By Louie Ferrera

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.

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.

By Louie Ferrera

I listened to Jim Croce today and America and Seals and Crofts. Harry Chapin? You betcha! England Dan and John Ford Coley? Why not? Hell, I even sat through Bread’s syrupy confection Make It With You. You know what, I loved it all!

Sirius XM station #17 is called The Bridge, their tagline is “mellow classics,” or in other words “songs that were popular before 911, before Trump, before climate change, before the apocalyptic trio of fire, drought and hurricanes, which threaten the very survival of planet Earth and all living things that depend on her continued health”. Whew!

By the early 1970s America was wrung dry from the violence and social upheaval of the Vietnam War, the civil rights movement and the horrific political assassinations of the 60s. The rise in popularity of the style of music featured on The Bridge was a direct result of our collective exhaustion back then. Music reflects the time in which it’s created so it’s no surprise that artists like James Taylor, Cat Stevens and Carole King rose to prominence beginning around 1971. The anger and strident political posturing of the previous decade had faded into the background and we needed a break. We were tired of being shouted at and wanted someone to tell us everything was going to be alright. So in stepped James, Cat, Carole and their ilk. Their music was gentle, its message one that focused on love, lost and found, interpersonal relationships and peaceful coexistence with our fellow humans. When I hear songs like Ventura Highway, Summer Breeze or Moonshadow I literally feel the tension drain from my body. This is the soundtrack of a gentler, simpler time, almost unimaginable now given the current state of the world. It’s easy to look back on this music and chuckle over some of its sappiness and naiveté (remember, this was also the era of The Carpenters and Captain and Tennille). But god knows, we could all use a healthy dose of Peace Train or You’ve Got A Friend right about now.

With the recent fires on Maui, the daily reports of climate chaos and the endless nightmare that is the monster Trump, I feel like I’m living in a constant state of existential dread, on pins and needles waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s hard to believe that it hasn’t always been like this, that there was actually a time in our history like the era popularized by The Bridge.

I wonder, will we ever stop shouting at one another? Are we so hopelessly polarized that it’s become impossible to ever reach the consensus that the world desperately needs in order to try and reverse or at least halt the effects of climate change? It’s all so overwhelming! I want to stay informed, to try and affect some small measure of positive change within my family and my community but every time I swipe right on my phone or pick up the newspaper from my driveway in the morning, I’m being told that we’re fucked. I try and cover my ears but the volume is often so loud that I sometimes wish I were deaf.

Lucky for me,  I refuse to believe that things are hopeless. There’s goodness everywhere, more than we realize; good people committing random acts of kindness every day, volunteering for community based organizations and working for political change. I’m one of those people. It’s this realization that gives me hope. Despite the current state of our planet, I still see the glass as half full.

If ever there was a time in our country when we needed a collective hug, this is it. Will the craziness of the past decade eventually subside? Is it possible to reach a state of political equilibrium? Could our fractured country somehow be healed? For heaven’s sake, could we just mix that red and blue together to make purple? If that time ever does come, will this generation’s version of James, Cat and Carole be there to help usher in a new era of harmony, acceptance and cooperation? Music reflects the times in which it’s created. Time will tell.

In the meantime, when the shouting gets to be too much, I punch up The Bridge. I can always count on artists like James, Cat and Carole, at least for the duration of a pop song, to help ease my troubled mind.

By Louie Ferrera

It was around nine years ago when I first discovered it. Poking out of the ground in our backyard where the kitchen wall meets the ground, this tiny redwood shoot couldn’t have been more than three inches tall. I remember in the spring of that year purchasing several bags of a type of mulch known as “gorilla hair”. This “hair” is actually shredded redwood bark. We had spread it all around the roses, shrubs and other ornamental plants in our yard. A redwood seed had somehow made its way into one of the bags of mulch. Redwood seeds are very small, one would fit comfortably atop one of my fingernails. Think about it: the tallest and most massive trees on Earth sprout from a seed not much larger than a grain of rice!

