I stood beneath our oak tree and looked up through its nearly bare branches, the sky was milk white and formless. There was just enough breeze to dislodge a few leaves, one or two or five at a time. Some floated straight down, landing on the lawn or me. Others flew sideways or bumped against branches on their earthward journey. Each leaf moved through the air with the helter skelter flight pattern of a butterfly. I couldn’t tear myself away and became mesmerized by this sky ballet. Like snowflakes no two leaves are alike, each one is unique and beautiful in its own right, their colors and sizes of infinite variations. I was filled with grace and fully immersed in the fleeting beauty of this moment. Every leaf on this tree will eventually make the same journey. All of its branches will soon be bare and await the green buds of spring. The wheel continues to turn.
A miniature miracle like this occurs every day, anywhere you choose to look. The only requirement is to open your eyes and open your heart to the wonder that surrounds us all.
I walk out onto our back deck this morning just before dawn. Brilliant Venus is visible high in the indigo sky. As Earth spins towards the sun a thin band of orange and pink begins to appear in the east. Monet brush strokes paint the sky in pastel hues. It’s quiet, but quiet is a relative term. The drip and splash of our deck fountains breaks the silence. Much like the roar of the ocean, the wind through the trees or the gurgling of a mountain stream over stones, the sounds of the fountains enhance the silence. In the background however, I can hear the distant roar of the 101 freeway. It’s several miles away as the crow flies but in the stillness of this pre-dawn hour sound carries far. Living here in town, I know all too well that real quiet is hard to come by.
Luckily, I don’t have to travel very far in order to find true silence, as in the total absence of any sounds at all, as in pin drop silent. Carol and I just bought a camper van and decided to take it out on a test run. Normally we would never consider camping this late in fall but with our new home on wheels, a warm, dry space with electricity and a comfy bed is just steps away. Rain? Freezing temperatures? We don’t care!
We decided to head for Sugarloaf Ridge. Sugarloaf is an expansive state park in the mountains above the Sonoma Valley. It’s just 45 minutes from our front door but a world away. The campground is nestled in a narrow valley with gentle Sonoma Creek flowing along its edge. The park is so close to thousands of people yet when I’m here it feels like wilderness. Except for a few park buildings, there are few signs of civilization. And the quiet today, even during late afternoon, is nearly absolute.
There are many hikes to choose from here. Our hike took us a thousand feet above the valley floor. We walked through forest, up switchbacks and along a ridge top where the only sounds were our footsteps and the wind in my ears. Even the herd of deer that we surprised ran away with seemingly not a sound. We returned to camp at sunset and that’s when the real quiet began. Down here there was no wind, the creek made no sound, as the full force of winter rains had yet to give it voice. Being in the midst of such profound silence was like being embraced by a living, breathing entity. It took a little getting used to. Even during the quietest moments at home there’s always some kind of human made background noise. People always seem intent on creating a din.
Up here at Sugarloaf it’s absolutely still. This type of quiet is ideal for thinking, breathing and just being. Throughout the course of everyday life we are literally assaulted with sound. It takes determination and real effort to find true quiet but once I do, it helps me to realize the extent of the cacophony in our world and gives me a deeper appreciation for quiet when I’m in it. Spending time among the silence here at Sugarloaf Ridge allows me to access the silence within myself. For this brief time, I’m able to slough off the chitter chatter of the world, breathe and be fully present. I can literally feel the calm flow into me. My body and mind both get a much needed rest, in essence I’m “fueling up” on silence. I keep it in reserve and tap into it when the world gets to be too much.
It’s a rain dance out there today, a veritable, seasonal soiree. Drip, drop, splish, splash, pitter, patter, an onomatopoetic smorgasbord of sounds. Cars whizz by on the freeway, their tires hiss like bacon on a hot griddle. Ducks are delighted. Frogs flip and flop happily across the wonderfully wet grass. The pavement has been transformed into a mosaic of puddles and rivulets where staccato raindrops create fleeting points of diamond light. Oak leaves take flight, sailing through the air like hundreds of amber and brown butterflies. Some of them end up plastered to the street like puzzle pieces waiting to be put together. The trees with leaves still left on them are heavy with moisture, their branches bow in supplication as if to give thanks for this nourishing rain.
