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!

By Louie Ferrera

In our garden four perfectly round lemon cucumbers sit among a tangle of vines, the largest is the size of a baseball, two of them look like ghostly billiard balls and the third is just downright tiny. The two largest ones have begun to take on streaks of pale yellow as they ripen, These are strange fruit. I never knew that cucumbers could be pale and orb-like until Carol and I began to garden. All cucumbers are supposed to be green and tubular, right?

Lemon cucumbers are not widely available so if you want them you’ve got to grow your own. I’ve only ever seen them at farmer’s markets and even there they are pricey and hard to find. It’s best to peel lemon cucumbers before eating them, as the skin is tough and not very tasty however, a recent visitor of ours stood out in the garden and munched one down like an apple, peel and all. This variety of cucumber does not keep well so once you’ve picked one, you better eat it!

Among the mature fruit on our cucumber plant are several bright yellow, five petal blossoms and a few baby cukes the size of my thumb and smaller. This morning is blanketed in a peaceful layer of fog, the light is flat and diffused, the greens and yellows of this sprawling plant are deep and saturated, its tendrils wrapped wildly around a tepee of thin, six foot poles that were pruned last winter from our plum tree. The cucumbers dangle from the vines like Christmas ornaments, a yellow blossom is the star on top. From the tips of the uppermost leaves hangs a solitary drop of water, tiny crystal balls for the hummingbirds to gaze into. The design of these leaves is exquisite. The largest of them are the size of my palm and fingers stretched apart. Each leaf has three points, a long central point with one on either side, all three bend gracefully forward which allows the dew drops to gather at their tips. Each of these leaves sits at the end of a slender, pale green stalk.

Over the past three months, this plant has provided us with many pounds of sweet, crunchy fruit, but as autumn slowly gathers steam, the vines are beginning to die back, the leaves yellowing and splotchy with brown spots. We sowed and nurtured this plant since spring and in turn it has given us all that it can give. My gratitude is deep.

By Louie Ferrera

Some cliches are just plain silly: A watched pot never boils, The bigger they are, the harder they fall. The list goes on. However, sometimes a cliche is spot on, like this one: A picture speaks a thousand words.

Since the invention of photography in the mid 1800’s, photographs have been instrumental in helping tell the human story. The stark black and white images of Dorothea Lang showed the human toll of the Dust Bowl in the 1930’s. The visceral image of that small Vietnamese girl, her body naked and burned, her face contorted in pain as she flees a napalm attack by US planes helped to turn public opinion against the Vietnam War in 1968. Apollo astronaut Jim Lovell’s  dramatic photo of Earthrise from the Moon showed us just how fragile and precious our blue planet is. I could go on and on, my point being that one glimpse of a photograph can instantly evoke intense emotions and have a profound effect on the viewer.

There’s a 3×5 photo of our son that sits on a dresser in our bedroom. I look at this photo every day and it never fails make my heart burst with love. I remember where we were when the photo was taken, who we were with, how old our son was, the time of year…everything. One look at this photo and I’m right back there behind the camera. During the wildfires of 2017, this was one of the objects that I chose to take while we were evacuating our home. Do you haver a photo like this? An image that not only evokes deep feelings but also takes you on a journey down memory lane? A nostalgia trip like this is often fun but it can also release a torrent of feelings that you may not have been ready to experience. 

My dear friend Kimmy passed away a month and a half ago and I’m still grieving over her sudden and senseless death. Last weekend Carol and I got together with a small group of friends, our mutual love for Kim being the common thread that runs through us all. They had just returned from Sacramento (where Kim lived) with a large box of…photographs.

It was a Sunday morning. The friend’s house where we gathered sits in the middle of a redwood forest at the end of a winding and barely paved road. The first rain of the season was falling, the trees and plants were shining and grateful, having finally been cleansed of months of accumulated dust and grime. The rain made quiet music on the roof as we took a collective trip down the memory lane of our lives with Kimmy.