So, here was this tiny living thing, its dozen or so slender green leaves reaching bravely towards the light. The conditions in our yard had to be just right in order for this seed to sprout. We had a unique situation here so Carol and I decided to just let our proto-tree be. I can’t recall exactly how long we let it grow where we found it, but at one point we realized that it probably wouldn’t be a god idea to have a redwood tree growing so close to the foundation of our house. Very carefully we uprooted our little tree and transferred it to a small clay pot. We left the pot in the sun and made sure that it was watered. Other than that, we just let it be. Gradually our little redwood became no so little. Over the next couple of years the clay pots got bigger and so did the tree.

By the fall of 2016 our redwood was nearly three feet tall and had outgrown the large pot it was currently living in. We wanted to plant this tree in the ground but had to choose our spot wisely. Under the right conditions, a redwood tree can grow to be over two hundred feet tall and require many adults holding hands to circle its base. We ultimately decided on an unused corner of our backyard where the fences meet at a right angle. 

Election Day of that year was a dark day for our country. I awoke the next morning to the horrible reality of Donald Trump as our new president. I was teaching second grade at the time and I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of doom despair all that day. When I returned home from school, both Carol and I had a strong desire to do something, anything, that would be positive and life affirming. We decided that this was the time to plant our redwood tree.

We sunk a shovel into the ground, mixed the soil and removed all of the rocks and weeds. When the hole was deep enough, we added a healthy amount of compost and mixed that in too. We turned the redwood tree’s pot upside down, tapped the bottom a few times and out it came. We carefully placed the tree into the center of the hole, covered it with soil, added some mulch on top and we were done. We stepped back and admired this tiny, brave little tree, standing in the ground for the first time in its life. Looking back, I remember at that moment feeling truly hopeful for the future, despite what had transpired at polling places the day before.

It’s August of 2023, nearly seven years since we first planted our little redwood tree. In the spring of this year, Carol created a beautiful Zen garden centered around the tree. There’s a solar powered fountain, numerous succulents and climbing plants, a wind chime that sings whenever there’s a breeze and a hummingbird feeder that’s become the place for these tiny birds to sip their meals. There’s also a bench where we can sit and take it all in. When I’m sitting here, I have to crane my neck in order to see the top of our not so little redwood tree. I measured it today, it’s 14 feet tall! Every spring we see light green leaves of new growth on the tips of its branches. Redwood trees can live a very long time. Unless someone comes by someday with a chain saw, our tree will outlive us, and our kids and our kids’ kids and…

Plants have an uncanny ability to emerge and thrive in the most unlikely of places; through a crack in asphalt or along the median strip of a busy freeway, in the searing heat of the desert or the frozen tundra of the arctic, or even in our own backyard, hidden in plain sight. Keep your eyes open!

By Louie Ferrera

We gradually make our way along the bluffs, a slow snake, we slither and wind. Limantour Beach gradually dissolves, consumed by the march of fog until it is engulfed in a cocoon of pure white. The trail describes a wide S as it makes its way upward and away from the coast. The transition from coastal to forest habitat is abrupt and we find ourselves walking along a narrow path through a dense and mysterious forest of mostly poplar trees and tangled underbrush. It’s late afternoon but the canopy is so thick that it appears to be evening. A dark, slow moving creek, its surface speckled with bright green splotches of duck weed, runs to our left along the edge of the trees. It’s as silent as a dream and completely still. We spot a small solitary bird flitting among the lowest branches of a tree just off the trail. Olive green with a suggestion of yellow dusting its breast, dark wing bars, white eye rings and a flat crest that sweeps slightly backwards tells me that this is a Pacific Slope flycatcher, a secretive bird of the forest that’s more often heard than seen. We’re granted a minute or so of its time, an eternity in birding, before it disappears into the impenetrable trees. The appearance of this bird feels like a blessing. There’s an unfathomable mystery to this spot. Our progress slows to a crawl. We don’t speak. I breathe in the deep green aromas that surround us and try to take it all in.

We continue on, the trees thin slightly and that’s where the flowers appear. These are a type of lily, with several six-petal blossoms running alongside a tall, thin stalk. The brilliant red/orange color of these flowers makes them literally vibrate against the green of the surrounding forest. Around a bend, the creek crosses the trail and runs beneath a makeshift metal plate bridge. All around are cattails, fuzzy brown hot dogs atop dense, sword-like foliage. A breeze suddenly kicks up and gives voice to these plants. A rustle and swish breaks the silence, the forest spirits speak. Just as quickly, it’s quiet once again.

