our 17 year olds out of bed is like waking a bear from hibernation. They emerge from their respective dens and reluctantly pose for the requisite first day of school photo. This is a tradition that Carol and I have carried on since the kids began preschool. Both have that  “C’mon mom and dad” look on their faces as we snap away.

I marvel at how much they’ve grown and how cool they both look in their back to school garb. Sam has sprouted up this summer and stands at 5’ 8”, two inches taller than Carol. The standard skateboarders watchman’s cap is pressed down on his head, long brown hair spills out the sides and touches his shoulders. Sam’s electric blue eyes sparkle like the mountain sky. The front of his pink hoodie sports a retro drawing of an 80’s style boom box. Long, baggy thrift store jeans and skate shoes complete the outfit.

Denali’s body hasn’t changed a whole lot this summer. She’s still whippet thin with long legs that helped her become a standout this year in the triple jump. Her Pippi Longstocking red braids sit behind her back and fall past her waist. She has never had a hair cut. I have yet to find the right words to describe her hazel eyes. She’s wearing a green, long sleeve shirt with a picture of Bob Marley and the words “56 Hope Road” on the breast pocket. She’s opted for a pink little kid backpack to haul her things in.

And just like that, they are out the door. No need to drive them to school, they each have their own car and can drive themselves. For a few minutes Carol and I just sit there in silence, letting the gravity of this moment sink in. As our kids grow, people keep telling us to enjoy each moment, each milestone because “It happens fast.” I’m not sure if that’s necessarily true. Yes, it is hard to believe that this is our kids’ last year of school before heading off to college. Yes there are times when it seems like only yesterday when we were dropping them off at the door of their first preschool. However, I don’t really feel like it “happened fast” because Carol and I have been so present with our children throughout every step of their development so far. Relishing every precious day of Sam and Denali’s first 17 years has made time feel not like it has passed in the blink of an eye but rather like a lazy river flowing. Realizing the beauty of each moment with them has in essence helped to actually slow time down.

As I watch them drive away, scenes from our kids’ lives swirl through my mind. From diapers and sleepless nights to their first steps, first time on a bicycle, first solo trip in a car. Fevers and frantic trips to the ER. Soccer games in the park to soccer under the lights on the varsity field. Trick or treating, Easter egg hunts, photos on Santa’s lap. Swim lessons at the pool to surfing on Maui.

On this August morning my heart is full to bursting. I swell with pride over the many wonderful things our kids have accomplished thus far in their short lives. The moment is bittersweet though and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling some sadness and a sense of loss. However, I remind myself that this is not an ending for the twins but rather just another stop for them on the wheel of life.

The secret ‘o life is enjoying the passage of time

James Taylor

I’m not going to write about Covid-19 or the delta variant or imbecile anti-vaxers. I will not write about California wildfires or European floods or the myriad other natural disasters fueled by climate change. There’s no way I plan to write about the world situation in general, which Kurt Vonnegut once presciently  said is, “Desperate as usual.” Instead I think I’ll write about the trilogy of fountains on our back deck that bubble and gurggle all day and all night.

I close my eyes and these fountains become a creek making sweet music as it tumbles over rocks through a primeval forest. With California in the grips of a prolonged drought, our fountains have become a refuge and a reliable sourse of water for the many birds that make our backyard home.

The hummingbirds hover tentatively before dipping their long beaks in for a drink. They occasionally feel brave enough to fully immerse themselves and splash about like happy children. The chickadees are a different story. These brave little songbirds dive right in with no hesitation. One of our fountains is a succession of metal seashells which empty into one another. The chickadees always choose the topmost shell. I’ve stood as close as three feet away while they drink and bathe. They seem oblivioius to my presence and continue splashing away. Finches, jays, tanagers and towhees all perform their daily ablutions  in our fountains.

