Would you like to be part of my barefoot wish? We could walk hand in hand dodging rainbows on the beach in Hanalei with cool rain falling on our heads and warm sand squishing between our toes. Clouds slip past the sun and the rainbow colors become so intense that our eyes fill with joy tears. We run faster and faster filling our lungs with the sweet salty air as we try to reach the end of the rainbow before it melts back into the furry green mountains. We’re nearly there and can almost touch the colors. A pod of dolphins gets there before we do. They leap with childlike abandon, spinning and flipping towards the rainbow, absorbing the vibrating colors until each individual is now a rainbow of its own. This is my barefoot wish.
It’s one of the more unusual sounds in the bird kingdom. Beginning on a low note it gradually rises in pitch and speed, spiraling up and up, note by note until the sound just disappears into the forest air. It’s the sound of a wood faerie’s flute. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush always fills me with longing.
I first became aware of this mysterious and rarely seen little bird on my maiden trip to the Oregon Country Fair in July of 2000. The fair takes place inside this enchanting little forest within a larger property just outside of Veneta in western Oregon. During that fair I camped inside “the eight” (the fair’s main pathway being shaped roughly like the number 8). The eight is smack dab in the middle of the forest and birds abound inside this little slice of Eden.
Like the opening notes of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s classic Wooden Ships or the scent of spring’s first blossoming freesias, the Swainson’s Thrush’s song transports me immediately to a specific place and time in my life: the dappled green pathways of the country fair. It’s morning, hours before the public comes in. Vendors are beginning to open their booths, lines snake back from Liberty Coffee and other places serving the beverage that fuels the fair. In a few hours this pathway will become a human sea but right now it’s so peaceful and quiet. The recycle crew pass by in their rattletrap truck, cleaning up from the previous evening’s revelry. Sleepy eyed people are just waking up, or just going to bed, it’s hard to tell which. A trio of waif like young girls, all flowing hair and skirts, skip by wearing fairy wings and blowing bubbles. A man on stilts dressed like the Mad Hatter waits in line behind me. We are serenaded by an impish looking fellow sporting a bushy salt and pepper beard. He softly strums his banjo for us folks in the coffee line. The whirly copter atop his rainbow baseball cap twirls to the beat. The way the morning light filters down through the trees gives the pathway an underwater quality. I feel as if I’m swimming through a tranquil green pool. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush serves as a soundtrack to this calm before the storm scene, it’s the perfect background music to the fair’s magical, medieval vibe.
The Swainson’s Thrush
So what is the source of my longing? In a world filled with contrived and generic experiences, the Oregon Country Fair is a truly unique event. What began over 50 years ago as a ragtag gathering of hippies has grown over the years into a quirky, let your freak flag fly celebration of artists, musicians, dreamers, fun seekers and visionaries. My annual immersion into this bacchanalian scene is to be given a glimpse into what it’s like to be truly alive and free in a society that values neither freedom nor life. Acceptance and love, things that people are literally dying for, are found in abundance at the fair. For participants and organizers alike the possibilities really are unlimited among the forests and hayfields of the OCF.
By far my most favorite and magical place at the fair is the open air communal showers and sauna known as The Ritz. The walls, floors and benches are all exquisitely wood crafted. Water heated by an enormous wood burning furnace flows continuously through several rows of shower heads. Inhibitions are shedded along with the dust and grime as we all shower together. There’s a large circular fire pit surrounded by wooded steps and benches where people sit to dry off. A crackling blaze is kept going at all times. A small stage stands before the fire pit where acoustic music is performed. Performances are usually done au natural. My favorite gig ever as a musician was on that stage. Me and two close friends played and sang, naked as the day we were born. The Ritz is an enchanting place whenever you’re there but at night it is transformed. Everything is bathed in a soft orange glow from the fire and subdued lighting. In the showers, steam swirls around all of the beautiful naked bodies making them appear as if they’re moving in a dream. Everything is warm and peaceful. The snap and pop of the fire, the quiet hum of conversation and the hiss of the showers combine to create a meditative aural soundscape through which this scene is played out. If a return to the womb is possible, The Ritz would be it.