Many of these photos were from a period of roughly 15 years when  Kimmy and I were closest and spent the most time together. The coffee table that we sat around was covered with a hundred or so photos, nearly half of them I was either in or remembered having taken: Me and Kim hugging, me and Kim  laughing, me and Kim skinny dipping in a lake after High Sierra Music Festival, me and Kim slamming shots of tequila, me and Kim  flashing those deep smiles you get when you’re spending time with someone you love. These weren’t just photographs, these are what’s left of the beautiful and joyous times that Kimmy and I shared. There will be no more. While looking at these photos, all of those moments came vividly alive again in my mind’s eye. It was like Kimmy was coming alive right then and there. I ‘d nearly forgotten how very close she and I had been. This was a deeply emotional experience for me and for my friends too. We hugged and laughed and cried. The rain fell, the trees shined. We each took a few photos but decided to keep most of them together so we could look at them again the next time we gathered. I was overwhelmed with sadness but filled with gratitude too. My friends had saved these priceless mementos which most surely would have otherwise ended up in the trash. Through the magic of these photographs is one way that Kimmy will always live on for me.

Have you seen Concert For George? It’s a film of the all star tribute concert that was put on in London to honor George Harrison after his passing. The most poignant moment in the film for me is when Ringo Starr steps to the front of the stage to sing “Photograph”, a song co-written by Ringo and George. Here comes Ringo, close cropped hair, dark glasses, grinning from ear to ear and flashing his trademark peace signs. The band kicks the song off, Ringo grabs the mic and begins to sing:

Every time I see your face it reminds me of the places we used to go. Now all I’ve got is a photograph and I realize you’re not coming back any more.

Amen.

By Louie Ferrera

The narrow two-lane road that leads us in is a snake; a slithering S  winding its way over the Santa Cruz Mountains. Civilization slowly melts away as we make our way through a tunnel of redwood, bay laurel and madrone trees, over dry creek beds, a cascade of small boulders and cobblestones, the last memory of  water. A familiar sign materializes out of the green: Camp Loma… we’ve arrived. Soquel Creek, bisects the land and is still flowing, its waters  clean, peaceful and clear to the bottom. The buildings, green and weathered blend into the forest. The grounds where we gather were once perhaps the home of an indigenous tribe who in ancient times worshiped the forest spirits. I imagine them dancing around a roaring bonfire, sparks flying up through the towering redwoods to become one with the infinite and unknowable stars.

The comfort and familiarity of this unique and magical place is welcoming and warm, it glows with all of the love and music that has happened here, that still swirls through the meadow and paths and hillsides, up the creek bed and into the treetops where owls call, bidding the night goodbye, where the chirps, twits and peeps of mysterious songbirds make a joyful sound as they welcome the dawn of a new day, where the slanting shafts of the rising sun paint the understory in brilliant brush strokes of pure light. 

I love our little corner of heaven. When only a handful of our merry band of fellow travelers are here it’s as quiet as a dream. With each new arrival the camp slowly fills, not just with people and tents and instruments but with love. Simply stated it is enchanted out here and fairly pulsates with the echos of  countless blissful moments that we’ve shared over the past two decades. Each song, all of the smiles, every savory aroma, every child’s playful squeal, every ringing guitar note adds itself to the collective beauty. It all still resonates here and I gratefully breathe everything in. Camp Loma is a refuge from the madness that is life in America in 2022.

Night falls without a sound at the end of our first day here, dawn arrives with a whisper. We have just four short days together, each one of us in the moment and fully aware of the preciousness, beauty and the absolute rarity of what it is that we collectively brew up. We hug, we feast, we dance, we make love and deep music together, passing each other with smiles knowing full well that we’re all in on a little secret, an inside joke, a cosmic giggle. No need to wonder why or ask how it is that we are so blessed to be together here at our little camp beneath the glittering green. We just open up and freely accept it all with grace and deep gratitude. The less we know, the more we learn.