By Louie Ferrera

This essay was written back in November during the first rainstorm of the year. Little did I know what was in store for us here in Northern California! It’s written in a stream of consciousness style. Take a breath and dive in!

Cypress trees spiral into a grey sky hummingbirds buzz and hum as they zip by impossibly backwards, forwards, sideways keeping warm on this deliciously cold and rainy late afternoon where everything has that just-washed glow…citrus leaves are particularly shinny their front and back sides show contrasting shades of green, the oranges and pinks of the zinnias and roses pop out in brilliant contrast against the muted greens of the apple tree leaves…the brown towhee hops, hops, hops across the lawn the rain brings worms to the surface which brings birds…rain sweet rain falling with a pit-pat-blip onto the deck roof which being plastic amplifies the sounds of the rain that’s why the rain always resonates so beautifully under here and this rain is so welcomed and appreciated after so many months of sun-hot-dry, sun-hot-dry I can actually feel the earth soaking in and giving thanks for this rain… and now the rooftop symphony picks up in intensity faster beats, louder, like thousands of seastones picked up from the beach and dropped here…the rain is really driving right now, the air out before me hazy with raindrops, skeletal plum tree branches drip crystal ball droplets, daylight savings time darkness slowly descending, it’s getting colder and rainier by the minute, it’s actually feeling like winter…winter-rain-cold, repeat and the smells, oh my the sweet aromas of wet earth, subtle perfume of mud I love this smell so much simply because I’ve rarely gotten to experience it in this sad and desperate age of climate change, but I’m here now, so present and IN this wet and wonderful barrage of winter…it’s getting darker, colors fading, solar lights begin to blink on, the lanterns cast circular glows onto the ground, Carol’s globe light, like the crystal ball of a shaman, sparkles in yellow points of starlight, a string of lights snakes through the plum tree, bluish LED glow, a helter-skelter scatter of jewel-like points of light. I look to the northwest and can see a lighter sky as this storm is beginning to move on…the rooftop symphony of raindrops is slowing down and becoming quieter now like small handfuls of sand being dropped one pinch at a time…someone is running out of sand because the rainsound has nearly ceased, only the blip-blop of our deck fountains can be heard…the earth and myself share a collective sigh…but wait! I’ve spoken to soon, this symphony has movements that still require our ears as this blessed rainstorm still has life in it…the darkness is nearly complete only the solar lights stand out like silent sentries, oh man I could listen to this rainsound all night, I imagine flowing rivers and creeks, waters tumbling over cobblestones, happy river otters and ducks spinning together in celebration and I’m celebrating in tandem with them, all of the creatures of the wild, my fellow residents of this glorious planet, the blue planet, third rock from the sun, the only home that any of us have or ever will call home. Amen!

By Louie Ferrera

How amazing is Spotify? Just think, for a small monthly fee I can listen to practically any song I want whenever I want. On demand baby…what a concept. The person or persons who first conceived of online music streaming should be knighted or elevated to sainthood, or something like that. However, there’s usually a flip side to a good thing and that’s what this story is about.

Before the advent of music streaming, if you wanted to hear songs by your favorite artists you had basically two options. The first option was to go to a record store and buy an album or single. The late, great Tower Records (where I worked from 1979-1982) was the greatest record store of all time. Tower was open 9am to midnight, 365 days a year. They were a “deep catalogue” store, meaning that if an artist had a record that was commercially released, Tower carried it. There was no record too obscure for Tower. I remember one night back in the 80’s, a few friends of mine and I were sitting around our apartment listening to  music when for reasons lost to the fog of time, we just had to hear Stop Your Sobbing by The Pretenders. Into the car we went and down to Tower where we bought that first Pretenders album. Putting the needle down on to the vinyl when we got home and hearing Chrissie Hynde’s acappella opening to that classic Kinks song was a moment straight out of High Fidelity or Almost Famous. What made this experience so memorable to me was the process we had to go through in order to hear that particular song at that particular moment. We earned that listen!

The second option was simply to tune into your favorite radio station and wait to hear a song or artist. At one time, there were actual live DJs on the radio, imagine that? (Ok, there are still live DJs on a few Sirius XM stations, but they’re the exception rather than the rule). On the stations I listened to, the DJs had a lot of latitude in choosing the music for their shows. Knowledge of an individual DJs musical tastes increased the odds of hearing the music that you liked best. You may have waited all day, or days to hear a song so when it came on, you busted out your air guitar and sang along at the top of your lungs.