As we emerge from the trees into a more open section of the trail we hear a strange and unfamiliar sound, like a cross between a braying donkey and a creaky metal gate. At that moment we look about a quarter of a mile into the distance and notice several large tule elk, well know residents of Point Reyes, grazing on a hillside. This strange sound continues intermittently for a few more minutes until we put two and two together: these are elk that we’re hearing. The brush is very dense along the right side of the trail but we can tell that there are also elk directly below us where the trail slopes downward.

The trail ends just beyond where our car is parked. We run into a starry eyed group of college freshmen, out here on  a pre-semester team building retreat. Judging by the smiles on their faces I can tell they have been touched by the magic of Point Reyes. We chat up the group leader for a few minutes, he’s a friendly young man with dreadlocks spilling out from under a backwards baseball cap. This is his first visit here and he too appears to be dazzled by the experience.

Over the course of the past forty years, I’ve spent countless hours exploring the vast wilderness of Point Reyes National Seashore just north of San Francisco in West Marin County. I always come here with no expectations, open to any and all possibilities that may present themselves. There’s deep magic here and a positive energy that permeates the air like a force field. While at Point Reyes I can feel the timeless wisdom of its many plants and animals, the towering trees, the gently flowing creeks, and the roar and whisper of the mighty Pacific. There is much to learn here and many corners of this wilderness that I’ve yet to explore. Every time I’m here, I come away with a deep sense of  fulfillment, aways yearning for more.

By Louie Ferrera

Throughout the years, the beach has been a consistent source of wonder and inspiration for me. The following short pieces all had their genesis on recent visits to Salmon Creek along the Sonoma County CA coast.

Barefoot

I love walking barefoot. With nothing between the soles of my feet and the ground I feel a rock solid connection with Mama Earth. By far my favorite place to walk barefoot is at the beach. I live a little over half an hour from the coast so when I want to have the ultimate barefoot experience, that’s where I head.

Whenever I sink my feet into sand I’m a kid at the Jersey Shore, running wild and free with my cousins and siblings; I’m wandering along a deserted Northern California beach; I’m in Hanalei on the island of Kauai with my wife and kids, as happy as I’ve ever been.

At the beach there are several different types of sand, each one offers its own unique barefoot walking experience. The sand closest to the surf is compact, cool and changeable. One minute it’s hard, my feet barely making an impression but quickly turns the consistency of oatmeal when a wave comes in. Sometimes I’ll just stand facing the water and let wave after wave wash over my feet until I’m buried in sand up to my ankles. Move a short ways up the beach beyond the surf line and that’s what I call the “Goldilocks zone”. The sand there is not too hard, not to soft, it’s just right. My feet sink into the sand perhaps a quarter of an inch and I can move along at a descent clip without getting bogged down. On a long walk I’ll often look behind from where I came to see my footprints fading into the distance like ties on a railroad track. 

Still further up the beach and that’s where the going gets tough. The sand there is completely dry and super soft, my feet sink in a couple of inches which makes walking a slow process. The warm sand does feel good on my feet but this zone can be unwalkable during summer.

I walk barefoot a lot so the calluses on the bottom of my feet are thick and tough. I can walk barefoot on pretty much any type of surface with little discomfort. However, there are the occasional thorn, cut or bee sting, tradeoffs I’m more than happy to make for the freedom of shoelessness.

Sea Glass

I’m continually fascinated by sea glass; the infinite sizes, shapes and textures, the process by which it’s created, the treasure hunt like quality of the beach combing required to find it. I understand the scientific explanations behind rainbows and shooting stars but still find these phenomena mysterious and magical. The same goes for sea glass. What began as a beer bottle or pickle jar is magically transformed into a glittering gem of color and luminosity scattered among the sand and sea stones at the low tide line. Of course this process never ends. Bits of sea glass are continually tumbled and tossed about by the surf until they become even smaller bits. A look at a handful of sand through a magnifying glass often reveals minuscule pieces of glass among the equally minuscule bits of rock and shell.