While immersed in the fair, I always feel a bit sad and nostalgic even while in the midst of the festivities. I guess it’s because Monday will eventually come and I’ll have to say goodbye to all of this until next year. To say that you never want something to end is such a cliche but you know what? If my Bill Murray Groundhog Day moment were to be set at the country fair, then bring it on! I could lie on my back at night in the cool grass of Chela Mela Meadow, watching the stars and listening to the giggles of happy trippers. Then it would be on to The Ritz. Park me underneath a shower head and let the hot water run over me like a baptism. The smokestack from the furnace is painted with a Native American osprey motif. I’d watch the sparks fly from its mouth and become fireflies as they disappear into the Oregon night. I’d awaken each morning not to Sonny and Cher’s I Got You Babe but to the song of the Swainson’s Thrush. Longing.
The sign on Highway 1 for Doran Beach showed that the parking lot was FULL. Since it was late afternoon we figured that some people would most likely be leaving by now so we headed there anyway confident that we’d find a place to park. The road to Doran winds downhill through a small grove of tall cypress trees. As you break through the trees you catch the first glimpse of the beach. This is a gem of a place. The beach stretches over two miles from a rocky point at its southern end to the inlet of Bodega Bay in the north. Rolling dunes give way to golden sand that’s glittering like jewels on this crystal clear day. The sun dances on the water, making diamond patterns upon its surface. Gentle waves break rhythmically onto the shore, scattering tiny plovers that are drilling the wet sand in search of food. Cirrus clouds are broad, brushstrokes against the azure sky.
Today is no ordinary trip to the beach. Since shelter in place took effect in mid-March we’ve been locked down along with the other 39.2 million Californians. The entire Sonoma County coast has been closed. This is the first day that beaches have been opened and we’re taking advantage of it.
Doran Beach at sunset, looking towards Bodega Head.
Like the prescient refrain of Joni Mitchell’s Big Yellow Taxi, I really didn’t know what I had until it was gone. Stepping out of the car with my family I was hit with the intoxicating smell of the ocean, the sound of the waves and the sight of people as delighted to be here as we were. I was nearly overcome with emotion. I just stood there for a few moments, breathed deeply and tried to take it all in. I felt such gratitude. My family and I were safe and together at a place where we’ve shared so many special times. The fear and paranoia that’s been sitting on our community like a fog has at least temporarily been blown away by the wind and the sun and the waves of this most magical spot on the planet. We grabbed our gear and headed down the beach. I love walking barefoot in sand. It takes some extra effort to get from Point A to Point B so I always feel a small sense of accomplishment when I get to where I’m going. Small waves played out in our path, the frigid water felt invigorating on my feet. I was seeing Doran Beach in a whole new light. There are many people here today. No one wore a mask, no one needed to wear a mask. The beach is the ideal place to practice social distancing. As I saw the joy on people’s faces I realized that one of the things I’ve been missing most is seeing people smile. It seems like all of us here today are letting out a collective sigh of relief.
The ongoing Covid-19 crisis is showing us something that we all know intrinsically but sadly too often forget and that’s how quickly the things we love can be taken away from us. One lesson that I continue to learn is the importance of living in the moment. That’s easier said than done but nowadays I’m trying like hell to cherish and appreciate what I have when I have it. As things gradually loosen up and we begin to get back to some semblance of normalcy, I’ve got some advise for you. If there’s a friend you want to see, make plans with them today. If there’s a place you want to visit, go now. A restaurant? A movie? A favorite hike? How about hugs? Oh my god, when this thing is over and it’s safe to do so, there are a few people I plan on hugging whom I may never let go of. Do it now! Savor the moment! Take part in life! Joni’s words have never rang truer.
Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone
The Santa Rosa plum tree in our backyard is wizened and has many tales to tell. Her age is a mystery to me. So many beautiful moments in our family’s history have occurred within her arms and in the shade of her leaves. A chronicle of our children’s lives can be traced through this tree.
Sam and Denali (twins) were born in March. Their first summer was a hot one. We spent much time with them in the shade of the plum tree on a bright red bedspread we had. They had yet to master the art of crawling so we’d occasionally have to flip them. “Tummy time” was a precursor to crawling. Like all new parents we took many photographs of our kids. The red bedspread features prominently in a particularly memorable photo shoot, an example of which is among the favorites we’ve ever taken. The photo is a close up of our two babies from their bellybuttons up. Sam is looking off to the right wearing the same 100 watt smile he wears today. Denali is looking straight at the camera, her serious expression pondering the meaning of it all. Their ivory bodies stand in stark contrast against the deep red background.
In a blink infants became toddlers and our venerable tree takes on another function. There comes a point in a day of caring for the twins when we simply needed to find a safe place they could not escape from just so we could catch our breath. The answer: tree swings! We hung the swings side by side from the tree’s lowest and sturdiest horizontal branch. We’d strap the kids in tightly and start pushing. Sam and Denali would squeal with delight the higher and faster they went, their hair flying in the wind, smiling with the pure joy that only children know. We used these swings until we just couldn’t squeeze either of them in any longer.
Now trees are meant to be climbed and our plum is no exception. When the twins were tall and agile enough they’d range over the tree like two monkeys. One of her branches hangs out over the top railing of our deck and provides gangplank like access to the rest of the tree. When they first started climbing the tree I’d stand on the ground looking up at them, terrified at the prospect of a fall. They of course were fearless, hopping from branch to branch with glee. It wasn’t long before a requisition was submitted for the construction of a treehouse. The configuration of her branches does not lend itself to an actual house so I did the next best thing. Out of salvaged plywood and 2×4’s I built a sturdy platform about seven feet off the ground, later adding a second platform higher up the tree. The kids affixed various ropes and handholds throughout the tree. These platforms have staying power and are still occasionally in use today.
Here she is, complete with tree platforms and new swings.
Sam and Denali continued to grow and their play became more sophisticated. One evening they had the notion to string a zipline from the lower platform to our apple tree, a whopping 15 feet away! Carol and I watched with amusement as together they figured out how to engineer the thing. It ended up working perfectly, and they zipped happily back and forth between the two trees well into the night. I have video footage as evidence. The zipline remained operable for months until both trees leafed out in the spring.
In the summer of their 13th birthday the kids attended a week-long camp at Vertex Climbing Gym. Rock climbing became their new passion. They returned home at the end of camp and immediately began screwing hand holds into the trunk and thicker branches of the plum, which has now become an impromptu climbing wall. They rigged harnesses out of rope and carabiners and like Hillary and Tenzig up they went. Sam and Denali both eventually became members at the gym (Sam is on the climbing team). The plum tree was one of the places where they honed their mountaineering skills.
Two months ago, the twins turned sixteen. The zipline has long ago been dismantled, the climbing wall holds mostly rotted or fallen off. Surprisingly enough the tree platforms are still intact. The tree swings, long gone in a yard sale, have come full circle. Sam has always been good with his hands and recently built a sturdy new swing out of wood. And the tree? Like all living things that have been around for a while she’s begun to show her age. Numerous cracked and dead branches have recently been removed. More and more lichen now mars the once smooth surface of her bark. However, her long arms still reach towards the sky, her leaves still provide us with cooling shade in summer. She’s still home to myriad birds and a squirrel who we affectionately refer to as Mr. Nibbles because of his propensity for munching apples up in the treehouse. And the plums? For nearly two decades they have nourished our family, our neighbors and so many of the kids’ friends. Watching Sam and Denali bite into a sun warmed plum, red juice dripping down their chins, is to see them taste the essence of summer. There are many green plums ripening on the tree’s branches right now, in fact, and summer is on the way.