One night deep into the late 70’s my friend Kenny and I were driving back to New Jersey from Manhattan when Meatloaf’s classic Paradise By The Dashboard Lights came roaring through the speakers. Todd Rundgren’s screaming guitar intro, members of the E Street Band, Mr. Loaf at the top of his game…what a song! We weren’t going to miss a note. However, our car was approaching the Lincoln Tunnel, a dead zone for radio reception. What to do? Well, we pulled over just short of the tunnel’s entrance, shut off the engine and had ourselves an authentic rock and roll moment. 

Vignettes like I’ve just recounted basically couldn’t happen anymore. Even if you wanted to go to a record store to buy music, you’d be hard pressed to even find one and why would you do it anyway when just about any song that you’d ever want to hear is available at your fingertips on any of the online streaming services? Just ask Siri or Alexa and she’ll have it on in a jiffy.

The variety of music now available instantaneously is mind boggling. Now don’t get me wrong, I love online streaming and am a happy subscriber, but we’ve lost something here. I loved when a favorite song of mine would come on the radio, it was always a delightful surprise, a mini epiphany, like finding a $20 in my jeans pocket that I didn’t know I had. Now that I can hear that song anytime, anywhere, as many times as I want, that tune has lost a little bit of its luster. I loved the human touch of a DJ, spinning their favorite tunes and talking so effusively about them. I had some great conversations with late night DJs while calling in to make a request. I was a DJ at one time myself. It was really cool knowing that the music I played was the soundtrack of someone else’s life. I loved the treasure hunt at a record store, the music playing over the speakers, the people I’d meet there, the employees as fanatical about music as I was.

Like it or not we’re living in the age of instant gratification, so the idea of actually having to be patient and wait for something like music must seem foreign to many people. Putting in the hours listening to the radio or browsing the racks at a record store usually paid off, you got what you wanted and maybe even discovered some new music in the process. It was joy earned. If Spotify or Apple Music had existed in 1977, my moment at the Lincoln Tunnel would never had happened. Stop Your Sobbing? It’s now just a tap away.

Have you seen That Thing You Do? It’s a film about a fictitious Beatle-esque band in the early 1960’s called The Wonders. This quartet of kids go from obscurity to headliners overnight with the eponymously titled hit single. The moment that their song debuts on the local radio station is a key scene in the film. One by one, the band members hear the song; first the songwriter’s girlfriend, then the drummer, who run into the bass player’s dad’s appliance store where he’s working. Next the two guitar players pull up out front and rush in, having heard the song on the car radio. The band members crank up a radio while they whoop, holler and hug, dancing around the store in a display of unbridled celebration. It’s one of the most joyous moments in any rock and roll film. There was no Spotify, there was no Pandora. Their song just came on the radio. It was random, it was unexpected, it was magical

By Louie Ferrera

On the cusp of winter solstice a  cold winter light filters through the mostly bare branches of our fruit trees, the golden glow of autumn has all but faded away. Out here on our deck just before sunrise everything is coated in a thin dusting of frost. I can slide across the new redwood boards like a skater. This is as close as we ever come to snow, these Jack Frost mornings. The western sky is slowly turning blue, the east is aglow with the light of the rising sun, the waxing crescent moon looks down on me, a sideways smile. One of these mornings soon, the moon and Venus will meet and do their wintry do-si-do sky dance.

Our fountains are all partially frozen, small icicles, tiny fingers of frozen water, are suspended from the spigots, thin films of ice have formed where the water stream isn’t hitting. My exhalations produce small, white clouds because it’s cold…29 degrees! It’s much too cold for the birds who no doubt are still roosting in the relative warmth of the evergreen cypress trees that form a border with our back fence neighbors. When the sun breaks the horizon, that’s when their day will begin. I walk across the lawn with a crunch, crunch as the soles of my slippers break through the newly formed layer of frost. The remaining leaves  on the apple tree are all outlined in white silvery crystals, like snowflakes each one is different. The cold and the frost and this peaceful Sunday morning combine to produce real quiet. The Earth is holding its breath.

