Since beginning this blog earlier in the year, a recurring theme of mine has been finding solace in nature during uncertain times. Here’s my latest take.

The only human made sounds I can hear are the occasional rumbling of a plane taking off from nearby Charles Schultz Airport, otherwise this tranquil eddy along the bank of the Russian River is as quiet as can be. Whenever I come here I’m amazed at the absence of human made sounds, especially since I’m only 15 minutes away from the 101 freeway and tens of thousands of other people.

The rasping chit chit of a Stellar’s Jay occasionally punctuates the stillness. A Belted Kingfisher chatters past me on its way upriver. The distant kree-kraw of a crow is like a rumor in the distance. An enormous Great Blue Heron flies by as silent as a dream. A few moments ago a grey squirrel flew through the trees above, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was a visitor in its home. The piercing call of a Northern Flicker echoes through the forest from across the river, a peaceful clarion call reminding all who care to listen that autumn is here for a while. A tiny Bewick’s Wren, white eye streaks like a mask and tail feathers pointing straight up offers a chipper greeting from its perch on a willow branch.

Silence is the blank canvas upon which all of these animals leave their brushstrokes. Their sounds, each one unique, are the hues that combine to create this tranquil aural masterpiece. It’s like a Monet painting for the ears. In order to “hear” this painting I’ve got to tune into its frequency and find the silence within myself, the blank canvas so to speak. It is so soothing coming to this place where there are only whispers. It’s an opportunity to recharge my batteries and a reminder that there are still refuges of silence and beauty in the world.

An enormous fish jumps and temporarily rouses me from my reverie. I just miss seeing its body but I know it’s big because the splash is so loud. I turn my head just in time to watch the ripples spread silently towards the shore, one by one by one; a broad stroke followed by ever lighter touches of the brush. Also adding its brushstrokes to this canvas now is a river otter, sleek and shining, its brown body glistens in the afternoon sun. Every few yards up it pops for a breath of air and a look around. As it heads downriver each of its dives creates a curlicue of sound, another color in the palette. A pair of ducks, Hornbilled Grebes, glide across the river’s mirror-like surface. Perfectly white butterflies dip and spin against a background of green plants growing on the far bank. At the center of it all is the river, flowing almost imperceptibly to the sea. These last few sounds are too faint for the human ear to perceive but they nevertheless are contributing their subtle tones to this masterwork.

Unlike the traditional painting made with brush and pigment this picture is unconstrained by canvas and frame. It’s an ongoing creation, a boundless work in progress. There was no beginning, hopefully there will be no end.

When I picked my son up yesterday from his past time job at the local hardware store, he told me about this experience that he had during his lunch break. 

Sam walked into Burger King, placed his order and stepped aside to wait for his food. A scruffy young man with an unkempt beard, dirty jeans and a torn t-shirt was next in line. After ordering, this fellow proceeded to empty his pockets; nickels, dimes, quarters and pennies rained down on the counter. He carefully counted his change and pushed it towards the cashier. The woman looked at him and said that he was $2.00 short. It was then that Sam pulled out his wallet, handed the guy two one dollar bills and told him to enjoy his lunch. Hearing this story on the way home put a big smile on my face. Throughout his young life Sam has been know for these selfless acts of kindness, so what he did for that man at lunch came as no surprise.

Every time I pick up the newspaper or swipe up on my phone, I see a nearly endless stream of stories about the more odious aspects of human nature. Greed and hatred scream, getting most of the attention. Love and kindness whisper and are mostly ignored. By the way, Sam’s little gesture did not make the news today but the kindness he showed towards that man could have ramifications far beyond anything he could ever imagine. Perhaps after having a hot meal at Burger King, this fellow has the energy to go out and apply for a job. Maybe he gets the job. Maybe he begins to turn his life around. Who knows? One thing I do know is that all of our actions, big or small, have consequences. It’s within our power to chose to treat others with love and compassion; to pay it forward like my son did.

The reasons why there is so much anger and hatred in the world are varied and complex. I couldn’t begin to list them. Like many people, I’m struggling to find a way out of our current dilemma. It’s all so overwhelming. Maybe a good start would be to simply  follow the Golden Rule: Treat others as you’d have them treat you. I think back on my college days and a nugget of wisdom I heard once from an old friend that has stayed with me ever since.

