Free At Last

Carol and I went to the movies this afternoon. Upon walking into the lobby we were immediately greeted by the twin aromas of melting butter and popping popcorn. We took our seats among the twenty or so other people inside the dimly lit theater. The only sounds were the soft hum of whispered conversation and the rustling of hands reaching into popcorn boxes. The lights were turned all the way down and the big screen lit up with previews, followed by the feature film. We settled into a wonderful documentary about a music festival in Harlem in the summer of 1969. People sharing the theater with us clapped, laughed or commented at various times throughout the film. As soon as the film ended people began to file out but I always stay until the screen goes white and the house lights are turned back up. The film was joyous and life affirming. Smiles and nods of acknowledgement  were shared as we and our fellow movie goers exited the theater.

This was the first movie theater that I’d been to in nearly a year and a half. I’m hearing a lot of this nowadays: “This is the first (fill in the blanks) that I’ve…”. My favorite part about going to a movie in a theater is the shared experience in the dark with a roomful of strangers. The aroma of popcorn, the big screen and surround sound all make a “Netflix and chill” evening pale in comparison. I savored every moment of my movie experience today and I know that the people inside the theater with us felt exactly the same way. There was a palatable sigh of relief and grattitude among all of us inside the Summerfield Cinemas on this sunny Saturday afternoon. Joy no longer needs to be postponed. Fifteen months of pent up frustration is gradually being released. The dreaded face masks are going, going and nearly gone. The twin vibes of fear and dread are being replaced by hope and positivity. Seeing peoples’ smiles again fills my heart to bursting. The vaccine is setting us all free.

Carol and I were on a roll. After a brief stop at home to refuel we headed out “for the first time in…” to hear live music. Our destination was a funky one-off restaurant and music venue on the banks of the Russian River. The Rio Nido Roadhouse has a small bar and covered pation but the majority of seating and the stage are outdoors. Pairs of Adirondak chairs with a small table between them and several aged wooden picnic tables are arrainged on an expansive lawn ringed by towering redwood trees. A cement dance floor and small stage sit at one end. A sign above the stage spells out the venues’ name in faded, delaminating plywood letters. Long strings of white lights criss cross the lawn above us, lending a magical quality to the scene. We settled into our seats with food and cold microbrews waiting for the show to begin and watching the evening sky turn from deep blue to indigo to black. 

Tonights’ band is The Sun Kings, a top notch Beatles tribute band. What better music to celebrate the emergence from our long covid winter than that of the Beatles. There were perhaps 150 people at the show. No masks, no social distancing, just happy smiling humans rejoicing in the freedom and beauty of this very special evening. The band kicked off the show with Sargent Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and we immediately hit the dance floor. The crowd was predominantly aging Baby Boomers for whom the Beatles music is part of our DNA. However I was surprised and delighted to see an energetic group of roughly a dozen men and women in their early 20’s join us at the front of the stage. They danced harder and sang louder than anyone, belting out the words to each and every song. For three hours and nearly 50 songs, Carol and I twirled, smiled and sang ourselves hoarse.

The final song of the night was fittingly Hey Jude. Boomers and twentysomethings alike linked arms on the dance floor in a collective embrace as we filled our lungs and sang the songs’ coda…together.

My Parents’ House

My parents’ house has a front door but no one ever uses it. Everyone comes and goes through the back door.

The dank, musty smells of age and neglect greet you as you enter the house because five steps down to the right is the basement. Its smooth cement walls are slightly damp and cool to the touch. The aged brown wood of the floor joists are visible above. There is no ceiling. There are several shelves filled with old things: random holiday decorations, worn cardboard boxes, cans of paint, a few rusty tools. Three small windows on either side of the basement let in some light, but still this place is dark and gloomy.

The basement was where as kids we’d hold marathon ping pong tournaments and play hours of the table top Bobby Hull hockey game. After particularly wet rainstorms, the bare cement floor often floods. A large drain in the rear corner has to be unscrewed with a pipe wrench in order to let the water out. Vintage movie posters once hung on the walls, remnants of my mom’s career as a theater manager. The Halloween party we had down here during my sophomore year in college was one for the ages. The next day my older brother Ray and I, shaky with hangovers, had to clean up the spilled beer, stale chips, cans, bottles and smashed cake that covered the floor. We celebrated two of our friend’s birthdays that night. They blew out the candles but got no cake.

My old baseball mitts and bats were once stored here. I wonder what became of them? My mom wasn’t much for saving things. An old refrigerator stands against a wall, it is filled with bottled water and long-neck Budweisers. My dad only drinks Bud but buys the good stuff (Heineken or Molson) whenever I visit, a sweet and thoughtful gesture.