Now the sun begins to break through the redwood and eucalyptus trees in our next door neighbor’s yard. For a short time the deck  looks like a sauna, the frost turns to sheets of water vapor, rising into the air as it melts. When the sun hits the deck railing, the frost covered wood shimmers with the light of a thousand diamonds, each minute ice crystal picks up its share of sunlight and reflects it back in a dazzling jewel-like display of star sparkle.

This is a fleeting spectacle, gone as soon as the sun gets strong enough to completely melt the frost. Moments like these are precious. Not only do you need to be in the right place at the right time, but more importantly your eyes must be wide open and your heart ready to receive the grace when it’s presented to you. Being an early riser has its benefits, especially on a morning such as this. If you’re not noticing, you’ll miss the miracles, miracles that are occurring all the time, all around us.

By Louie Ferrera

At a beach on Kauai’s south shore, turtles and tourists share the sand.

The Hawaiian green sea turtle is a year round resident of the Hawaiian islands. These massive reptiles can be seen gracefully plying the waters all throughout the islands. The highlight of any snorkeling trip is coming face to face with a turtle, their flippers move as if in slow motion and they appear to be flying through the undersea blue. While standup paddleboarding along the beach on Maui I’ve had the good fortune on many occasions to glide alongside a green sea turtle, their intricately patterned shells visible just below the surface, their heads popping up every so often to take a breath. These turtles get very big. Their shells can be upwards of four feet long and they can weigh upwards of 250 pounds.

If you don’t want to get into the water, the main beach at Poipu, on Kauai’s south shore, affords us tourists a unique opportunity to observe green sea turtles up close. As sunset approaches, turtles begin to slowly crawl out of the water and onto this sandy beach to rest for the evening. This is Carol’s and my first time visiting Kauai in winter. Our past trips have always been in June. The turtles are here in summer but in much smaller numbers. The most we’ve seen on this beach at any one time has been five or six.

It’s our first night here, so down to the beach we head at sunset with drinks in hand and smiles on our faces. Needless to say we were quite surprised to find a dozen turtles already tucked into the beach for the night. We watched in awe as one after the other turtles began to emerge from the water. Whereas they’re as graceful underwater as birds in flight, once on the sand their movements are slow and laborious. They use all four of their flippers to slowly inch their way onto the beach until they find a spot to their liking. By the time it got too dark to make them out clearly, we counted perhaps 40 turtles at rest. They were packed so closely together, the beach appeared to be strewn with large boulders. Seeing so many turtles in such a small space was an incredible experience. We found out the next morning that eventually over 70 turtles spent the night here. 

A team of volunteer docents staff the beach day and night, setting up a coned perimeter to keep people at least ten feet away from the resting honu (Hawaiian word for turtle). They also answer questions, solicit donations and provide information about these gentle creatures. 

The Hawaiian green sea turtle is a threatened species, it is protected by state and federal laws. By habitat destruction, hunting and dumping trash into the ocean, humans have been instrumental in their listing as threatened. It’s ironic that the honu on Poipu Beach find a safe haven here among the very species that have done them so much harm. By showing up in such large numbers every night, maybe the turtles are here to teach us humans a lesson in forgiveness? Given the opportunity to interact up close with such marvelous animals, you can’t help but gain a deeper appreciation for them and their place in the grand scheme of things. 

I think coming here to pay our respects, as it were, is a way for us humans to atone  for the harm that we’ve caused. Meanwhile the evening deepens, the turtles keep coming , one by one slowly emerging from the water, a timeless mystery.

By Louie Ferrera

Outside our little garden cottage just off the beach in Hanalei on the island of Kauai the white-rumped shama greets the day with its happy song. Our bedroom slowly begins to fill with light, sunrise is still an hour or so away and the shama is already in fine voice letting me know in no uncertain terms that the promise of a new day is before us. 

This handsome little thrush is a common sight in backyards and in the lush rainforests of  the “Garden Isle”. With its black head, rust colored breast, white rump patch and long thin tail this bird is unmistakable. Robin sized, the shama can be found foraging among the leaf litter  in search of food or perched low in a bush or tree wagging its slender tail up and down. Birdsong is difficult to describe, but if there were an onomatopoetic  word for the sound of tranquility, the shama’s melodious whistle would be it. The shama’s song is just one piece of the mosaic that makes up the peaceful soundscape in our neighborhood. Another is that of the chicken.