One evening my buddy John Murphy and I were sitting around the local watering hole bemoaning the sad state of world affairs (if we only knew what was to come!). I asked him, “Murph, what the hell are we gonna do about all of these haters and greed heads?” Murph paused, took a pull off of his beer and sighed, “We’re gonna kill ‘em with kindness Lou, kill ‘em with kindness!” Sage advise. Let’s pay it forward. Let’s start now.

My wife and I were watching a movie the other night. About halfway through the film, a man pulled his car off to the side of the road to call his wife. He was in the process of leaving a message when it began to rain. The rain started slowly, gradually building in intensity until raindrops were pounding on the roof of his car. Rain covered the windows with thousands of silver droplets. It appeared as if this man was on the inside of a fishbowl looking out. He cracked one of the windows and held the phone outside so his wife could hear the sound of the rain falling. You see she is the commander on a spaceship headed to Mars. Both of them may have been thinking this could be the last time that his wife would ever hear rain.

As I watched this scene play out, intense feelings of longing and sadness flooded over me. I felt the way that couple were probably feeling. Would I ever hear the sound of rain again? Where I live it’s been nine months since there’s been any measurable amount of rainfall. I’ve nearly forgotten what the rainy day experience is like. The land is brittle and baked, covered with ash and dust from  relentless heat and wildfires. Rain; cool, quenching rain. I close my eyes and reimagine the experience.

What does rain sound like? It rat-a-tats onto the roof of our deck. It swishes through our fruit trees. It hisses under car tires rolling along rain slicked streets. It splashes over squealing, puddle stomping children. It rushes through a rain swollen creek. It drips down the rain gutter outside our bedroom window, lulling me to sleep.

How does rain feel? It’s cleansing and cool on my face as I tilt my head back to catch each drop. It’s cold and wet and squishy when I walk barefoot through the grass.

What does rain look like? Trees and plants bending under its weight. Raindrops forming perfect crystal balls on leaves and petals, each one reflecting an infinite piece of the sky. Cars and streets, sidewalks and trees all take on the glow of the freshly cleansed. The surfaces of lakes and rivers transformed into millions of glittering, dancing diamonds.

What does rain smell like? Wet hair and wet fur. Mud and memories. Hope and possibilities. Gardens and growth. Relief and renewal. The promise of a new day.

What does rain taste like? Life.

Scientists are convinced that water once flowed freely on the surface of Mars. Drenching storms fed mighty rivers which carved massive canyons more grand than our own. It’s been a few million years since umbrellas were needed on the Red Planet though; rain and flowing water there being memories more distant than the human mind can wrap itself around. Will intelligent beings studying our planet in the distant future say the same of us? “Rain once fell there, rivers flowed…”

The water in Bullfrog Pond is olive green and still. The breeze, ever so slight, is just strong enough to push a few leaves across the surface; small vessels who’s destinations are unknown. As I approach the lichen spotted and weathered picnic table from where I am writing I startle an enormous Great Blue Heron. With two flaps of its prehistoric wings it’s off in a flash of blue to hunt in peace somewhere else. A dinner plate sized dark shape glides slowly by, occasionally popping its periscope-like head above the surface of the water; it’s a Western Pond Turtle. A few unlucky insects land on the surface and are quickly gobbled up. I watch this creature move with stealth and grace until it’s body disappears beneath the green. This pond is so full of life, the beauty here subtle. The key to unlocking some of its mysteries is to stop, observe and breathe; a meditation on what it means to be here right now.

The cacophony of our world today is deafening and unbearable. I’ve come here today to press the “mute” button for a few hours. I’m realizing that in order to survive these insane times, I need to find the quiet spaces within myself and in the world at large. I’m being screamed at from everywhere I turn so it feels really nice to be at this peaceful spot today where the only sounds I hear are the occasional buzz of an insect, the chattering conversation of a pair of Acorn Woodpeckers and the ringing in my ears. Out here there are no screams, only whispers.

The hunter I’m watching now is a Black Phoebe. This elegant little bird swoops down to the surface of the water from it’s perch, catching an insect in mid-air and returning to enjoy it’s snack. I walk down to the bank of the pond and the stillness is broken by a chirp and a splash; my footsteps have startled a bullfrog, its camouflage so complete among the algae and duckweed as to render it invisible. Flame orange and cerulean blue dragonflies perform their impossible acrobatics in the still autumn air,  their vibrant colors are a stark contrast against the muted greens and browns. Tiny black fish occasionally break the surface of the water, each time creating the miracle of a perfectly concentric circle as fleeting as a shooting star.