Sea glass colors are predominantly green and clear, with the occasional brown thrown in. Once in a great while I’ll stumble upon a rare color like dark blue or turquoise. I even found a red piece once. The shades of green run the full spectrum from grass green to olive and all points in between. I can tell the older bits from the newer ones by their opacity and smoothness. Occasionally there’ll be a raised letter or two on a piece of sea glass or the recognizable lip or bottom of a bottle, giving me a hint to their previous lives. A piece of sea glass never looks as brilliant as when I first spot it in the wet sand. The quality of sunlight at the beach gives it special kind of glow.

I have no idea how long it takes for the ocean to make sea glass. Is it weeks? Months? Years? How many times does a bit of glass have to be tossed about by the ocean until it’s opaque and smooth? How did these gems of glass get here in the first place? I’m sure there’s someone out there who can answer al of these questions, but like Iris Dement sings; “I think I’ll just let the mystery be.”

Wavespeak

Waves whisper

When they break upon the sand with a soft woosh.

Sea stones, silent and infinite, are given voice

Thousands click together with a sizzling hiss

As waves crash and retreat

Crash and retreat

Waves rumble

On a stormy day 

They roll in one after the other

Individuals blend together

A hypnotic hum of wonderful white noise

Waves crash

A storm at sea brings walls of water

Leviathans rise up through the churning cobalt

Pent up energy released with a terrifying boom

My body trembles

Waves roll

Silently

But if you’re close enough

You may hear a conversation

Between gulls and plovers

Sand crabs and harbor seals

Waves speak

The ancient language of the sea

And the sentient creatures

That inhabit her unknowable depths

By Louie Ferrera

I was catching up recently with an old friend during a lengthy phone conversation. After the initial exchange of  pleasantries, she posed the inevitable question, “What have you been up to?” My reply? “I’ve been busy, very busy.”

I’ve been busy watching the lilies. Planted as bulbs in winter, the plants have grown straight and strong, each single stalk sporting between eight and ten zeppelin shaped yellow blossom pods. We were beginning to wonder if these pods would ever bloom when the recent onset of hot summer weather forced the issue. A few of the pods began to show signs of opening at their tips, however, nothing prepared me for what I saw this morning shortly after sunrise. One of the pods had burst forth in a dazzling display of form and color. Six petals had fully opened, each sword shaped tip bent gracefully backwards revealing a bright pink flower outlined in pure white with six stamen at the center. These flowers will be a feast for our eyes for weeks to come as well as a feast for the bees and hummingbirds who no doubt have been anticipating this bloom as much as we have.

I’ve been busy watching the hummingbirds. Throughout the cool spring and early summer their presence had been limited to an occasional bird or two. But it seems that the heat has brought out the hummingbirds too. From the first light of dawn to the last rays of sunset these delightful birds are a constant presence, their zips, clicks and buzzes add a joyful note to the soundtrack of each day. We have five feeders scattered throughout our yard, each one seems to have an “overlord” and an “interloper”. The overlord stands guard over its feeder from a nearby perch. When the interloper tries to steal a sip, overlord zips over and chases away the intruder, both birds doing a crazy corkscrew dance of persuit and retreat. It’s like my own personal Nature Channel, only the voice of David Attenborough is missing.

I’ve been busy watching the other birds too. Spring was alive with the arrival of migrants like tanagers and orioles. Along with the year round residents (towhees, jays, titmice…) all of the birds were busy finding mates and building nests. There was a short period of calm as they went about their domestic business, so many of the birds were a lot less visible. Lately the action has picked up, most notably with the arrival of the juveniles. These youngsters behave much like human children, they’re curious and often allow me to approach them much closer than an adult bird ever would. I can tell they’re trying to figure me out. They’ll soon realize that they need to steer clear of humans.

I’ve been busy watching the bees, their hind legs thick with pollen as they crawl slowly across the lemon yellow and popsicle orange faces of sunflowers. When the clover is in bloom, our lawn is alive with bees too. As they fly from one blossom to the next, I can put my ear up close and hear sweet bee music.

I’ve been busy watching the tomatoes; the pendulous Romas, the pumpkinesque  Early Girls, the perfectly spherical cherries. The latter are always the first to ripen. To bite into a Sungold tomato, aptly named for their sunshiny orange color, is to taste summer itself. I crunch into their skins and the warm, sweet-tangy flavor fills my mouth and nourishes my soul. Many of these tomatoes never even make it into the house. All of the other varieties we planted are still green, but a few have begun to take on the first blush of color, promising a summer of fresh, organic salads. With the bounty of veggies we’ve planted, that salad is but a short walk from our back door, waiting to be created.