One of the most endearing aspects of Kauai is the fact that chickens here are feral. It’s nearly impossible to go anywhere on the island without seeing a chicken or three scurrying about. One story I’ve heard is that several decades ago a strong hurricane  destroyed certain chicken coops on the island and many of those birds escaped. The chickens we see wandering everywhere today are the descendants of those escapees. Chickens really are beautiful birds. Seeing so many of them up close, I’m struck by the dazzling variety of colors and textures in their feathers. As I write this a large rooster is strutting across the lawn in front of me. A bright red comb sweeps back from the top of its’ head in an Elvis-like “DA”. Its’ cinnamon head and neck and dark rainbow-hued body all blend into a spot on children’s book example of a rooster. Of course the shama’s voice isn’t the only one that welcomes the dawn here on Kauai. Where its’ call is sweet and musical, the rooster’s scratchy, rusty hinges opening on a metal door screech says in no uncertain terms, “I’m up pal, time for you to roust your lazy bones out of bed too!”

A third part to this morning choir is the zebra dove. This bird is ubiquitous and easy to take for granted until you get a glimpse of it up close. A soft shade of powder blue highlights its’ small, round head. Thin, dark stripes begin at its’ slender neck, wrapping around its’ body in concentric circles. What a gorgeous bird! The zebra dove can be heard at all hours of the day singing its’ smooth, rapidly bouncing whistle of a song. It’s usually the first bird that I hear when dawn begins to lighten the sky, and the sound that I most associate with Kauai.

Rounding out this quartet is the common myna. This jaunty, black, crow-sized bird is literally everywhere. The myna is full of attitude, strutting around lawns and gardens like it owns the joint. The yellow “spectacles” around its’ eyes and yellow down-curving bill give the myna an extra dose of “What are you looking at?”  Like the zebra dove, the chattering cackle of the myna can be heard at all hours of the day. In contrast to the soothing songs of the shama and dove, the myna is more in line with the jarring screech of the rooster.

This is our eighth trip in the past ten years to Hanalei, land of Puff and dazzling rainbows; tranquil beaches and laid back island vibes. Coming here always feels like coming home. Having such familiarity with the sights and sounds of the local avian community is the best kind of welcome mat.

By Louie Ferrera

Throughout Stephen Stills’ much celebrated love affair with Judy Collins I’m sure she was many things to him: talented, intelligent, beautiful and most certainly sweet. When first hearing “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” announced on the radio, one would naturally think the title to be Sweet Judy Blue Eyes, referring to one of Ms Collins’ many positive attributes. Of course, the “suite” in the song’s title refers to a collection of distinctive musical sections that make up a whole song. Naturally this can be confusing, with “suite” and “sweet” being homophones. To avoid confusion, I suppose Stills could have simply titled his song  “A Suite For Judy Blue Eyes” (insert laugh emoji here). In any event…

What a thoroughly original and inspired song  Suite: Judy Blue Eyes is. When Crosby, Stills and Nash’s eponymously titled debut album was released in the Woodstock summer of 1969, Stephen Stills was at the top of his game as an instrumentalist, singer and songwriter. On this timeless album, Stills is clearly the driving force, playing acoustic and electric guitars as well as keyboards and bass. His nickname throughout the sessions for this album was “Captain Manyhands”.

The centerpiece of Crosby, Stills and Nash is Suite: Judy Blue Eyes. On ”suite” the sections of the song fit together like puzzle pieces to create a perfectly realized musical vision. The song kicks off with a ringing acoustic guitar lick followed by the trademark CSN harmonies. The three verses of this first section rock, Stills provides the grit with nifty fuzztone electric guitar licks behind the vocals. After the third verse an acoustic guitar interlude signals the first change of tempo. The song slows way down for the gentle Friday evening, Sunday in the afternoon section of verses. The harmonic blend of their voices here is a delicious musical gumbo of flavors and textures. A second acoustic interlude, featuring crystalline harmonics and a looping, melodic bass line by Stills, and the tempo shifts again. The energy begins to build with the chestnut brown canary, ruby throated sparrow verses and concludes with the beautifully alliterative lacy lilting lyric, losing love lamenting. After the final line, change my life, make it right, be my lady, yet another descending acoustic guitar lick leads us to the joyous final section of the suite with Crosby and Nash singing the infectious and unforgettable do, do, do ,do, do’s while Stills counters behind them with a verse… in Spanish! It’s all so raucous and celebratory and I always sing along at the top of my voice. This climactic section leaves me breathless every time!