The other night Carol and I were watching a movie. Like most people, we’ve been watching lots of movies lately. This was a sweet independent film about a struggling improvisational comedy troupe set in New York City, the type of film we’d normally pay to see at our locally run theater if it weren’t currently shuttered. Anyway, there was a scene early on in the film set in a crowded pub. The actors and their friends were there to unwind after a show. They were all drinking, sharing food, laughing, hugging, you know, living. My initial reaction was, “Look at how close they’re sitting to one another don’t they know that’s not safe?” Shelter in place and social distancing are barely a month old and already a scene like this looks foreign to me.
Five weeks ago most Americans were going about their lives as usual. COVID-19 was here but no one seemed to be taking the threat seriously yet. Then a basketball player tested positive and the NBA suspended its season. Things changed overnight, literally. Shelter in place, social distancing, people walking around wearing face masks. It seems like we’re all living some surreal nightmare. I keep expecting Rod Serling to step into our living room at any moment to warn us about “the signpost up ahead.” What made the Twilight Zone so scary and so real was the way in which Serling showed the terror ordinary people like you and me would experience when faced with an unexplainable phenomena. We could relate to his protagonists, they could be us. Well right now that ARE us.
When this nightmare is over, and it will end, future generations will judge us by how we acted during this crisis. We can chose. Are we going to be toilet paper hoarders? Someone who stockpiles hand sanitizer and price gouges it on eBay? Or are we going to keep a level head, take care of ourselves and our loved ones but also do what’s best for the health and well being of the communities in which we live? Calm, kindness, caring and humor are some of the virtues that will help us all see this through
There’s a darkness hanging over the world right now, there’s no doubt about that, but rays of sunlight keep stubbornly breaking through. If you wade through the doom and gloom of the daily news, you’ll find countless acts of love and kindness happening everywhere. On my daily walks and bike rides I’m seeing more people outside in my neighborhood than ever before. Families playing with their kids, dog walkers, joggers, bikers. Smiles, nods and friendly greetings abound. I passed a woman the other day while biking the Joe Rodota Trail in Sebastopol. As I rode by she flashed me a radiant smile and used both of her hands to trace a huge heart in the air. We may be six feet apart right now, but we are united as human beings.
A songwriter friend of mine recently played me a new song of his where he poses the question: “What kind of lemonade are we going to make from these lemons?“ As you all know, there are a hell of a lot of lemons out there right now. My heart goes out to the thousands of people who are dealing with the death of a loved one or the loss of a job or business. How do you even begin to deal with those types of personal tragedies? Maybe, just maybe, COVID-19 will help us all realize that we’re not just a bunch of countries separated by artificial borders but a global family. We’re in this together and together is how we’ll find our way out. Perhaps this is the dawning of a new era of global cooperation where we can not only defeat this virus but also find ways to once and for all tackle seemingly intractable problems like climate change, poverty, and racial inequality. Positive? Idealistic? Well, I’m an elementary school teacher a father of twin teenagers who are just beginning to come into their own. I have no choice but to have hope for the future.
Perhaps we should start right here in our own neighborhoods. If we do, I think we’ll discover that the person with the American flag flying from their front porch and the person flying the rainbow flag have more in common than they both realize. If you’ve never taken the time to get to know your neighbors, I’ll bet you’ve done so by now
People all over the world want the same things; a safe and healthy place to raise their families, meaningful work, economic stability, clean water to drink, clean air to breathe, food on the table. If this virus has shown us anything it’s shown us that we’ve only got one planet and we damn well better figure out how to share it. Deeper and more meaningful cooperation globally and locally, perhaps that’s the lemonade we can make from all of these lemons. Well, we’ve got a tree full of lemons in our backyard and plenty of sugar in the cupboard. I’m getting started right now!