One fountain is a white porcelin bowl decorated with a delicate light blue floral pattern and sits just above a clawfoot tub. One recent morning I found tiny muddy footprints running along the bottom of the tub and up onto the rim right below the fountain. These were raccoon tracks. Evidently our resident birds are not the only creatures who enjoy these refreshing waters.

Another fountain is a deep rectangular basin fed by a weathered and algae covered bamboo spigot; it is lined with smooth, colorful sea stones that Carol and I collected along the coast. We once tried to populate this fountain with tiny snails hoping to keep it clear of algae. Alas, the snails didn’t last very long, victims of some mysterious nocturnal predator.

There’s a sliding glass door in our bedroom that opens onto the deck which we keep open with a screen at night in the summer. The fountains blend together in perfect three-part harmony, lulling me and Carol to sleep. The sound of moving water;  crashing waves, mighty rivers, gentle creeks or simple rain has such curative properties. Storms along the coast invoke awe and a deep respect for the power of nature. A comfortable place beside a forest creek is the ideal setting for quiet meditation. A walk in the rain is a dream come true.

Twenty six years ago I was floating down the Nile River on the trip of a lifetime to Egypt. Our captain and I stood together one morning at the bow of his felucca. Snowy egrets perched atop tall trees along the river bank, the rising sun making their feathers glow. Fishermen in small canoes cast their nets among the rushes which swayed gently in the breeze. Small children waved and splashed joyously in the shallows. The cobalt blue waters just flowed and flowed. I recall commenting to Captain Salah how beautiful I found this scene to be. He turned to me and simply stated, “The Nile is life.” And so are our fountains, a microcosm of the beauty and life giving properties of flowing water.

Carol and I went to the movies this afternoon. Upon walking into the lobby we were immediately greeted by the twin aromas of melting butter and popping popcorn. We took our seats among the twenty or so other people inside the dimly lit theater. The only sounds were the soft hum of whispered conversation and the rustling of hands reaching into popcorn boxes. The lights were turned all the way down and the big screen lit up with previews, followed by the feature film. We settled into a wonderful documentary about a music festival in Harlem in the summer of 1969. People sharing the theater with us clapped, laughed or commented at various times throughout the film. As soon as the film ended people began to file out but I always stay until the screen goes white and the house lights are turned back up. The film was joyous and life affirming. Smiles and nods of acknowledgement  were shared as we and our fellow movie goers exited the theater.

This was the first movie theater that I’d been to in nearly a year and a half. I’m hearing a lot of this nowadays: “This is the first (fill in the blanks) that I’ve…”. My favorite part about going to a movie in a theater is the shared experience in the dark with a roomful of strangers. The aroma of popcorn, the big screen and surround sound all make a “Netflix and chill” evening pale in comparison. I savored every moment of my movie experience today and I know that the people inside the theater with us felt exactly the same way. There was a palatable sigh of relief and grattitude among all of us inside the Summerfield Cinemas on this sunny Saturday afternoon. Joy no longer needs to be postponed. Fifteen months of pent up frustration is gradually being released. The dreaded face masks are going, going and nearly gone. The twin vibes of fear and dread are being replaced by hope and positivity. Seeing peoples’ smiles again fills my heart to bursting. The vaccine is setting us all free.

Carol and I were on a roll. After a brief stop at home to refuel we headed out “for the first time in…” to hear live music. Our destination was a funky one-off restaurant and music venue on the banks of the Russian River. The Rio Nido Roadhouse has a small bar and covered pation but the majority of seating and the stage are outdoors. Pairs of Adirondak chairs with a small table between them and several aged wooden picnic tables are arrainged on an expansive lawn ringed by towering redwood trees. A cement dance floor and small stage sit at one end. A sign above the stage spells out the venues’ name in faded, delaminating plywood letters. Long strings of white lights criss cross the lawn above us, lending a magical quality to the scene. We settled into our seats with food and cold microbrews waiting for the show to begin and watching the evening sky turn from deep blue to indigo to black. 