I’ve been busy watching the days unfold. The soft yellow light of dawn, the bright white light of midday, the alpenglow of sunset, the purple light of dusk. When it gets dark enough, the various solar lights that we’ve placed around our yard begin to randomly blink on. The globes, lanterns and strings of LED lights add an air of enchantment to the evening.

I’ve been busy watching the moon go through its phases. I understand the scientific explanation for this phenomena but I still find it mysterious and magical.

Like I told my friend, I’ve been busy.

By Louie Ferrera

By now the anticipation level was pretty high. Think kid in a candy store. Think six year old at Christmas. Over the past week I’ve tried to keep my expectations in check but sitting here at UC Berkeley’s Greek Theater, the scene of so many evenings dancing to the Grateful Dead, I’ve reached the point where I just couldn’t wait any longer. In 15 minutes Neil Young would be taking the stage.

It’s hard to overstate the impact that Neil’s music has had on my life. I was 14 when Deja Vu came out (I still have my original vinyl copy). There’s not a dead spot on that album. I loved it all but there was something about the Neil Young songs Helpless and Country Girl, that really grabbed me back then. The high pitched whine of his voice, the inscrutable lyrics, his unique approach to acoustic guitar playing, the distorted tone and manic electric guitar solo on Woodstock all set Neil far apart from the other parts of the CSNY equation.

In the summer of 1974, I caught a show on the big CSNY reunion tour. This was the first time I’d seen Neil Young live. What really stuck in my mind that night was Neil’s brooding presence and the way he stalked the stage. It was evening and he was wearing sunglasses. His songs brought a dark biting edge to the show. Neil was part of the band but I could tell he had one foot out the door, prowling around the edges already thinking where his next musical journey would take him.

That fall I entered my freshman year of college. I had always wanted to learn how to play the guitar. Fortunately I quickly fell in with a kind and welcoming group of friends, all of whom had varying levels of proficiency on guitar. We had many common musical interests and Neil Young’s music was one thread that ran through us all. Denise and Carol had worked up a unique arrangement of Old Man, Laurie could sing like Joni Mitchell, Tim, Ben and Bruce were all solid pickers and singers. I was determined to play and sing like them so I went out and bought my first guitar, a Yamaha steel string model for $90. My new friends showed me some chords and gave me a few pointers on how to play. They tolerated a beginning hacker like myself and it was their patience and friendship that gave me the encouragement to keep playing.

However, the learning curve on guitar is steep. I had to really be committed in order to get over that hump. What eventually got me there? The music of Neil Young. I was 18, I had my own guitar and a copy of Neil’s seminal album Harvest. This is the perfect record for a beginning guitarist. The chords are basic folk type chords that could all be played in first position, the melodies and arrangements fairly straight forward and easy to follow. I basically locked myself in my room and played along with Harvest until I could play all of the songs. Needless to say I was obsessed and driven. I copied Neil’s percussive acoustic guitar style. I wanted to play like Neil, hell I wanted to be Neil!

There’s no end to learning on guitar, but I remember when I could comfortably get all the way through Heart of Gold without any mess ups as being a key moment in my musical development. I’ve been playing guitar, performing and writing songs ever since. I’ve recorded three albums of original material. One of the musical highlights of my life was playing to a packed club in Santa Cruz as part of a tribute to Neil Young. I led the band as we closed the show with a rollicking version of Rockin’ In The Free World. Music is a deeply integral part of who I am. Neil Young’s music continues to inspired me and has been a thread that’s run through my life. I am eternally grateful to him for that.

So, it’s a warm summer evening, the setting sun casts a pink glow on puffy clouds that dot the darkening sky. Towering eucalyptus trees frame the lawn at the top of the amphitheater. The place is packed. Tiny blue lights line the stage which is set up like a living room. There are four pianos, an old fashioned weather vane and a faux fireplace circled by a running set of trains. The stage backdrop is lit from below in a fiery orange hue to match the sunset. It’s weird and wonderful and as it should be and here comes Neil. He strides onto the stage in that slightly stooped, shambling style of his. He’s dressed like a train conductor from the 1800s. The long narrow brim of his cap obscures his eyes so I can only see his face from the nose down. His denim jacket is blue and pinstriped and appears to have white paint stains on it. His t-shirt reads: “Support Local Music”. Jeans and sneakers round out this unique fashion statement. The place is going nuts but I can only sit there and breathe it all in. One of the most influential people in my life grabs his 12-string Taylor acoustic guitar and begins to sing.

