Winter Closing In

The trees are nearly naked, their skeletal branches are stark against a white and overcast sky, a sky without definition. The thirty foot oak tree that stands outside our house has picked up the pace at shedding its small, light brown leaves. Like puzzle pieces they cover our cars, the street and the sidewalk. Oak leaves are piling up on our front lawn too. They crunch under my feet as I walk out to check the mailbox. I rake these leaves into a fairly large pile and pause to reflect. This memory floods into my mind.

An enormous pile of leaves, oaks as well, sits in the backyard of my childhood home in New Jersey. My siblings and I sprint towards the pile, leaping with reckless abandon until we land with a crunch and a rustle right in the center. We emerge bursting with laughter, our hair and clothes covered in the badges of autumn.

Years later with children of my own, I’d relive this experience vicariously through them under our oak tree, seeing more than a bit of my eight year old self in their laughing eyes.

The apple, cherry and Asian pear trees in our backyard are also in the midst of a leaf shedding frenzy. Shaped like tropical fish, their brilliant yellow leaves vibrate with contrast as they swim across the grass, turned deep green by the recent rains. At the height of summer these trees form a nearly unbroken canopy of green, obscuring all but a glimpse of the houses and backyards of our neighbors. The trees are alive with birds but they are difficult to spot, hidden as they are in the dense foliage. But with the branches of these trees gradually laid bare, the birds are now in plain sight, the mysterious locations of their springtime nests are revealed as well. Woodpeckers, chickadees, sparrows, robins, jays and warblers can be easily observed as they flit from branch to branch, tree to tree. Feeders- nectar for the hummingbirds, seeds and suet for all the others – provide winter food for them and excellent birding for us.

The thinning foliage of our apple tree reveals the last of the fruit. Bright red apples hang like early Christmas ornaments amidst the jumble of branches and limbs. We’ve reached our limit on eating, juicing, donating to friends and applesauce production so we leave the rest of the apples to the scrub jays, flickers, woodpeckers and squirrels. This has been a banner year for apples so there are plenty to go around.

Right on cue our citrus has begun to ripen. Easter egg yellow lemons, bright orange tangerines, navel oranges and gradually pinkening grapefruits all announce their presence in hues that deepen with each passing day. One of my great pleasures this time of year is eating the tangerines. They always seem to taste best in the morning when their lightly dimpled skin is wet with dew. The peels come away easily, usually in one continuous piece, revealing the small fruit within. When I pop each section into my mouth, there’s a burst of juice and complexity of flavors that can’t be bought in a store. Grapefruits and oranges will be squeezed later, providing us with fresh juice for months.

The days are getting shorter as winter solstice approaches. Darkness arrives early and stays well into the early morning hours. The air is crisp and invigorating. My breath escapes me in swirling clouds of white, each exhalation disappearing quickly into the air. The cool overcast days and near freezing nights allow me to slow down and deeply appreciate the changes that are upon us.

While the leaves gradually disappear, Christmas decorations begin to reappear. I feel a sense of urgency this holiday season. Last year the holidays were for all intents and purposes postponed. With traditional celebrations, gatherings and travel nearly back to pre-Covid levels, we are all thankful and eager to make up for lost time. I began noticing Christmas decorations even before Thanksgiving. Front lawns are now alive with a festive explosion of twinkling lights, color, Santas, reindeer and all the other icons of Christmas.

In closing I can’t forget to mention the sunsets. On certain nights in autumn/winter when the clouds and weather conditions are just right, the evening sky is ablaze with every imaginable shade, hue and tint of pink, yellow, orange, purple and red. Mother Nature has really loaded up her palette with colors this year and on some nights she uses them all.

Winter is closing in. Build a fire in the fireplace, snuggle up someplace warm with the ones you love and savor every moment.

Before 8:00am

It’s before 8:00am and all things seem possible. Before 8:00am there’s no hatred; the mean, vicious and small minded all sleep in. Before 8:00am no one wears a face mask, fear is still in bed. While greed heads dream of more and more and more, the earth awakens and begins to shed its comforting blanket of fog. Everything feels new and refreshed. I breathe in the cold morning air and exhale miniature clouds that quickly melt away. Anger and strife hide under quilts of denial while hummingbirds, newly awakened, dart from tree to feeder, feeder to tree. Before 8:00am I feel as if I could change the world for the better with just the sheer force of my will. At this time of morning there’s no judgement, everyone and everything is accepted for whom and what they are.

The day dawns slowly and deliberately, as it has done for millennia. The yellow leaves of autumn sashay slowly to the ground, landing with an inaudible sigh. Walking barefoot through the dew soaked grass is an invigorating baptism. I crunch into a freshly picked apple and savor the impossibly sweet juice as it fills my mouth. The birdbath fountain shimmers and gurgles while it awaits its first visitors of the day, usually the chestnut backed chickadees, fearless and free as I long to be.