With Suite: Judy Blue Eyes, CSN takes us on an unforgettable rollercoaster ride. Throughout the course of this 7:09 musical masterpiece, Stephen Stills somehow manages to convey to us the ups and downs, the joy and heartbreak, the longing and loss that is a love relationship. A sweet suite indeed!

By Louie Ferrera

Silence is such a beautiful thing. In the hyperdrive world that we live in there are so few opportunities to experience true silence, those opportunities are there but you’ve got to seek them out, silence does not usually come to you. Silence helps me think, allows me to relax, to breathe more deeply and to be present.

I’m writing this at Crane Creek, a jewel in the crown of the regional park system in Sonoma County. It’s quiet. The high whine of a small airplane briefly breaks the silence, but it came and went quickly. The cackle of a raven, the piercing whistle of a Northern Flicker also briefly break the silence but unlike the airplane, the sounds of these birds actually enhance the quiet. A Northern Harrier patrolling above the parched brown hillside makes no sound at all, it dances silently in the still autumn air mere feet from the ground searching for its’ next meal.

Being subjected to the near constant cacophony of our chaotic world is an assault, the escape from which is essential to my health and well being. I feel very fortunate to live not more than 20 minutes or so from a place where I can contemplate a lazy flowing river, be awed by the power of the ocean or simply meditate as I’m doing right now at the base of an oak studded hillside. Here I’m able to cleanse my mind and body of all the noise and negativity and replace it with wonder, beauty and silence. These precious few hours are a battery recharge for my soul.

I love “noisy quiet”: the wind through the trees, the white noise roar of the surf on a beach, the happy bubbling sounds of water flowing over stones, these are all counterpoints to the aural assault that I’m subjected to in my everyday life. Listening to “quiet noises” like these tend to deepen the quality of the silence, after a while these sounds become part of the silence.

Today I’m also being blessed with the “visual silence” of various birds of prey circling, gliding and hunting within view of where I sit. Along with the aforementioned harrier, a white tailed kite slips in and out of my view space, it hoovers nearly upright, flapping its’ wings rapidly, staring intently at the ground below. A Cooper’s Hawk lands on the skeletal branch of a snag, startling the songbirds below. A huge, dark colored hawk flies low right past me and into the top branches of an oak tree that’s dripping with pale green beards of Spanish moss. The ever present turkey vultures use the silence of thermal updrafts as they dip and dive in search of carrion.

Today there is also the silence of clouds, their shifting shapes constantly sculpted by the wind. My imagination takes over and I see the profile of a witch (after all today is Halloween!) Her hair is flowing out behind and I wonder what it would feel like to be up there with her. There’s the silent wisdom of trees, the oldest of which have seen so much over the course of their lives. Their knowledge is stored in the heartwood and bursts forth in the deep green of their leaves. There’s the silence of rocks too. The concept of geologic time that they embody is impossible for me to grasp. Our lingering drought has created the silence of Crane Creek. Small boulders and cobblestones await the impending rains so they can once again give voice to the flowing waters.

As I bask in the stillness of this golden afternoon in late October, I’m deeply thankful for the silence, both within and without me.

By Louie Ferrera

While listening recently to the Crosby, Stills and Nash version of David Crosby’s “Guinnevere” I had a bit of a vision. Here’s what I saw.

She is all green cat eyes, her liquid gold hair doing the wind dance, waving wild and free like ribbons in the salty sea breeze, the wind and the waves and the hair and the eyes converge in a single burst of pinpoint brilliance, blinding and beautiful. Sweet Guinnevere raises her arms to the sky in celebration as she welcomes the gulls who are wheeling and diving and dancing above in the blue and the sea, as it has always been, as it always will be crashes and retreats and Guinnevere moves in sync with the timeless rhythms of the unknowable Pacific.

In my mind’s eye I can picture Guinnevere alone in her garden, the gentle rain that had been falling all night has ended leaving everything; the plants, the trees, the air, clean to sparkling. Having just awoken Guinnevere has come outside to welcome and to give thanks for this most glorious of mornings. She wears a simple white cotton nightgown, sleeveless and long, flowing nearly to her ankles, the cool wetness of the grass soothes her feet as Guinnevere swishes along and her eyes match the color of the grass which matches the color of her brilliantly painted toenails. She pauses beneath an orange tree and plucks a perfectly dimpled sphere of fruit, cold and wet to the touch after the evening rain. She breaks the skin of the orange with her fingernails (painted green of course), removing the peel in one long, lazy spiral. Guinnevere slowly savors each slice tasting of rain and sweet summer sunshine. Of course the peacocks are there too, glittering jewels that strut and preen in pairs, silent sentries to the blessing that is this day.