‘

By Louie Ferrera

It’s the first real heatwave of summer, the day is languid and lazy. The drone of my neighbor’s air conditioner, the jingle-jangle of the wind chimes when a welcome breeze blows through, the blip-blop of our fountains and the insect like buzz of a small airplane are all part of this dreamy soundscape. Hummingbirds have been scarce so far this summer but when one whizzes by to visit a feeder the sound is unmistakable: zivvv, click, buzzz.

All of our trees are now fully leafed out and impossibly, gloriously green so the birds are more often heard than seen. The Stellar’s jay squawks, this creature is the head avian honcho around here and always has first dibs at the feeder and fountains. Summer is when the western tanagers show up. The female is a drab yellow-green and barely stands out among the foliage of the trees. But the male, oh my! Its body is an electric, sunshiny, pulsating shade of yellow, the crown of its head the most brilliant hue of red/orange. The tanager declares, and in no uncertain terms, “Summer’s here and so am I!” Nature’s greatest mimic, the Northern mockingbird is a one bird band, singing all four parts in a crazy quartet of calls. A cabbage butterfly, an angel on the wing, zig-zags by investigating the in’s and outs of a tangerine bush.

At the peak heat of the day, our squash and bean plants wilt as if to say, “Enough is enough!” Our cat Ella has found refuge beneath the shade of the apple tree. Curled like a question mark she’s content to doze away the afternoon. The lawn needs a trim  but I think I’ll let it go a little longer. You see there are hundreds of white clover blossoms among the blades of grass and the honeybees are loving life, zipping from one flower to the next. The entire lawn is alive with them.

A day like this is the perfect advertisement for a cold beer. I grab one from the fridge then put it into the freezer for a few minutes just to make sure it is teeth cracking cold. I bring the bottle outside and it’s immediately coated with condensation, the golden contents obscured by thousands of tiny droplets. The first deep pull off of a beer on a day such as this is one of the great simple pleasures to be found in life.

There’s been lots of crazy weather lately around the country, not unexpected in these topsy turvy times of climate change. The headlines scream all types of hyperbole and terrifying warnings. Where I live, it’s simply summer and summers here get hot. When the temperatures climb into the upper 90’s I’m not going to panic. Right now a cool breeze is blowing, the sky is bluer than a newborn’s eyes and the fridge is stocked with beers. I think it’s time for another one

By Louie Ferrera

I’m pretty damn excited to announce the release of my new album Second Wind. This is my third album of original songs. My first effort, 2007’s Lifesongs was a stripped down, all acoustic affair. I played all of the guitar parts and sang all of the vocals. In 2010 I stepped it up a few notches with Late Bloomer. This was more of a collaborative record with drums, bass and electric instruments. I hired some solid local session players and called in a few musician friends too. The songs on Late Bloomer were more fleshed out and sonically miles above its predecessor. A couple of the songs even garnered a bit of airplay on the local Americana format radio station KRSH.

Second Wind is a genre defying smorgasbord of musical delights. When people ask me what kind of music it is, I tell them it’s “honest” music (with a little Neil Young and Gram Parsons thrown in). Impeccably recorded and produced by Sebastopol, CA studio legend Jeff Martin, this is my best sounding record yet. I brought in some of the top musicians in Sonoma County to help me out. Dave Zirbel dazzles on electric and pedal steel guitars, banjo and dobro. Bassists Chad St. Clair and Jeff Martin are rock solid. Former Tommy Tutone drummer Vic Carberry keeps things chugging along. Singer Amy Carlson, a hidden gem from the Santa Cruz Mountains, adds sweet harmonies throughout. Along with percussionist Dan Ransford and violinist Candy Girard, together we made a record that I feel is truly special. Everyone brought their A game to the studio; the recording sessions were fun, collaborative and at times downright magical.