Tonights’ band is The Sun Kings, a top notch Beatles tribute band. What better music to celebrate the emergence from our long covid winter than that of the Beatles. There were perhaps 150 people at the show. No masks, no social distancing, just happy smiling humans rejoicing in the freedom and beauty of this very special evening. The band kicked off the show with Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and we immediately hit the dance floor. The crowd was predominantly aging Baby Boomers for whom the Beatles music is part of our DNA. However I was surprised and delighted to see an energetic group of roughly a dozen men and women in their early 20’s join us at the front of the stage. They danced harder and sang louder than anyone, belting out the words to each and every song. For three hours and nearly 50 songs, Carol and I twirled, smiled and sang ourselves hoarse.

The final song of the night was fittingly Hey Jude. Boomers and twentysomethings alike linked arms on the dance floor in a collective embrace as we filled our lungs and sang the songs’ coda…together.

My parents’ house has a front door but no one ever uses it. Everyone comes and goes through the back door.

The dank, musty smells of age and neglect greet you as you enter the house because five steps down to the right is the basement. Its smooth cement walls are slightly damp and cool to the touch. The aged brown wood of the floor joists are visible above. There is no ceiling. There are several shelves filled with old things: random holiday decorations, worn cardboard boxes, cans of paint, a few rusty tools. Three small windows on either side of the basement let in some light, but still this place is dark and gloomy.

The basement was where as kids we’d hold marathon ping pong tournaments and play hours of the table top Bobby Hull hockey game. After particularly wet rainstorms, the bare cement floor often floods. A large drain in the rear corner has to be unscrewed with a pipe wrench in order to let the water out. Vintage movie posters once hung on the walls, remnants of my mom’s career as a theater manager. The Halloween party we had down here during my sophomore year in college was one for the ages. The next day my older brother Ray and I, shaky with hangovers, had to clean up the spilled beer, stale chips, cans, bottles and smashed cake that covered the floor. We celebrated two of our friend’s birthdays that night. They blew out the candles but got no cake.

My old baseball mitts and bats were once stored here. I wonder what became of them? My mom wasn’t much for saving things. An old refrigerator stands against a wall, it is filled with bottled water and long-neck Budweisers. My dad only drinks Bud but buys the good stuff (Heineken or Molson) whenever I visit, a sweet and thoughtful gesture.

Nine steps separated by a small landing lead to the inside of the house. These steps are steep and narrow, dangerous to navigate even for able bodied people. They’re downright hazardous for my 92 year old parents. A bar is bolted to the wall in the stairwell which my parents cling to when they use the steps. One slip and they’d be gone.

The steps lead to a small kitchen. A tiny pantry and narrow breakfast nook sit along the left hand side. Two south facing windows let in lots of light, but the slightly opaque white curtains are often closed so the light is dim and diffused. Mom would spend hours over the stove in here concocting her homemade pasta sauce (“gravy” in New Jersey lingo). The twin aromas of tomatoes and garlic filled the house. Macaroni with gravy is still my favorite comfort food. When the radio wasn’t playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennet or Dean Martin, mom would sing or hum their music while she cooked. When our daughter was little, she would often hum these sweet little melodies while she drew or played in her room. A little piece of my mom in our little girl.

My mom had such a lovely voice and could really carry a tune. Growing up, she shared a small apartment with her five sisters and my grandparents. There was a piano in the apartment and mom learned to play a bit. However, when they moved to a different place, they had to leave the piano behind. Whenever mom tells me this story, her voice is heavy with regret. Given the opportunity, I  believe my mom could have been a singer or musician. I sing, play guitar and have written and recorded two cds of original music. I owe much of my musical abilities to my mom.  As a boy I was constantly exposed to music, my young mind taking it all in. My mom instilled the love of music in me and that is the greatest gift she has ever given to me. 