You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.
It’s a subtle announcement. I mean if you’re not listening for it you’d think it was just another random chirp from one of the many birds that call our part of the world home. But this one is different. This little chirp tells me in no uncertain terms that winter is over, kaput, has bitten the dust. Spring, in all her glory, has definitely arrived.
Like a delicious orange popsicle on the most glorious sun splashed summer day, the Hooded Oriole announces its presence with a flash of brilliance across the morning sky. This is a strikingly beautiful bird. It is fairly small, 8” long with a 10” wingspan. Its electric orange body feathers are framed by black wings with white bars and a jet black mask from its eyes to its chest. When the sun hits this little bird, it practically vibrates.
The Hooded Oriole makes its appearance in our neighborhood every year within a few days of the spring equinox. There’s a tall fan palm tree in our neighbor’s yard and that’s where the oriole makes its home until the end of summer. All throughout spring and summer, I watch it make its rounds from the fan palm to the tall eucalyptus trees in the lot behind our back fence to the plum and apple trees in our backyard. On most mornings I can see my little friend perched atop one of these tall trees welcoming the first rays of sun with its lilting and lyrical song.
What makes the oriole’s presence around our home so special is that it’s a migratory species, wintering on the Baja and the Yucatan peninsulas in Mexico and coming north to breed. One of the reasons I so appreciate this bird is because of its fleeting nature. I love every time its electric orange body flashes in and out of the green foliage. Come the end of summer it’ll be gone until next spring. Seeing the Hooded Oriole every year is a rite of spring that I look forward to; it is grounding, comforting and a touchstone of normalcy and beauty in these strange and uncertain times.
Another seasonal visitor to our yard and one that arrives with even less fanfare than the Hooded Oriole is the diminutive and feisty Rufous Hummingbird. At about the same time as the oriole, this 3” long dynamo can be seen zipping between the two feeders on our deck and the tops of our fruit trees. Its rusty reddish-brown feathers and white neck stripe easily distinguishes it from our years round resident the Anna’s Hummingbird. The Rufous’ time around here is even more fleeting than the oriole’s. While the oriole stays through summer, this little hummingbird is only passing through our area on the way to its breeding grounds in The Pacific Northwest, Canada and Alaska. Its migration route of 3,900 miles is one of longest in the avian world. I’m lucky if I get to see it for a week. I go out on our deck with my Nikon and telephoto lens every day hoping to somehow capture and preserve some of it’s beauty and intrigue on film. Then one day it’s simply gone; the Rufous Hummingbird has vanished as quickly as it arrived. I feel so lucky, so incredibly blessed that this tiny bird chooses our backyard every spring as one of the way stations on its trip north.
How is it that these two species of birds manage to find their way to our backyard every year? Lifespans of up to six years have been recorded for both species but more than likely they’re not the same individuals that make the trip every year which makes their arrival even more inscrutable. In a world where no stone has been left unturned and nearly every inch of our planet has been trod upon, exploited and inhabited it’s nice to know that there are still some uncharted waters, some mysteries still left to be solved. How the Hooded Oriole and Rufous Hummingbird manage to travel such great distances and arrive at the same place at basically the same time every year is a miracle and a mystery that I hope is never solved.
Among the endless stream of frightening news about COVID -19 came a piece the other day that really stood out for me. Evidently the European Union has asked Netflix to slow down their streaming for fear of some type of Internet crash. With movie houses, museums, theaters, restaurants, bars and music venues all shuttered, millions of people are stuck inside, many of them binging endlessly on Netflix. I began to wonder whether this hypothetical crash would also effect music streaming platforms like Spotify and Pandora. Most people that I know have long ago sold off their vinyl and cd collections, so they’re limited to streaming music online or listening to what they’ve uploaded to their various devices. I do have much of my music collection on the hard drive of our Mac, but I’ve also held onto hundreds of cds and even 150 or so vinyl LPs. We have an old school audio set up in our living room complete with cd/dvd player, powerful floor speakers, analog amplifier and…a turntable! No Bluetooth or Internet connection required for operation. If the entire online music system were to temporarily crash, I’d still be able to bust out an actual hard copy of The Rolling Stones 1969 classic Let It Bleed. A world without hugs and real human contact is difficult enough. A world without Merry Clayton’s incendiary vocal turn on Gimme Shelter is unbearable.