Life in the latter part of 2020 is at times painful and devastating, full of fear and anger. Humanity lurches along on its self destructive path but thankfully the rhythms of nature continue as they have for millennia here at Bullfrog Pond and at other sacred places in the natural world. Long after the evil and the greedy have passed on, nature will continue to provide us with solace in troubled times.

As I write this, the Air Quality Index (AQI) is 15. This is good, very good. Lately I’ve become quite well versed in the parameters of the AQI. Anything below 50 is good, smooth sailing, no problem, might as well be sitting on the beach in Maui. Between 50-100 we’re still in good shape but better be vigilant. Once we start getting into the mid to upper 100’s, well now we’ve got problems. A few days ago the AQI in my town was 220! In Oregon, the latest front in the climate fires currently raging out west, my friends there are choking on air with an AQI of 450 and higher! That’s equivalent to sticking your head into the top of a smoking chimney.

The perfect storm of Covid, wildfires and toxic air have me now more than ever appreciating one of the simplest, most basic pleasures in life: breathing clean air. Freak lightning storms in August sparked numerous horrific wildfires in California and Oregon. I don’t think I need to recap the news for you. As a result of these fires the air here has been basically unbreathable for over a month. That’s why today feels so good. 

The gentle breeze moving across my back deck creates a wind chime symphony, clearing out the smoke and purifying the air. What’s that huge patch of blue up there between the eucalyptus trees? Oh right, that’s the sky. After experiencing Apocalypse Orange and Nuclear Winter Grey, I much prefer the Robin’s Egg Blue that I’m currently looking at. And the air! I fill my lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth… I better be careful or I may hyperventilate! I walk around my yard and smell my neighbor’s barbecue, freshly mown grass, the tomato plants in our garden, night blooming jasmine. I’m so grateful  for one thing that I don’t smell, smoke! When is the last time I breathed air this clean? The breeze feels so damn good! I can breathe! Thank goodness I can breathe!

Let it rain

Cats and dogs, pigs and frogs

Oodles, puddles, gushers, mushers

Let it flow

Meander, tumble, rumble

A cascade parade

Buckets, sheets, fill the streets

Let it pour

More, more and more

Rivers, streams, dreams

A wonderful gullywashing downpour

A soaking baptism

A never-ending stream of cloud tears

A desperate weeping waterfall

Tumbling over a conical phantasm of endless umbrellas

Deflecting an infinite multitude of raindrops

The birds and bees, rocks and trees

Are arid and parched, brittle and baked

With all of my hydration imagination

Please let it rain

It was another lifetime ago. Actually it was just six months ago. Spring training was in full swing. Me, my son and our baseball pals were already making plans to buy tickets for upcoming games at Oracle Park in San Francisco. Another season with our beloved Giants was on the horizon and we could hardly wait to get out to the yard and root our team on. Well, you know the rest of this story.

Of all the aspects of life that have been disrupted  since Covid-19 has had us in its grip, the cessation of sports has been particularly difficult to come to terms with. Sports is such an integral part of the fabric of American life, a focal point of civic pride and an opportunity for people and communities of all types to come together to laugh and cry, cheer and jeer. The loss of sports has left a gaping hole in our collective hearts. From the mightiest MLB slugger to the littlest t-baller, baseball players and baseball diamonds have gone silent. Think about this: Little League was cancelled this year! Of course the entire sports world has been upended by Covid, but since baseball is so near and dear to my heart, that’s what I’m writing about.

Baseball is the source of my earliest and most vivid sports memory. It was  Father’s Day 1965. I was 8 1/2 years old and on my way to see my first major league baseball game. My mom packed the lunches, kissed us goodbye and loaded me, my older brother Ray and my dad into our ’64 Dodge Rambler. We were on our way to The House That Ruth Built: Yankee Stadium. 

My dad has always been a sports fanatic. Sports is the way that he and I  connect. As a kid I spent countless hours watching games on tv with my dad. Baseball was and still is my favorite sport. Back when I was a kid, the Yankees were my favorite team and my hero was Yankee icon and Hall of Famer Mickey Mantle. The Mick was in the twilight off his career on that Father’s Day and it turned out to be the first and only time I would ever see him play. Mantle retired three years later at the end of the 1968 season.