Beyond the kitchen is a larger room that doubles as a dining/living room. It has the same south facing windows and diffused lighting. Mom and dad sit here in the evenings and watch tv. They never miss Jeopardy. The front door opens onto a narrow enclosed porch. Screens are pulled down in summer. This space offers a bit of a respite from the stuffy confines of the house. The porch has always been my dad’s refuge. When we were kids, dad smoked cigars. Mom hated these and called them “turds”. He would sit out here to escape from mom and puff away. 

Dad had a small transistor radio which was always tuned to some ballgame or another. Besides being an avid reader my dad has no hobbies, except for sports. He lives and breathes sports, his sports knowledge is deep. Dad played on his high school basketball team. I remember feeling so proud of him whenever mom would show us the yearbook photos of him in his uniform. Sports is the way my dad and I connect. Ray and I would spend hours listening to or watching sports with him: The Miracle Mets in 1969, the 69/70 Knicks, Ali/Frazier at Madison Square Garden in 1971 and of course the New York Yankees. Dad took me to my first major league baseball game on Father’s Day in 1965. The grass on the field was a shade of green that I never knew existed. It was Bat Day. Ray and I received real wooden bats. This is my greatest sports memory. In 2009, my wife and I took our kids to their first major league baseball game in San Francisco. It was Father’s Day.

A door in the living room leads to a short, narrow hallway which connects to a small room. This was the tv room when we were kids and later became my younger brother’s room when he came along. In January of 1964 The Beatles took America by storm. Their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show was viewed by millions, two of whom were Ray and I. We sat on the floor in this tiny room that night and sang along as the Fab Four made history. Mom and dad sat on the couch behind us wondering what all the fuss was about.

A stairway out of this room leads up to two small rooms. One was my sister’s, the other Ray and I shared. What these rooms really are is an attic divided with a  wall. With no insulation or heat, the rooms are stifling; unbearably hot in the summer and freezing in winter. Blankets, portable heaters and fans made the rooms barely livable. During big winter snowstorms, Ray and I would lean over the clock radio that sat between our beds, listening with rapt attention to the list of school closings, hoping with all of our might to hear our school’s name. This is where I sat with my first acoustic guitar, playing along to Neil Young’s Harvest until I knew all of the songs by heart. My college girlfriend and I once made love on this bed.

Each of these two rooms has a small closet. In the back of my sister’s closet is a door which opens to a crawl space underneath the roof of the house. We call it the “cubbyhole”. This is a dark and foreboding place that terrified us as kids. There are no walls or ceiling, just exposed beams and wall studs covered in dust and cobwebs. There is no light switch so a flashlight is needed for illumination which adds an extra layer of creepiness. My siblings and I would imaging all manner of unnamed horrors living within this space. It was the stuff of our childhood nightmares. 

My parents’ house was built in 1936. The inside seems to  grow smaller each time I visit. It is claustrophobic and stuffy. There is one bathroom. My sister, my two brothers and I grew up here. Six of us crammed into this tiny space. The cramped quarters and and lack of privacy helped fuel the chaos and conflict of our childhood. Our parents fought often. Their arguments were explosive, filled with angry putdowns and bitterness. Once as a boy I remember watching my mom cry as she stared out the kitchen window after a particularly nasty fight with dad. Seeing my mom filled with such sadness was heartbreaking.

My parents’ house is at once familiar and foreign to me. It’s difficult to imaging ever living here, yet one step inside and I’m eight years old again. My siblings and I are grown and have long ago moved away but my parents remain, caretakers of our childhood memories.