With my boots on I slip and slide across the lawn like an olympic figure skater. The judges all give me 10’s. And the mud! The sweet smell of freshly made mud is like nothing else on Earth. It’s the smell of life. No water, no life. No mud either. A few worms are wriggling on the sidewalk, having been temporarily washed from their flooded dens. Exposed, some will be meals for the hungry robins. Such is the life of an earthworm in a rain storm.
Gratitude and joy overflow from me as I watch this movie unfold. I feel like Gene Kelly right now. All I need is a lamp post and an umbrella and I can do a little “singing in the rain” of my own. What am I waiting for?
Last Monday was an absolutely stellar fall day so I decided to take a hike at Annadel State Park in Santa Rosa. Annadel is one of the crown jewels of Sonoma County parks. It has diverse ecosystems, many hiking and biking trails, a large lake, creeks and abundant bird life. I’d been out there for a couple of hours when the trail I was on began to snake through a heavily forested section. The trees were predominantly madrone and bay laurel, except for one lone oak. Not all oaks around here are deciduous but this one, a black oak, is. It’s long pointed leaves were in various stages of fall colors, but it wasn’t the leaves that stopped me in my tracks.
About four feet off the ground, the main trunk of this tree branched out into a perfect “V”. I noticed that the underside of the left fork and the left side of the main trunk were covered in a thick carpet of emerald green moss. The moss was stunningly backlit by the few shafts of late afternoon sun that managed to find their way through the dense canopy. The angle and position of the sun at that moment created the perfect conditions for what essentially was an Impressionist painting come to life. It was almost as if Edward Hopper or Van Gogh himself preceded me down the trail. The early Impressionists were just that, masters of painting light. So it was with Ansel Adams. He once famously said that he didn’t really photograph things, he photographed light. The star of Ansel’s masterpiece Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico isn’t so much the ripe full moon that looms over this tiny town, but rather the light that the moon gives off. But back to the tree.
The Impressionist glow given off by this backlit, moss covered tree had me mesmerized. The effect of this phenomenon was absolutely hypnotic. Time seemed to be standing still. I had near tunnel vision and found myself in a meditative state of bliss while taking in this scene. The colors of the leaves, the glowing moss, the absolute stillness of the forest that surrounded me all combined to create a truly profound and very Zen moment. My hearing isn’t what it used to be but I could actually hear the sound that a single oak leaf made as it landed in the dry leaves that carpet the understory. It was that quiet and I was that tuned in. A rarely seen red breasted sapsucker and a pair of ruby crowned kinglets flitted about the trees. They were my only companions. I’m not sure how long I stood there but after a while the sun dipped just a bit lower and the glow quickly faded. I took that as my cue to continue on down the trail.
If a tree glows in the forest and no one is there to see it, does it still glow?
It’s coming on four years since I began publishing this blog, so I figured it was time for a facelift, a new coat of paint as it were. Musings of a Late Bloomer was always a bit wordy so I shortened the title to simply Musings. There’s a new tag line too. Reflections on love, nature and music gives the reader a better idea of what to expect from these essays. The cover photo’s different too; it’s a shot of a glorious rainbow from the beach at Hanalei Bay on Kauai.
I so appreciate those of you who have taken the time over the years to read my stories. Your comments are always heartfelt. Knowing that my writing has touched you in some way means so much to me. If you’re not already a subscriber, you can do so by clicking the “subscribe” button at the top of this page. No, you won’t be put on other mailing lists or receive annoying spam, you’ll just get an email whenever I post a new essay. My blog isn’t monetized so I get nothing but the satisfaction of knowing that you’ve read and have been moved by what I’ve written. As always feel free to pass this link on to anyone who you think would enjoy what I write.
My essays are “personal” but I think that many of the subjects I choose to write about often have universal appeal. My story could also be yours. Love, music and nature…what else is there? Thanks for reading.
It’s all about the light. Honey golden and lemon yellow, soft and dreamy it cuts through the reds, yellows and oranges of the autumn leaves, illuminating them like electricity. When the sun is out on a fall day such as this, the foliage glows as if lit from within. Recent rains have washed everything clean. The air is so clear it practically sparkles. Each breath I take is an invigorating tonic. The mornings are cold, my exhalations ephemeral clouds that are gone in the blink of an eye. The rain and cool weather also means the end of fire season. What a relief to be out from under that cloud. There’s mud in my backyard again!