Guinnevere has a secret and only I am in on it. When she’s certain that no one is watching she disappears into the forest, making her way through a tangle of trees and underbrush util she arrives at her special place, an ancient abandoned stone cottage. The walls inside are cracked and weathered and covered with exquisitely detailed drawings of birds, each one is enclosed inside a pentagram shaped cage and only Guinnevere has the power to free them which she does and the wrens and thrushes, jays and hummingbirds burst forth from the confines of their five-sided prisons back into the glittering green of the forest. The birds are finally free and so too is Guinnevere.

By Louie Ferrera

Blue is many things, it’s a color, a feeling, a state of mind. There is much under the umbrella that we call blue.

It is said that eyes are the window to the soul and for me, no eyes provide a clearer view than blue eyes. I’ve often become mesmerized when  I look into my son’s eyes, they are a deep and vibrant shade of blue that defies description. His eyes came from his mother, who’s eyes came from her father. Carol’s  lovely blue eyes are the first thing I noticed about her when we were first introduced. The gentle, laughing eyes of my friend Peter were a key element of an acid trip that we took together at a Grateful Dead show back in the 90’s. My mom’s all time favorite singer is Frank Sinatra, famously known as Old Blue Eyes.

How about the sky! The word blue was surely invented in order to describe its’ color. I love watching a cloudless sunset at the beach. Once the sun dips below the horizon is when the real show begins. Every shade of blue that ever was or will ever be exists in one of those sunsets; from the palest of baby blues to the deepest of indigos. Speaking of that pale blue, my dear friend Marise has those color eyes and I think of her every time I see a sunset like that. I know there’s a scientific explanation as to why the sky is blue, but I like to think of it as pure magic.

The planet Neptune is blue, have you seen the photos? It’s a perfect lapis lazuli marble against the infinite blackness of space, by far the most glittering jewel among all of the planets in our solar system. Viewed from space Earth is aptly know as the Blue Planet because of the color of our oceans. At the beach though, the deep blue sea isn’t always so. On a cloudy day the sun dips in and out of hiding, painting the sea in shifting hues from olive green to cerulian blue. The turquoise waters of Hawaii never fail to fill my heart with wonder.

Technically, blueberries are a shade of purple, but who makes up these silly rules anyway? Blueberries look pretty blue to me. Every spring and summer, the railing on our backyard deck is covered in a riotous tangle of morning glory vines There are many different colored blossoms, my favorites of course are the blue ones, they are a deep hue that vibrates whenever the sun hits their faces. Our resident flock of hummingbirds love these flowers too and spend lots of time probing them for their sweet nectar.

On my trip to Egypt in the summer of 1995 while wandering through a vast outdoor market in Cairo one afternoon I stumbled upon a long table covered with multi-colored, pyramid-like piles of spices. Among these mini pyramids was a striking voilet-blue pile of the dye indigo. How did the Indigo Girls get their name? Perhaps they too were enchanted by indigo at an Egyptian market?

One of my most treasured books is Beneath The Blue Umbrella by renowned children’s  author Jack Prelutsky. This book was given to me by my wife Carol. She wrote a sweet inscription to me inside the front cover. These poems are whimsical and sweet and were a favorite of the first and second graders that I once taught.

Of course blue is also sad. You know, feeling blue, got the blues, in a blue mood. Not sure where that comes from. What would music be like today without the blues? Blues music is the seed kernel that begat rock and roll. No blues, no Elvis, no Chuck Berry, no Beatles, no Stones. The likes of Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and Howlin’ Wolf are the roots from which all rock and roll sprouted. Blue by Joni Mitchell is widely recognized as her finest album and a record that has inspired a generation of singer-songwriters. A photo of Joni is barely visible among the blue, almost black of the albums’ cover. On Blue, Joni took the deep sadness and uncertainty of her life at the time and turned it into a timeless masterpiece. One of the most joyous songs in the Allman Brothers’ catalogue is Blue Sky. Written by guitarist Dickie Betts, this love song was inspired by his girlfriend at the time Sandy Blue Sky. “You’re my blue sky, you’re my sunny day. Lord you know it makes me high when you turn your love my way.” Anyone who’s ever been in love has most surely felt like this, it’s the moment of loves’ inception when you look past the eyes and into the heart. 