When we were shopping for our first home nearly twenty years ago, one of the things that attracted us to our neighborhood was the easy access to a network of trails that criss cross Santa Rosa and Paulin Creeks. This trail system is truly an oasis and a hidden gem in our part of town. The banks are lined primarily with oaks, willows and redwoods. Beginning in mid-summer, a seemingly endless supply of plump, juicy blackberries are there for the taking. The water is clean and supports a surprising diversity of wildlife. River otters call this place home (one morning last year I observed a family of five cavorting in an eddy just across from where I was standing!) Great Blue Herons, Snowy and Great Egrets, Black Crowned Night Herons and Belted Kingfishers are among the resident aquatic predators. I regularly observe the same egret standing in the water just below a spot where the creek narrows to around two feet, waiting to spear a meal. Crawfish, small steelhead and western pond turtles abound. On any given day, the air is filled with the songs of chickadees, towhees, juncos and warblers. If you’re even halfway observant, it’s hard to walk these trails and not encounter at least one of the aforementioned creatures. However, there’s one little mystery of the natural world that you just may stroll right on by, but I never miss it.

When my family and I first started exploring these trails we began to notice a steady stream of honeybees coming and going from a particular oak tree. This oak is  a gnarled old grandmother. Her weathered and moss covered trunk is nearly five feet in circumference and bends at an odd angle towards the creek. Her thin arms give way to spindly fingers which reach upwards to join the canopy. There’s an opening in the tree about a foot up from the base, it’s an almost perfectly shaped oval, like the one you see in Winnie The Pooh’s tree. I half expect Winnie himself to come rambling by to collect some “huny.” There’s activity at this opening twelve months of the year. Even in the dead of winter on a cold, rainy day, I can still spot one or two bees. Right now the action is fast and furious with hundreds of bees zipping in and out of the opening like so many mini jet fighters. Step close enough and you’ll hear a steady, high pitched hum. Judging by the number of bees, the size of this hive inside grandmother oak must be enormous. How long the hive has been here is anyone’s guess. What I wouldn’t give to reach up in there and grab a handful of sweet, golden honey!

I wonder how many people walk or bike right past this tree every day without noticing what’s going on in and around it? This feels like my little secret but sometimes I think it would be fun to sit beside the tree and point out to the unaware the miracle that’s occurring right before their eyes

Mother Nature does not reveal her secrets easily. It takes patience, hours of quiet observation and a little luck to find what’s hidden, often in plain sight. I’ve discovered some wonderful and unexpected things by sitting, watching and listening with a peaceful mind and an open heart.

A couple of years ago while sitting on our backyard deck one early spring morning, I noticed a hummingbird fly from an open perch on our plum tree into the thick foliage of our apple tree. Day after day I observed this same bird zipping back and forth between the two trees. Curiosity finally got the best of me so I went to have a look inside the apple tree. What I discovered was a tiny nest made from lichen, moss, lint and other bits of fluff. Inside the nest were two perfectly white eggs, each the size of a pinto bean. This nest would easily fit within a circle that I make with my thumb and forefinger. So perfectly camouflaged was this nest that it would have been virtually impossible to find it had I not first observed the hummingbird’s activity around it. 

I feel blessed just to be aware of these hidden secrets of nature. Being in the right place at the right time has allowed me to glimpse through the window into a mysterious and mostly hidden world. Of course there are more bee trees and hummingbird nests out there than I’ll ever have the time to discover. But nevertheless, I plan to keep on looking.

Every so often, a line will come to me in a dream and be on my mind when I awaken. I keep a pen and paper by my side of the bed so I can write these lines down before they melt away along with the dream. Sometimes one of these little gifts from my subconscious becomes the starting point of a song or poem, which is the case here.

When you were the wind

Life was a 10 year old’s summer day

And the outfield was green, green, green

When you were the wind

The future was a star dappled night

And the possibilities were limitless

When you were the wind

Your time was now

And you didn’t need a second chance

When you were the wind

Every breath filled your lungs with freedom

And you never stopped to look back

When you were the wind

You experienced the freefall of love

And knew what it meant to be truly alive

When you were the wind

The bus came by

And you got on

When you were the wind

Your dreams lead the way

And you followed, joyful and laughing

When you were the wind

The shades of yellow were dazzling

And all of your mornings were Chelsea

When you were the wind

You spread your wings

And the meadows were filled with birdsong

When you were the wind

The wheel turned slowly

And time was a lazy river flowing