There seems to be no end to the Instagram perfect apples that have ripened on our tree. Pale green with perfect brush strokes of red, the Pink Lady is a picturesque variety perfectly suited for pies, drying, juice or just plain eating. To crunch into one of these beauties is to taste autumn in all its glory. Last winter’s heavy rains have caused all of our trees to literally burst with fruit. We’ll be picking apples on Christmas Day. The citrus has slowly begun its transformation from green to orange and yellow. Our lemon, orange, tangerine and grapefruit trees are so laden with fruit that I spent an hour the other day fashioning poles out of scrap wood in order to prop up their sagging branches. Each day the citrus takes on a little more color. Good things are always worth waiting for.
The birds are changing shifts. There go the orioles and tanagers. Here come the hermit thrush and white crowned sparrows. My bird guide says that the northern flicker is a year round resident but I disagree. I only hear this bird’s distinctive, high pitched whistle in fall and winter. Once the trees in our yard drop their leaves, some of the more secretive birds will have no place to hide. Perhaps the ruby crowned kinglet will flash its corona at me. The yellow rumped and Townsend’s warblers may pause long enough for me to say, “Welcome back.” Our resident hummingbirds should stick around, as long as we keep their feeders filled.
Fall colors are everywhere. We don’t have nearly the abundance of deciduous trees as they do back east but we do have the vineyards. I live in Sonoma County, CA (also known as “Wine Country”). Right now the dazzling display of colors that the grapevines are putting on would rival any New England hardwood forest.
Everything seems to be quieting down, the Earth and its creatures taking a pause. The days are getting shorter, temperatures cooler, and rain, sweet rain bathes us in its life giving waters. I’m also taking the time to slow down and acknowledge the deep gratitude that I have for the abundance that surrounds us all.
I have yet to fully mine the depths of my love for the music of The Beatles. Since I was six years old, The Beatles have been an integral part of my life. I was there from the beginning. My older brother Ray and I bought every Beatles record as soon as it came out. Our mom would take us to the Caldwell Studio of Music where we’d plunk down the 50 cents or so for the latest 45RPM by the Fab Four. The first record I remember owning was She Loves You ( the B side, I’ll Get You). When Meet The Beatles came out that was the first album we bought. Ray still has this copy, collecting dust and memories somewhere in the depths of his archives. In January of 1964, Ray and I watched The Beatles first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show. We squealed with delight while our parents looked on with bemusement, wondering what all the fuss was about. I can’t begin to imagine what my life would be like or how much poorer the world would be had The Beatles never existed.
These thoughts came to me today while I was listening to Penny Lane. Trying to pick my favorite Beatles song is like trying to say which Hawaiian sunset is the best I’ve ever seen. They’re all fantastic and unique in their right. However, if I really had to make a choice I can say with confidence that my favorite Beatles song is Penny Lane.
Penny Lane, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I know the word “great” is a relative term and totally subjective but by any definition, Penny Lane is simply a great song. I mean, c’mon there just aren’t enough superlatives to adequately describe it. In case you didn’t know, Penny Lane is a real street in Liverpool, England. This song is about the everyday sights and sounds that Paul McCartney observed while he was there. But where mere mortals like you and I would just see the daily goings on of average people on an average street on an average day, McCartney saw poetry in motion; the interconnectedness of people, place, sights and sounds woven into a unique and unforgettable tapestry, a portrait as perfectly rendered as the Mona Lisa. I listen to Penny Lane and I’m right there with Paul in 1967: the barber showing off photographs of all the different haircuts he’s done, the stuffy banker being made fun of behind his back by little kids, the fireman who carries a photo of Queen Elizabeth around with him, the nurse in the roundabout selling poppies. I can almost smell the aroma of fish and finger pies as it wafts through the air on that rare blue sky summer day in Liverpool. Throughout this song comes the refrain, “Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes.” Paul was taking it all in. He probably had the song written in his head before he got home to the piano.