The nine original songs on Second Wind run the gamut from the deeply personal (Mockingbird, Looking Back) to rollicking fun (Chuck Berry is Leaving the Solar System) and all points in between. My songs are like my children. To have watched them grow from seed kernels in my head to the fully realized versions that made it onto this album is incredibly gratifying, to say the least.

Second Wind can be streamed on Spotify or Apple music. You can also purchase a digital download from iTunes, just key in my name. I even have actual CDs. If you get one of those, you’ll see the gorgeous package designed by local artist Jeanette Robsahm and have something that you can actually hold in your hands, not just a bunch of ones and zeros. Message me if you want a physical CD and I’ll get one to you.

I put my heart and soul into this project and I think it shows. Give it a spin, share it with friends and fellow music lovers. Drop me a line and let me know what ya think. Enjoy!

“Everyone should be able to make some music, it’s the cosmic dance!”

Ruth Gordon in Harold and Maude

By Louie Ferrera

The Hog Farm Hideaway is a three day music festival held on a bucolic ranch in southern Mendocino County, California.  The following is my reflection on one particular morning there.

There are moments in life when you just get into the flow. Like a slow float down a lazy river everything you do seems effortless. I had one of those moments last Sunday morning at the Hog Farm Hideaway.

After a nearly sleepless Friday night, I slept soundly and uninterrupted on Saturday. It’s amazing what good sleep can do for you and no wonder that sleep deprivation is a common torture technique. I crawled out of the tent around 6:45 and into the warming rays of a just risen sun. Compared to last night’s controlled pandemonium during String Cheese Incident’s set and all of the other sights and sounds of a Saturday night at the festival, this Sunday morning felt particularly tranquil. All I could hear were the random stirrings of a few early risers like myself, the occasional chip, chip of a bird and the distant hum of a generator. I made coffee, donned my shades and sat in a chair facing the sun. I just breathed, soaking up its nourishing rays, feeling rejuvenated and ready for the promise of this new day.

My initial idea was to take a shower but I quickly jettisoned that idea when I saw how long the line was, and instead opted to catch the Banana Slug String Band’s set on the side stage of the main music meadow. My slow walk there had a very Oregon Country Fair quality to it. There were smiles of contentment on the faces of the people I passed. Everyone looked tired, but it was that “good tired” you get from doing something that you love (in this case dancing late into the night to you favorite bands). Smiles and greetings were given and taken with ease, we were all co-conspirators in this collective cosmic giggle.

I arrived just in time to sing along with the Slugs to River Song, songwriter Steve Van Zandt’s paean to flowing waters. I had tears in my eyes as the beautiful imagery and slow, waltz time of this tune always manages to tug at my heart strings. I was feeling particularly emotional today and grateful; grateful for a restful night and for this glorious morning and to just be here taking part in the peace and love vibe that enveloped us all.

I was happily dancing to the whimsical Kingdom of the Crab (Van Zandt sang the song dressed in a giant crab costume) when my errant left arm knocked the salsa container right off the tray of a girl dancing beside me. I apologized profusely, we both laughed it off and continued our “crabbing”.  In another situation there could have been angry words and recrimination, but not today, not here. After the show, I bought her an ice pop as a consolation. We hugged and went our separate ways.

As if my heart wasn’t full enough, by the time The Slugs set ended I was nearly bursting! What those guys do is simply magic. This Santa Cruz band that plays environmentally themed songs for children young and old had us “kids” in the palm of their hand throughout their all to brief 45 minute set. By now I felt as if I were floating on a cloud of love and began the slow meander upstream through this river of happiness to Ten Mile Creek.

One of the best features of The Hog Farm is this gentle ribbon of water that flows through the forest at the western edge of the festival site. What a blessing to have a place like this to cool off in after a dusty day of dancing. I shed my clothes and stepped gingerly into its refreshing waters. The various sizes, shapes and colors of the cobblestones at the bottom were clearly visible, small fish darted around my ankles, the green of the surrounding forest was serene and soothing. I immersed  myself, it was a baptism and a rebirth all in one. After the initial shock of the cold water my body adjusted. The water was only a few feet deep so I was easily able to lie here up to my neck and let the creek flow by me. There was a bit of easy conversation with a couple of other folks sharing this moment with me, otherwise I just breathed in the incredible gratitude that I was feeling to be here. I felt alive and filled up, I was in the flow.