When we got to the gates, the usher took our tickets. As we walked through the turnstiles, Ray and I each received a genuine wooden baseball bat with a Yankee signature on the barrel. Mine was signed by  third baseman Clete Boyer. This was the first ever giveaway day at The Stadium and the place was packed with a record 71,245 fans! Our seats were in the upper deck in left field so we had to walk up several steep concrete ramps to get there. The sight that greeted me was simply breathtaking. What I remember most about that moment was the color of the grass. It was the greenest green that I had ever seen. It was all of the Saint Patrick’s Days that had ever been, rolled into one. Like the names given to those endless shades of colors at the paint store, this green needed its own unique name: Baseball Green.

We settled into our seats and I tried to take it all in. This was the most people that I had ever seen in one place. The field and the stadium itself were larger than life. I had no prior experience to compare this to. Yankee Stadium was more awe inspiring than I could have imagined. It was like the Grand Canyon, only made by humans. The starting lineups were introduced by legendary announcer Bob Sheppard. His sonorous voice  boomed over the PA system like the voice of God: “Batting third and playing first base, numbah seven MICKEY MANTLE!” The roar that greeted The Mick’s name was deafening. There were hits and runs scored. One of the opposing players hit a home run into our section in the upper deck. It was so hot, the concessions ran out of soda.

Miraculously, Major League Baseball has managed to salvage this season, so all has not been lost. The fans have been replaced by cardboard cut-outs, the roar of the crowd is pre-recorded and piped in through the stadium PA system. There are a couple of temporary new rules, more akin to Little League than MLB, and the shortened 60 game season is already more than halfway through. But I’ll take it. Whether you’re a fan or not, the fact that major leaguers are playing baseball right now on those impossibly green fields is a glimmer of hope that we can all hang onto.

People’s homes burn to ashes

The air turns yellow with smoke

We listen for evacuation notices

Deciding what to take if we have to go

People flee for their lives

One step ahead of the flames

Like a war zone

The chatter and roar of aircraft fills the sky

Heroic firefighters risk their lives

So that ours may be saved

Friends and family come together

To comfort and grieve

Our sacred wild places are reduced to ashes

Again

I miss the movies, the especially the smell of popcorn. I love to stand by the snack counter and watch the popper at work. The stainless steel tub rotates as it stirs the oil and unpopped kernels. When the oil reaches just the right temperature the staccato sound of popping begins. Slowly at first, it gathers in speed and intensity until  it sounds like a hundred firecrackers exploding all at once. Popcorn begins spilling from the lid of the tub in an avalanche of white, slowly filling the clear rectangular box that the tub sits inside of. The twin aromas of warm butter and popped corn kernels are simply intoxicating to me. Of all our senses, smell is the strongest activator of memory. Whenever I smell freshly popped popcorn, I’m immediately transported inside the comforting confines of a movie theater.

My mom always worked at the movies so I basically grew up inside a movie theater. She began as a ticket taker and candy girl and gradually worked her way up to theater manager. Up until I moved to California as an adventure seeking 22 year old, I never once paid to get into any movie theater in our area. All my mom had to do was call the theater manager and I’d be on the guest list. 

Like most small towns in the 60’s and 70’s, my hometown of Caldwell, NJ had a single screen movie theater. The Park Theater opened in 1925 and was a classic example of the movie theater architecture of that era; plush carpet, cushy seats, ornate ceilings. Saturday double feature matinees at The Park were a staple of my childhood and a rite of passage for me, my older brother Ray and our friends. Throughout my life I’ve had many a magical experience at the movies, but none stands out as much as the one I had on a cold and grey winter afternoon in 1965. 

The Sound Of Music was the big hit movie at the time so my mom took me and Ray to see a matinee screening at The Park. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were greatly anticipating the upcoming holiday and the first snow of winter that we hoped would precede it.  I don’t recall much about the actual movie viewing experience that day but I’ll never forget what happened afterwards. When the film ended, we stepped from the darkened theater into the light of the afternoon and were amazed at what we saw; it had snowed while we were inside! It was slightly more that a dusting but just enough snow for everything to be blanketed in a thin layer of white. The magic of that moment and the magic of the movies are forever linked in my mind.