Nine steps separated by a small landing lead to the inside of the house. These steps are steep and narrow, dangerous to navigate even for able bodied people. They’re downright hazardous for my 92 year old parents. A bar is bolted to the wall in the stairwell which my parents cling to when they use the steps. One slip and they’d be gone.

The steps lead to a small kitchen. A tiny pantry and narrow breakfast nook sit along the left hand side. Two south facing windows let in lots of light, but the slightly opaque white curtains are often closed so the light is dim and diffused. Mom would spend hours over the stove in here concocting her homemade pasta sauce (“gravy” in New Jersey lingo). The twin aromas of tomatoes and garlic filled the house. Macaroni with gravy is still my favorite comfort food. When the radio wasn’t playing Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Tony Bennet or Dean Martin, mom would sing or hum their music while she cooked. When our daughter was little, she would often hum these sweet little melodies while she drew or played in her room. A little piece of my mom in our little girl.

My mom had such a lovely voice and could really carry a tune. Growing up, she shared a small apartment with her five sisters and my grandparents. There was a piano in the apartment and mom learned to play a bit. However, when they moved to a different place, they had to leave the piano behind. Whenever mom tells me this story, her voice is heavy with regret. Given the opportunity, I  believe my mom could have been a singer or musician. I sing, play guitar and have written and recorded two cds of original music. I owe much of my musical abilities to my mom.  As a boy I was constantly exposed to music, my young mind taking it all in. My mom instilled the love of music in me and that is the greatest gift she has ever given to me. 

My parents’ house

Beyond the kitchen is a larger room that doubles as a dining/living room. It has the same south facing windows and diffused lighting. Mom and dad sit here in the evenings and watch tv. They never miss Jeopardy. The front door opens onto a narrow enclosed porch. Screens are pulled down in summer. This space offers a bit of a respite from the stuffy confines of the house. The porch has always been my dad’s refuge. When we were kids, dad smoked cigars. Mom hated these and called them “turds”. He would sit out here to escape from mom and puff away. 

Dad had a small transistor radio which was always tuned to some ballgame or another. Besides being an avid reader my dad has no hobbies, except for sports. He lives and breathes sports, his sports knowledge is deep. Dad played on his high school basketball team. I remember feeling so proud of him whenever mom would show us the yearbook photos of him in his uniform. Sports is the way my dad and I connect. Ray and I would spend hours listening to or watching sports with him: The Miracle Mets in 1969, the 69/70 Knicks, Ali/Frazier at Madison Square Garden in 1971 and of course the New York Yankees. Dad took me to my first major league baseball game on Father’s Day in 1965. The grass on the field was a shade of green that I never knew existed. It was Bat Day. Ray and I received real wooden bats. This is my greatest sports memory. In 2009, my wife and I took our kids to their first major league baseball game in San Francisco. It was Father’s Day.

A door in the living room leads to a short, narrow hallway which connects to a small room. This was the tv room when we were kids and later became my younger brother’s room when he came along. In January of 1964 The Beatles took America by storm. Their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show was viewed by millions, two of whom were Ray and I. We sat on the floor in this tiny room that night and sang along as the Fab Four made history. Mom and dad sat on the couch behind us wondering what all the fuss was about.

A stairway out of this room leads up to two small rooms. One was my sister’s, the other Ray and I shared. What these rooms really are is an attic divided with a  wall. With no insulation or heat, the rooms are stifling; unbearably hot in the summer and freezing in winter. Blankets, portable heaters and fans made the rooms barely livable. During big winter snowstorms, Ray and I would lean over the clock radio that sat between our beds, listening with rapt attention to the list of school closings, hoping with all of our might to hear our school’s name. This is where I sat with my first acoustic guitar, playing along to Neil Young’s Harvest until I knew all of the songs by heart. My college girlfriend and I once made love on this bed.

Each of these two rooms has a small closet. In the back of my sister’s closet is a door which opens to a crawl space underneath the roof of the house. We call it the “cubbyhole”. This is a dark and foreboding place that terrified us as kids. There are no walls or ceiling, just exposed beams and wall studs covered in dust and cobwebs. There is no light switch so a flashlight is needed for illumination which adds an extra layer of creepiness. My siblings and I would imaging all manner of unnamed horrors living within this space. It was the stuff of our childhood nightmares. 

My parents’ house was built in 1936. The inside seems to  grow smaller each time I visit. It is claustrophobic and stuffy. There is one bathroom. My sister, my two brothers and I grew up here. Six of us crammed into this tiny space. The cramped quarters and and lack of privacy helped fuel the chaos and conflict of our childhood. Our parents fought often. Their arguments were explosive, filled with angry putdowns and bitterness. Once as a boy I remember watching my mom cry as she stared out the kitchen window after a particularly nasty fight with dad. Seeing my mom filled with such sadness was heartbreaking.