Musically, Penny Lane is a masterstroke. The alchemy of The Beatles and producer George Martin created an enduring and beloved classic of popular music. If I were to teach a college level class on songwriting, this is the song I’d choose. This tune has it all; strong lead vocals, tight harmonies, clever and whimsical lyrics, Paul’s trademark walking bass line, Ringo’s spot on drumming, that unforgettable piccolo trumpet solo and if that’s not enough there’s even a key modulation leading into the final chorus to add a little extra emotional oomph.
Often when I’m listening to Penny Lane I find myself getting choked up. This isn’t a sad or sentimental song, I think I just get overwhelmed by the simple beauty of it all. How Paul McCartney and The Beatles could say so much over the course of 3:00 is nothing short of divine. Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes, indeed.
The guest star is a time honored tradition in rock and roll. Whether it’s during a live performance or in the recording studio, the appearance of an unannounced guest is always a pleasant surprise. I’ve seen thousands of concerts, from intimate nightclubs to baseball stadiums and have been lucky to be on hand many times when a surprise guest appeared, turning an ordinary show into a memorable evening. For this essay, I’m going to focus on the guest star on record. What follows aren’t necessarily the “best” guest appearances, but rather the ones that always give me a jolt, no matter how many times I’ve heard them.
Hungry Heart
Artist: Bruce Springsteen
Guests: Flo & Eddie
The Boss had a big hit with this rollicking tune from his 1980 2LP set The River largely due to the backing vocalists. Best known as the singers for 60’s hit makers The Turtles and later as members of Frank Zappa’s Mothers of Invention, Flo & Eddie (Mark Vollman and Howard Kaylan) were a great choice for this record. Hungry Heart has that classic E Street Band sound, driven by a solid organ/piano combination and Clarence Clemmons’ baritone sax. Bruce sings a verse and chorus then here come Flo & Eddie on verse #2. Their soaring “Ahhhhhh, Ah, Ah” behind Bruce’s vocal really makes this tune fly. They harmonize perfectly with Bruce on the chorus too. Danny Federici’s spot on organ solo leads us into a key modulation, followed by the last verse/chorus. Bruce improvises on the fade out with Flo & Eddie in the background. It all adds up to one perfectly crafted pop song.
Day After Day
Artist: Badfinger
Guest: George Harrison
Badfinger was by far the most successful band on the Beatles Apple label, scoring several Top 40 hits in the early 1970’s. On Day After Day the band gets a little help from one of the Fab Four himself. With his mega hit My Sweet Lord, George Harrison debuted a distinctive slide guitar style that became a signature sound for him throughout his solo career and is the key to why Day After Day is such a powerful song.
Great artists have a distinctive style, whether it’s Vincent’s brush strokes or Elvis’ hip shaking. So it is with George’s slide playing. After about two notes of this song’s intro you know it’s George Harrison. His playing on Day After Day is inspired and oh so sweet, George was clearly feeling it during this session. Much like his solos on Beatles records, George wastes not a note throughout this song and gets right to the point. My favorite moment is during the third verse when vocalist Pete Ham and George do a nice back and forth. While the song builds to a crescendo, Pete sings a line and George answers it each time with a soaring slide guitar line. The song ends here as George brings us in for a gentle landing with another solo on the outro.
Teach Your Children
Artist: Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
Guest: Jerry Garcia
In the early 1970s, Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia was a defacto member of Bay Area cosmic cowboy band The New Riders of the Purple Sage. The New Riders often opened for The Dead with Jerry handling pedal steel guitar duties. He’s also featured on their eponymous debut album.
In the winter and spring of 1970, CSNY were in San Francisco recording their soon to be landmark album Deja Vu. The SF music scene was one big happy family back then so it’s no surprise that Jerry was recruited to play pedal steel on Graham Nash’s Teach Your Children. From the intro to the outro, to the fills and the sweet, succinct solo midway through the song, Jerry is clearly the focal point here. His playing is lilting and lyrical and perfectly captures the mood of the song. Much like his work with The Dead, Jerry knows just what notes to play and when to play them. Simply stated, Jerry Garcia’s playing on Teach Your Children single handedly turns an ordinary pop song into one of the most beloved songs in the CSNY canon.