A year earlier, The Park was the scene of another seminal movie moment for me. Ray and I screamed and sang along with a couple hundred other kids while The Beatles frolicked their way through A Hard Days Night. We loved The Beatles so much and this was the closest we’d ever come to seeing them live. Our dad sat stoically beside us, not sure what all the fuss was about. I remember thinking at the time how cool it was that dad had taken us. Sadly, The Park Theater was destroyed by a fire in 1974. A bank now sits on the site.

The entire movie going experience is still magical to me. Entering the dimly lit theater, the low murmur of conversation, the anticipation of the feature film, the larger than life aspects of the giant screen and surround sound. Most people leave at the end of the film but I stay until the last credit rolls and the house lights go on. Some directors add little surprises during or after the credits and I never want to miss any of those. I’ve carried the love of the movies with me all my life right up to the present day.

Ever since the arrival of the VCR and video stores, movie attendance has been on a slow, steady decline. DVD’s came along and home movie viewing improved both in quality and ease of operation. The ubiquity of online streaming services has nearly rendered the movie theater obsolete. Why shell out $10 a head to go out and see a movie when you can now watch virtually any film ever made in the privacy of your own home?

The existential horrors of COVID-19 have forced movie screens across the country to go black, further accelerating their decline. Hopefully it will once again be safe to sit inside a theater and watch a film. When that day comes, I wonder if there will be any theaters left to go back into? What a devastating loss that would be, another shared experience with other human beings gone as our society becomes more and more insular.

I’ll leave you with this thought.  If popcorn is popping in the lobby of some future movie theater and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

We were quite the flotilla. Six adults, three teenagers and two dogs heading out on paddle boards and kayaks for an afternoon on Sparks Lake near Bend, Oregon. This idyllic lake in the shadow of majestic Mount Bachelor is the perfect place to spend a lazy summer afternoon with family and friends.

Our first stop was a small sandy beach which we thankfully had to ourselves. Sandwiches, drinks and snacks came out as we relaxed deeper into this sunsplashed day. Our kids Sam and Denali had other plans. They immediately set off down the beach together to explore. With no Instagram or Snapchat to distract them they quickly segued into pre-smartphone mode. It didn’t take long for them to discover that the water nearest the shore was teeming with two inch long, olive green tadpoles. Denali came running over excitedly to show me one of these critters wriggling in her cupped hands. The adults munched, the dogs splashed happily in the lake and our kids were off on their own Discovery Channel adventure. Sam came up and cut the top off of an empty soda can while Denali dug a shallow hole a few feet from the water. The can was now a tadpole scooper and the hole their new home. The kids created a similar project two summers ago in Hawaii. While hiking a deserted beach on Kauai we came upon a creek filled with small black tadpoles. Our young wildlife biologists spent a couple of hours constructing a temporary home for those tadpoles too.

Watching Sam and Denali today I marvel at how effortlessly they can turn into little kids again, they’re sixteen going on six. That childhood sense of wonder is still inside of them, simmering just below the surface and it takes but one simple thing, like today’s tadpole discovery, to awaken it. The older our kids get the fewer and further between these spontaneous moments occur. However by getting them away from the trappings of civilization and technology there’s always a chance of them occurring again.

Kids reach a certain age, some sooner than others, and it’s suddenly not cool to be a kid any longer. Why does this happen? There seems to be an unwritten chronologic age at which childhood ends. However, I know plenty of adults who manage to retain that kid spirit, refusing to “grow up”.  Kids are intuitive and sensitive and whip smart. Their wide-eyed “oh my god, look at this!” sense that everything is new and possibilities are unlimited is refreshing and magical to be around. To spend time with kids is to live in the moment, experiencing life to the fullest. I try every day to see the world through the eyes of a child and hang on to their unique sense of wonder.

On a recent camping trip I had the opportunity to spend some time with the four year old granddaughter of a friend. She and I walked along the rocky beach of a lake collecting bird feathers. I found one feather that was particularly beautiful. It was about half an inch wide and three inches long, light grey at the bottom, gradually giving way to a darker shade of grey. It abruptly changes into a band of pure white, terminating in a point of jet black.  I asked my little friend Raya what kind of bird she thought this feather came from. She paused for a moment, opened up her dark rimmed blue eyes as wide as they could go and exclaimed, “A rainbow bird!” 

May we all continue to see the rainbow birds of the world.