My parents’ house is at once familiar and foreign to me. It’s difficult to imaging ever living here, yet one step inside and I’m eight years old again. My siblings and I are grown and have long ago moved away but my parents remain, caretakers of our childhood memories.

The Bee Tree

When we were shopping for our first home nearly twenty years ago, one of the things that attracted us to our neighborhood was the easy access to a network of trails that criss cross Santa Rosa and Paulin Creeks. This trail system is truly an oasis and a hidden gem in our part of town. The banks are lined primarily with oaks, willows and redwoods. Beginning in mid-summer, a seemingly endless supply of plump, juicy blackberries are there for the taking. The water is clean and supports a surprising diversity of wildlife. River otters call this place home (one morning last year I observed a family of five cavorting in an eddy just across from where I was standing!) Great Blue Herons, Snowy and Great Egrets, Black Crowned Night Herons and Belted Kingfishers are among the resident aquatic predators. I regularly observe the same egret standing in the water just below a spot where the creek narrows to around two feet, waiting to spear a meal. Crawfish, small steelhead and western pond turtles abound. On any given day, the air is filled with the songs of chickadees, towhees, juncos and warblers. If you’re even halfway observant, it’s hard to walk these trails and not encounter at least one of the aforementioned creatures. However, there’s one little mystery of the natural world that you just may stroll right on by, but I never miss it.

When my family and I first started exploring these trails we began to notice a steady stream of honeybees coming and going from a particular oak tree. This oak is  a gnarled old grandmother. Her weathered and moss covered trunk is nearly five feet in circumference and bends at an odd angle towards the creek. Her thin arms give way to spindly fingers which reach upwards to join the canopy. There’s an opening in the tree about a foot up from the base, it’s an almost perfectly shaped oval, like the one you see in Winnie The Pooh’s tree. I half expect Winnie himself to come rambling by to collect some “huny.” There’s activity at this opening twelve months of the year. Even in the dead of winter on a cold, rainy day, I can still spot one or two bees. Right now the action is fast and furious with hundreds of bees zipping in and out of the opening like so many mini jet fighters. Step close enough and you’ll hear a steady, high pitched hum. Judging by the number of bees, the size of this hive inside grandmother oak must be enormous. How long the hive has been here is anyone’s guess. What I wouldn’t give to reach up in there and grab a handful of sweet, golden honey!

Grandmother Oak
Lotsa bees!

I wonder how many people walk or bike right past this tree every day without noticing what’s going on in and around it? This feels like my little secret but sometimes I think it would be fun to sit beside the tree and point out to the unaware the miracle that’s occurring right before their eyes

Mother Nature does not reveal her secrets easily. It takes patience, hours of quiet observation and a little luck to find what’s hidden, often in plain sight. I’ve discovered some wonderful and unexpected things by sitting, watching and listening with a peaceful mind and an open heart.

A couple of years ago while sitting on our backyard deck one early spring morning, I noticed a hummingbird fly from an open perch on our plum tree into the thick foliage of our apple tree. Day after day I observed this same bird zipping back and forth between the two trees. Curiosity finally got the best of me so I went to have a look inside the apple tree. What I discovered was a tiny nest made from lichen, moss, lint and other bits of fluff. Inside the nest were two perfectly white eggs, each the size of a pinto bean. This nest would easily fit within a circle that I make with my thumb and forefinger. So perfectly camouflaged was this nest that it would have been virtually impossible to find it had I not first observed the hummingbird’s activity around it. 

I feel blessed just to be aware of these hidden secrets of nature. Being in the right place at the right time has allowed me to glimpse through the window into a mysterious and mostly hidden world. Of course there are more bee trees and hummingbird nests out there than I’ll ever have the time to discover. But nevertheless, I plan to keep on looking.

When You Were The Wind

Every so often, a line will come to me in a dream and be on my mind when I awaken. I keep a pen and paper by my side of the bed so I can write these lines down before they melt away along with the dream. Sometimes one of these little gifts from my subconscious becomes the starting point of a song or poem, which is the case here.

When you were the wind

Life was a 10 year old’s summer day

And the outfield was green, green, green

When you were the wind

The future was a star dappled night

And the possibilities were limitless

When you were the wind

Your time was now

And you didn’t need a second chance

When you were the wind

Every breath filled your lungs with freedom

And you never stopped to look back

When you were the wind

You experienced the freefall of love

And knew what it meant to be truly alive

When you were the wind

The bus came by

And you got on

When you were the wind

Your dreams lead the way

And you followed, joyful and laughing

When you were the wind

The shades of yellow were dazzling

And all of your mornings were Chelsea

When you were the wind

You spread your wings

And the meadows were filled with birdsong

When you were the wind

The wheel turned slowly

And time was a lazy river flowing

A Moment in a Day Filled With Moments

Twenty years ago the ringing sound of heels on a metal staircase marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life, only I didn’t know it at the time.