The quiet of this peaceful autumn morning inevitably gives way to the cacophony of another day on planet Earth. In the face of an increasingly broken world, I still somehow hold on to the hope of promise and renewal. It’s before 8:00am. I refuse to give up, I refuse to give in.

Our backyard is so peaceful before 8:00am.

Childish Things

One day last spring I finally sold our daughter’s bicycle. She’s 17 now and drives a car. The bike had been collecting dust in our garage for several years now. It was time to let it go. This one was the last in the continuum of three bikes that she’s owned, and it was a real doozy! It was bright pink with floral designs on the frame, it had hand brakes and ten gears and multi-colored streamers spilling out from the ends of the handlebars. A woman bought it for her granddaughter. The little girl looked to be about ten years old, the same age as our daughter when we first bought her the bike. The joy on this girl’s face when she got out of the car and saw the bike was a beautiful sight. She quickly jumped onto the seat, gave it a test ride around our cul-de-sac and we called it a deal. I loaded the bike into their car, the girl beaming the whole time.

Last night I finally got around to selling the portable basketball hoop that we had bought for our son. I spent most of a Christmas day seven years ago assembling the thing. When we finally had it up, he and I shot hoops until well past dark. It’s been a couple of years now since he’d last used it. The hoop had since become a perch for neighborhood songbirds and an occasional resting place for fallen leaves from our oak tree. A guy bought it as a Christmas gift for his young son. We disassembled the hoop and just barely managed to fit it into the back of his mini-van. Looking out front this morning, all that’s left of the hoop is a large black spot of mud and leaves that had collected under the base. It’s a strange empty space, kind of like the void left when a tree is cut down.

Yes, it’s just a basketball hoop, but it’s also the many hours spent playing H-O-R-S-E and one -on-one with our son; the impossible 25 foot jump shots that caught nothing but net. Of course, it’s just a bicycle, but it’s also the unbridled joy on our daughter’s face, her long red braids flying out from behind her as she speeds down the street for the first time on her new bike.

It’s not the “thing” but rather the memories that are attached to it.

These past few years have been particularly active and filled with change for our two children. As they transition from tweens to teens to late teens, I’m reminded that the only thing in life that’s constant is change. This is especially evident to those of us who have children. The transition from one phase of their lives to the next is happening rapidly and right before my eyes. It’s this dynamic nature that reminds me to be present, show up for my kids and appreciate every moment that we share. On the cusp of adulthood, our children are putting away childish things and preparing to take that leap of faith into the future.

Our almost adults, a few years ago.

October Rain

A week ago Sonoma County, where I live, received its first substantial rainfall of the season. By the time the deluge had passed, nearly 8 inches of rain had fallen over a 24 hour period.

It rained last night. I mean it really rained. This was not the fleeting storm of a couple days ago but an actual sustained storm that lasted through the night. Rain was still falling when I woke up this morning with no sign of letting up any time soon.

After dinner last night I sat out on our deck. It was dark except for the small candle lantern that I had lit. Raindrops swished and rat-a-tatted onto the plastic roof that covers the deck. The speed and intensity of the raindrops ebbed and flowed, alternating  from a near downpour to barely a whisper, on and on while I sat there in silent gratitude. The plants and animals, rocks and grasses, creeks, rivers and lakes – all desiccated and desperate for rain, any rain – were drinking in this glorious autumn shower. I could feel their collective sighs along with my own. The intoxicating smells of wet earth perfumed the air. I filled my lungs again and again and just couldn’t get enough. 

When I looked out our bedroom window this morning, the grass was aglow with millions of water droplets, each one reflecting a tiny piece of the new day. The branches of our fruit trees were bowed with the weight of last night’s soaking. The red and green apples looked even more inviting than usual; having been washed clean they shone as if polished. Small puddles had formed on our deck, darkening the weathered redwood.

The past four Octobers have been a trying time as we’ve all been living under constant threat of wildfires. Evacuations, smoke, red flag warnings and power shut offs had become a depressing reality of life here in Sonoma County. Thankfully this is an altogether different year. Every raindrop that falls hastens the end of fire season.

All living things are drinking in this rain. Let it pour until the creeks and rivers are once again flowing, until the lakes and reservoirs are swollen, until the parched brown hillsides light up in their winter shades of green, until the air is once again filled with a symphony of croaking frogs, until rain is no longer a dream but a part of the Earth’s and our renewal. Let us all rejoice and give thanks for rain.

A few days before this photo was taken, this creekbed near our home was completely dry!

Songs In The Key Of Life

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.

The one that started it all!

The Magic Of Seasonal Change

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

Rain!

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.”

It didn’t rain quite this hard, but it was a good start.

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 View From Section 315

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.

The view.

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.

Senior Year

“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.

Our high school seniors, a few years ago.

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

Fountains Of Life

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.