There’s a real comfort in owning something tangible. If you’ve downloaded Let It Bleed, what do you actually have? A bunch of 0’s and 1’s, that’s what. With a vinyl or cd copy you own something that you can hold in your hands. Pop it in and hit “play” or drop the needle and be transported to the dark side by the haunting guitar licks of Keith Richards. Then of course there’s the cover, one of the most iconic in all of rock and roll. That wild “layer cake” consisting of, from bottom to top, the album master tape tin, a clock face, a pizza, a bicycle tire and finally an actual cake topped with figurines of the band members. Below all of this the actual LP sits on a turntable spindle waiting to spin its magic. If you own the vinyl LP you get the dust sleeve with full song credits plus the band’s instructions, in no uncertain terms that THIS RECORD SHOULD BE PLAYED LOUD.
One of the reasons this virus is so scary is because of its intangibility. You can’t see it, you can’t touch it, you can’t smell it. It could nowhere. It could be everywhere. At this moment I am incredibly grateful for the real, tangible things in life; Carol and our children, our friends, the soft purr of our kitty when we rub her tummy, the smell of coffee in the morning, the avian traffic jam at our bird feeders, the solid wood feel and steel string jangle of my acoustic guitar, sunrises, sunsets and music, sweet, sweet music. I’m heading for the cd player right now with Let It Bleed clutched firmly in my hand and I plan on following Mick and Keith’s instructions to the T!
“Who Knows Where The Time Goes?” Judy Collins’ sad, sweet and achingly beautiful voice fills the room. I recently picked up a vinyl copy of this album for $1 at the only record store left in my town. The minor pops and scratches adding a little extra warmth and authenticity to the song. When Judy Blue Eyes first sang this song she was in her twenties. Like most twenty year olds her whole life stretched out before her; a seemingly endless road of unlimited possibilities. At that age time moves at a snail’s pace and the future is alive with promise. No need to look back when there’s so much still ahead. Through her interpretation of that song, Ms Collins was able to brilliantly convey so much of the sadness, longing and melancholy that comes with the passing of time. Not bad for a 28 year old.
When I was in my twenties I never wondered, nor did I care, where the time had gone. I was too busy looking ahead and planning for my future. Now of course more of my life is behind me than there is before me. I have no idea where the time is going but I do know wherever it’s going, it’s going much faster than I’d like it to go. A friend of mine recently compared this phenomenon to an exhibit at The Exploratorium in San Francisco. There’s this large funnel type thing, four feet or so in diameter with a hole at the bottom. A marble is released at the top of the funnel and makes concentric circles as it descends towards the hole. The circles are long and slow at first but the marble gradually picks up speed and the circles get smaller the closer the marble gets to the bottom. Right now time for me feels like that marble heading for the end of the funnel.
Now don’t get me wrong. I am not a fatalist. I’m certainly not sitting around marking time just waiting for the end. I’ve got a lot of living to do and I’ll live life to it’s fullest until I draw my last breath. Like Dylan Thomas famously wrote, I plan to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” The pace at which time seems to be moving however does add a real sense of urgency to my life.
I think I’m in better physical condition than most 63 year old men. I work out. I swim. I bike. I have a happy life with a loving family and close friends. I don’t think of myself as old but one look at the thinning grey hair, age spots and little paunch around my middle belies that belief. Frankly, the mirror these days isn’t exactly my friend. Being the father of twins and an elementary school teacher have helped to both keep me young and age me. You can damn well believe that I’ve earned every grey hair on my head.