A “blue dichotomy” exists all over the music world. You’ve got your “blue happy” songs (Irving Berlin’s Blue Skies), and your “blue sad” songs (Elvis’ Blue Christmas).  All of the blue songs, happy and sad, are too numerous to recount here! There’ve been blue bands too. Sixties one hit wonders Swingin’ Blue Jeans and psychedelic garage rockers Blues Magoos. Blue Cheers’ definitive version of Summertime Blues is a “grunge before there was grunge” feedback drenched classic.

If you’ve raised a child over the past twenty years you must be well acquainted with Blues Clues. Hosted by the affable Steve (and later Joe) this beloved kids tv show for the five and under crowd featured the eponymous “Blue”, a large animated dog who helped Steve/Joe solve mysteries by leaving clues. We and our kids never missed an episode.

Remember those double-barreled popsicles, the ones with the two wooden sticks? I wonder if they still make them. As a kid I loved these, my favorites being the blue ones, “blue skies’ I called them.

The tastiest tortillas I’ve ever eaten were made from blue corn. One day while Carol and I were traveling in Guatemala we watched a Mayan woman at an outdoor market in a tiny mountain village make these from scratch. We later ate these tortillas with slices of fresh cheese. I’ll never forget the flavor. 

Blue has always been my favorite color. I’m generally a “blue happy” person. Blue is soothing and peaceful. Blue is a crisp autumn day in October. Blue is a windswept expanse of deserted beach. Sometimes I can just get lost in blue.

By Louie Ferrera

I love autumn. The cool, clear nights, the cold, foggy mornings, the cloudless blue skies and Goldilocks temperatures during the day, the sunsets with those endless gradations of blue followed by a final blaze of orange-to-pink-to red. The low angle of the sun at this time of year creates a soft and magical quality of light, especially at sunset, when the trees light up in alpenglow worthy of the granite walls of Yosemite. 

I love when I hear for the first time the call of a Northern Flicker. This strikingly beautiful bird of the woodpecker family is a harbinger of autumn when it appears in our area around mid-September.

I love seeing the leaves change color. We don’t have nearly the explosion of reds, yellows and oranges as the east coast does but what we do have are the vineyards. Right about now hillsides all around Sonoma County are gradually being transformed into postcard perfect oceans of gold.

On our property is a towering oak tree and many fruit trees, all except the citrus shed their leaves. I love bundling up on a cloudy morning and going outside to rake the fallen leaves that cover our lawn. The rustling sound and smell of decaying leaves as I swoosh them into piles transports me back to a time in my childhood when leaf pile diving was an annual rite of passage.

I love watching the transition that our vegetable garden goes through in autumn. The tomato, cucumber  and green bean plants are gamely trying to put out a few more pieces of ripe fruit, but for the most part they’ve given all that they can. The strawberries have gone dormant, their sweet fruit just a memory. The carrots have all been harvested, the lettuce gone to seed. All our hard work of  tilling the soil, putting in seeds and starts and nurturing them since spring has payed off in an impressive bounty of fresh vegetables. My gratitude is deep for all that these plants have given us.

The blazing heat of summer is thankfully behinds us. My heart is now filled with the hope of rain. I anticipate the rat-a-tat sound of raindrops falling on the roof of our deck and the glistening green of leaves washed clean of their summer coat of dust. I long for the smell of wet earth and the sight of greening hillsides as grasses are finally awakened. I dream of running creeks and filling reservoirs.

I love Halloween; the smell of freshly carved pumpkins and the crunch of roasted pumpkin seeds, the glow of jack-o-lanterns around our cul-du-sac and the delightful squeal of trick or treaters.

I love the World Series; the annual drama know as the Fall Classic. I love baseball, a sport that begins with the promise of spring and ends with the harvest moon of October. 

I love Thanksgiving; the warm kitchen, the aromas of roast turkey and stuffing, the Pinot Noir and a home filled with the love of family and friends. I love frost in the mornings and clear, starry nights.

I love autumn!