Billion Dollar Babies
Artist: Alice Cooper
Guest: Donovan
Shockmeister Alice Cooper and hippie dippie folk singer Donovan make an unlikely pair on the title tune from Alice’s blockbuster 1973 album. Rumor has it that Donovan was working on a project in an adjacent studio and popped in unannounced to see what Alice and the boys were up to. His appearance on Billion Dollar Babies was totally impromptu. Donovan affects a ghoul-like quality to his otherwise sweet voice which fits the mood of this dark song and is the perfect compliment to Cooper’s sinister snarl. The two singers trade verses throughout the song and do a nice back and forth on the chorus too. The twin electric guitars, a trademark of Alice’s band back then, help to round out an outstanding, one-off track.
Paradise By The Dashboard Light
Artist: Meatloaf
Guest: Phil Rizzuto
This tune, from Meatloaf’s debut album, is about a pair of teenagers hoping to “go all the way” in the backseat of a car and features by far the most unusual guest appearance ever on a rock and roll record.
This rocking Jim Steinman composition kicks off with a ringing guitar riff by producer Todd Rundgren and it’s all up from here. Meatloaf’s bombastic lead vocal is the centerpiece of the song as he recounts the details of his night of sexual awakening when he sings; “We were barely 17 and we were barely dressed.” About halfway through, he repeats over and over the line; “We’re gonna go all the way tonight” and the band slips into the background. That’s when the “play by play” begins.
Phil Rizzuto, aka “The Scooter” was a Hall Of Fame shortstop for the New York Yankees from 1941-1956. When his playing career ended, he became the voice of the Yankees, announcing the games on radio and tv. And so it goes for Paradise By The Dashboard Light. As the song slowly builds towards its climax the band is accompanied by the grunts and groans of the two lovers as they go about their backseat groping. Rizzuto takes us on a tour around the diamond, giving the “play by play” as the boy goes from “1st base” to “2nd base” and so on. The band cooks, the groans grow louder, the boy has “Home” in sight, Rizzuto exclaims, “Holy cow I thinks he’s going to make it!” So do we until vocalist Ellen Foley shouts, “Stop right there!!” We’re left wondering if our hero is thrown out at the plate or if he indeed hits a “home run”. Phil Rizzuto on a rock and roll record? Brilliant!
Comes A Time
Artist: Neil Young
Guest: Nicolette Larson
Comes A Time is one of Neil Young’s most beloved and enduring albums. It’s a return to the gentle acoustic based sound of the Harvest era and contains some of his most introspective and heartfelt songs. However, what really makes this record special are the harmony vocals of Nicolette Larson. Her sweet/smoky voice is the perfect compliment to Neil’s ragged but right lead vocals. Their blend is simply spot on and CSN tight. From the achingly beautiful Already One to Ian Tyson’s Canadian classic Four Strong Winds, and of course the title tune, Nicolette takes these songs to a new level every time her harmonies kick in. There’s one electric song on the album, Neil graciously turns the spotlight over to his singer on the gritty rocker Motorcycle Mama as they trade verses throughout. Nicolette Larson’s appearance on Comes A Time is not so much as a guest star, but rather a collaborator.
The best guest star ever!!
You’re So Vain
Artist: Carly Simon
Guest: Mick Jagger
This song was a #1 hit for Carly Simon from her 1972 album No Secrets. It features one of the greatest guest appearances of all time in the person of Mr. Mick Jagger.
The band wastes no time in setting up a slinky, rocking groove. A rumbling bass riff gives way to some percussive acoustic guitar chords and piano. Carly then comes in with the immortal line; “You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht.” Conventional wisdom has it that this song is about actor Warren Beatty but it could very well be about our guest star, given his well earned reputation as a ladies man.
All good things are worth waiting for so it goes that we get a verse, chorus and a second verse before Mick makes his first appearance on the second chorus. This is the point where the song really takes off. The band is in high gear, Mick and Carly are perfectly in synch with Jagger’s electric charisma taking this song to new heights. Would I have loved to have been a fly on the wall at this session!
You’re So Vain is one of those songs that I never want to end. Even the fade out is great as we get to hear Mick sing the chorus once all by himself. Mick Jagger is uncredited on the album. Does it matter? You’d have to be from Mars to not recognize one of the most distinctive voices of all time.