One of the unsettling things about aging for me is that it’s totally new and previously uncharted territory. We often fear what we don’t know and this is definitely a little scary. I can observe people around me who are aging and talk with them to gain their perspectives. However, the bottom line is my experience with aging is unique to me. Yes I can learn from others and the key I think is to apply that knowledge to my own experience. Being at peace with and accepting the facts of aging are important steps in fully coming to terms with the process. Much like a journey on psychedelics, the only way out is through.
There are upsides to all of this business of course. Take for example the Senior Discount. There’s nothing like getting a dollar off at the movie theater to help assuage my fears and anxieties over growing old. I recently ate at a health food restaurant in San Diego and received what was euphemistically called a “wisdom discount.” Let me just get a few more years under my belt and I’ll qualify for priority boarding on airplanes along with parents of small children, people in wheelchairs and members of the military. When my gnarled, arthritic fingers can no longer manipulate laces, buttons and zippers there will always be velcro. So at least I’ve got that going for me.
Today is crisp and clear, typical for a winter morning in Sonoma County. A thin layer of frost clings to the roofs of the houses and cars in our neighborhood. The sun has just begun to rise, painting the eastern sky in pastel hues of pink and orange. My son Sam and I head out to the car like we’ve done a thousand times before only today is different. I get in on the passenger side because Sam is driving to school.
I look over at my son sitting so tall in the driver’s seat, he’s such a handsome boy. His long brown hair hangs in his eyes and spills over the collar of his bright pink hoodie. He’s looking a bit like a Revolver era Beatle. Sam did not pass the vision test at DMV so his impossibly blue eyes are now framed by a pair of stylish glasses. We fasten our seatbelts. Sam presses the power button on the Prius, eases the car out of the driveway and swings it around the arc of our cul-du-sac. Over the course of the past six months, Sam has had ample opportunities to pull the car in and out of the driveway and to practice around the court. This morning however, he’s going a little further. Sam puts on his blinker, checks for cars and crosses the Rubicon. He’s driving into the future and I’m along for the ride.
Sam drives with a calm confidence. I give him a few pointers that he doesn’t really need and the ride is uneventful. Eighteen minutes later we arrive unscathed at the parking lot of El Molino High School. “I love you buddy.” I say and watch him, backpack slung over his shoulder, disappear into the crowd of other kids.
Life is a series of firsts; first kiss, first date, first job. We always remember our firsts. When and where these firsts occur define us and help shape who we are. Today is a big first for Sam and an equally important one for me and my wife Carol. Like all parents we plot the trajectory of our life together by the milestones of our children. Like most transitions that our kids have gone through so far, this one is bittersweet. I can’t help feeling wistful, sitting here beside Sam as he drives us up Guerneville Road. His first “vehicle” was a three wheeled kind of mini chopper. There was a handle attached to the back of the seat that was used to push him along. When Sam’s legs got long enough to reach the pedals, we removed the handle. He was now able to propel himself. Next came his first bicycle, a sporty looking deal with green racing stripes and a horn on the handlebars. Training wheels were firmly attached to the rear wheel. It wasn’t long before Sam declared that he was ready for us to remove the training wheels. Off came the wheels, now here I am steadying his bike from behind while he pedals like mad. He picks up a head of steam and I let go. Just like that he’s off on his own and has never looked back. The bicycles got bigger and so did Sam. Add to that rollerblades, scooters and skateboards, all of which lead to this moment.
When our children were born Carol and I were told to cherish every moment with them because, as the cliche says, “It goes by fast.” We have and it did. Along with the wistfulness this morning comes an enormous sense of pride and love for our son. This is a great accomplishment for him. Sam has worked hard in order to be sitting behind the wheel today. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Sam’s twin sister is on the cusp of getting her permit. Lucky me. In a couple of months I get to relive this moment!