Writing about music is kind of like trying to describe colors to a blind person. You’ve just got to experience it yourself. I encourage you to go to your favorite music streaming service and make a playlist of these songs so you can really hear what I’m talking about. Enjoy!
My mom, Marie Ann (Spadone) Ferrera passed away on October 15. Mom was a strong willed woman, mother and grandmother who would do anything for her family. She gave me so much and I loved her dearly.
Thank you for teaching me how to ride a bicycle. You took me to the dead end part of Dodd Rd. that day. It was probably the spring or summer of 1964 so I was seven years old. This watershed event in my life and a key moment in our relationship happened 60 years ago, yet there are pieces of this memory that are still so clear to me. I don’t remember what my bike looked like or what kind of day it was but I do remember this: I got on my bike and began pedaling, you were behind me holding onto the back of the seat, jogging along as I headed down the road. I knew the moment that you’d let go because it instantly felt different. Once I sensed this, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw you standing in the middle of Dodd Rd., receding into the distance as I pedaled forward. You had let me go. I was on my own, wings spread wide and moving into the future.
Thank you for instilling the love of reading in me. You took me regularly to the library, specifically the Julia Potwin Memorial Library. The library was housed inside a quaint old building built around the turn of the twentieth century. The building is still standing but the library is long gone. You’d park in the small lot at the rear of the building and we’d enter into the bottom floor which housed the children’s section. I recall this being a warm, quiet and welcoming place. There were so many books! We’d sit at one of the small round tables and I’d just read, read, read. As an emergent reader who was just discovering the magic of books, this place was heavenly. I glommed onto a series of books featuring a young boy named Danny Dunn. In each book, Danny got involved in a series of exciting science/nature based adventures. I couldn’t get enough of these books and hungrily devoured each and every one. I’ve been a life long reader ever since then mom and I have you to thank for getting me started. Oh, your granddaughter Denali is an even more avid reader than I am.
Thank you for teaching me the importance of persistence, or as you used to say: “Sticking to your guns.” You and I were always very strong willed so it’s no wonder that we’d often butt heads. Once you locked onto something mom, you wouldn’t let go. That wasn’t always easy for me but I admired you for the way you’d go for what you wanted. Case in point: You began your career in movie theaters behind the glass in the ticket booth and ended it as the manager of a prestigious theater in our town. What makes this accomplishment even more impressive is the fact that you achieved this level of success as a woman in an industry dominated by men…in the 1970s! You eventually quit to spend more time with your family, otherwise you probably would have made district manager. I took a page from your playbook when I turned 40. I quit my job, went back to school and became an elementary school teacher. That took focus and drive, both of which you had in spades. I had a goal in sight and was not going to stop until I achieved it.
Thank you for instilling the love of music in me. Music filled our house when we were growing up. It was either you singing, or the radio and records playing. Like a sponge my young mind soaked up every note, every lyric, every vocal nuance from the masters of American popular music who you idolized: Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, Barbara Streisand, Tony Bennett and of course your main man Frank Sinatra. I play the guitar, sing and write songs. I have you to thank for starting me on the road as a musician. You once told me that when you listen to music, you feel it deep down inside of you. That’s me too, a part of you that lives on.
Thank you mom for bringing me into this world. Thank you for loving me so fiercely. Thank you for always worrying about me. Thank you for the single autumn leaf wrapped in plastic that you sent me every year for the first ten years or so after I moved west.
Love always,
Butch
ps
Just so you know, I never liked that nickname grandma gave me, but I was afraid if I signed this letter “Louie” you wouldn’t know who it was from.
How many ways are there to mark the passing of time? The slow sweep of the second hand as it makes its way around the face of a clock. The imperceptible, glacial movements of the minute and hour hands. The magical transformation of LED numbers as one bleeds into the next. The ticking of a clock. Do clocks even make a tick tock sound anymore? I’m sure you could program your cell phone to do so.
Before the invention of clocks, the passing of time was measured in much larger increments; the sweep of the sun as it arcs across the sky from horizon to horizon, the waxing and waning of the moon, the march and retreat of the tides. Machu Picchu, Stonehenge and the pyramids at Chichen Itza in Mexico are some of the original clocks. Built with unbelievable precision, these stone monoliths were used by ancient people to, among other things, mark the passing of the seasons.
Closer to home the arrival of migratory birds tells me that spring is here, their departure heralds the onset of fall. Buds, then leaves appear on trees. Blossoms become fruit which ripens and nourishes us. Some fruit falls to the ground where secretive critters come in the silence of night to eat their fill. I know this by the half gnawed apples and Asian pears that I discover every morning throughout the summer and fall. Flowers provide nectar for hummingbirds and bees, they eventually wither and fall to the ground once they’ve served their purpose. When flowers and fruit are no more, I know that winter is on the way.
There’s a subtle shift around mid September as summer transitions into fall. I feel that today for the first time. The quality of light is slightly different from the way it looked yesterday, the angle of the sun a bit lower. The trees look different too. The way that the light is hitting their leaves softens their infinite shades of green. The leaves on our cherry trees have begun to curve inward, a prelude to their transition from green to vivid yellow. The wind will soon lift them from their branches to create a lemony swirl of color that will blanket the ground. The millions of tiny leaves on our neighbor’s Japanese maple tree have already begun to turn. The explosion of colors on this tree becomes our own private Vermont, New England in miniature. This seasonal shift is being ushered in today by the breeze, it’s soft and warm, almost tropical in quality, a harbinger of fall.
When the rains arrive they are a blessing, wet and wonderful and oh so joyous. This is yet another marker of the passage of time and a cause for celebration in the era of climate uncertainty. I always sense a collective sigh of relief when the first rain soaks the earth and washes away months of dirt and dust from buildings and trees.
This is the way Dali sees it.
Our children are a long measure of time; a linear progression from infancy to childhood, adolescence to young adulthood and beyond. Has our son always been taller than me? Has his voice always been this low pitched? When did that wispy mustache first appear on his upper lip? Wait! He’s going to college, working a part time job and driving a car? Hell, he can take that car apart and put it back together again. His smile, electric blue eyes and gentle, sensitive nature haven’t changed, it’s just that he’s grown more deeply into them.
Our daughter is in college too. She lives on campus three hours south of here. We recently helped her move into her dorm for sophomore year. Letting go is hard. I squeezed her python-like with a tearful goodbye hug. She’s a brilliant visual artist, dean’s list student and a track and field athlete too. Her legs and upper body are muscled and toned. Where the hell did that intricate octopus tattoo on her torso come from anyway? Her wacky sense of humor continues to delight me as it always has. Those hazel eyes and freckles still shine as brightly as ever.
I still see our kids through the unblinking eye of a new parent, not wanting to ever avert my gaze for fear of missing even the most minute aspect of their development. To be a parent is to experience long time. You think they’ll be in diapers forever until they’re not. A crawl becomes a first step, a jog around the bases, a sprint up the soccer pitch, a joyous and confident stride as they receive their high school diplomas. As a parent, the passing of time is bittersweet and an experience to be savored.
I mark the passing of time by our friends and families, by my darling wife and by myself too. There are outward appearances; the lines on faces, the growing streaks of grey, a bit more of a jowl here, a growing paunch there. There’s a mellowing of attitude too and a sense that there’s no time to waste. With age and the passing of time the love and appreciation that I have for these most precious people in my life deepens by the minute. No one lives forever so each moment that I get to share with a loved one is a gift. Both of my parents are 94. Mom has advanced dementia and is in a memory care facility. For her, time has been put into a blender and gotten all mixed up, it’s like a jigsaw puzzle that can never quite be put back together again. Dad still lives at home but only with the help of my siblings. Mom and dad were born during the Great Depression, talk about the passing of time!
My dear Carol, love of my life and soulmate, has thus far ridden the timeship with grace and humor. Her sparkly eyes and 100 watt smile still delight me. The lines around her eyes are the sum total of all the smiles and love that we’ve shared on our journey together through this beautiful life that we’ve created.
I look in the mirror and can see quite clearly the passage of time on my own face. Sometimes I wonder just who is that old grey beard and what’s he doing looking back at me? How did I get old? Old is a relative term anyway. That saying “You’re only as old as you feel” still rings true for me. I still feel young at heart and can muster up the enthusiasm of a kid whenever I feel passionate enough about something. I guess you’d say I’m just trying to move forward and enjoy the passage of time.