The most pivotal moments in our lives quite often announce themselves with great fanfare. Weddings, the birth of a child, the passing of a loved one are key events after which our lives, for better or worse, are changed forever. However, sometimes these moments sneak up on us with a whisper instead of a shout. When they occur they may feel like just another moment in a day filled with moments, it’s after the fact when we realize their significance. I guess you could call it delayed gratification. I had one such moment on April 21, 2001. It was a beautiful spring evening and that was the day I met Carol, the love of my life and the mother of our two children. 

Two decades have gone by and I still have vivid memories of that day when Carol came into my life. She and I were introduced by a mutual friend named Dannielle. Dan and I had a warm and easy friendship. We laughed a lot and enjoyed spending time together. A couple of months prior to meeting Carol, Dan began talking up this “dancer, teacher, world traveler, Deadhead (Grateful Dead fan)” friend of hers.  So I’m hearing all of this and all the while checking off boxes. I was definitely intrigued and told Dan that I wanted to meet this mystery woman. I was single at the time, in a good space in my life, and ready  for something new.

After some back and forth, Dannielle managed to arrange a day for Carol and I to meet. I was living in Santa Cruz at the time. Dan and Carol both lived about three hours north in Sonoma County. I made the trip north on that fateful Saturday to Dan’s apartment where my meeting with Carol was to take place. I was helping Dan do some painting in her place that afternoon. Butterflies of excitement fluttered through my stomach as we sloshed various colors of paint onto the walls. I was trying not to have expectations and just let events unfold as they may. 

Dan’s studio was behind and above a family’s home and was accessed via a winding metal staircase similar to the type used to ascend to the top of a lighthouse. The appointed time of our rendezvous had arrived when I heard the clomp and ring of heeled shoes on metal. The door swung open and in flowed Carol. This is the memory that is so crystalized in my mind, the way Carol literally flowed into my life. 

Her river of hair, red as a robin’s breast, spilled out of a colorful head scarf, cascading down past the middle of her back. The swish swish of these long tresses was perfectly synched to her graceful movements as Carol sashayed into the room. Her thin and lithe body was draped in a light brown, long sleeve peasant style blouse. A vividly printed skirt flowed past her ankles. Carol’s electric blue eyes were turned up to their full brightness that evening. Her big toothy smile was warm and welcoming, the freckles on her face a nice punctuation mark.

Our actual date was fairly uneventful. The three of us went to a bar, had a couple of beers and listened to a bluegrass band. Carol and I got together again the next day for a hike in the redwoods. The seeds of our relationship had been sown. How could I have possibly known at the time how that day would alter the course of my life? It was a moment in a day filled with moments that was the beginning of a beautiful life shared.

A Different Spring

At the spring equinox last year the world was in turmoil. A mysterious and deadly virus that began “over there” had made it to our shores. Schools, movie theaters, restaurants, health clubs, basically all “non-essential” businesses were immediately closed. Baseball, the quintessential harbinger of springtime renewal was put on hold indefinitely. The NBA abruptly paused its season. Panic buying wiped out supermarket shelves. What do you mean I can’t hug my friends? No live music? No summer festivals? Locked down in our homes, Zoom was a sorry substitute for real human interaction. A malevolent regime ruled in Washington, confident of another four years to wreck havoc on us all. To say things were looking bleak was a vast understatement. How on Earth would we survive? Well, survive we did.

On this glorious spring day one year later, the darkness of the past year seems like a fever dream. God’s paintbrush has splashed the neighborhoods and hillsides with every type of spring flower imaginable; their yellows, oranges, purples, whites and blues pulsate against a backdrop of green grass and blue skies. A crazed president has been replaced by a kind and humane president. Many thousands of people are being vaccinated every day. Daily covid cases and hospitalizations are on a steady decline. Businesses are opening up, masks are slowly being lowered and a collective sigh of relief can be heard everywhere. Fear and dread are  giving way to hope and positivity. On April 1st, the Major League Baseball season will begin on schedule. Actual fans, not cardboard cut-outs, will be in the stands.

I contemplate all of this with intense gratitude as I sit today at one of my favorite places in nature. I’ve come here numerous times over the past year seeking solace and a respite from a world gone mad. All around me are signs of renewal and rebirth.

When I arrive, a squirrel scolds me from the trees above. I don’t think he was expecting a visitor. Chattering jays carry on a noisy conversation. The subtle “chip, chip” of some mysterious forest bird fills in the blanks. A silent breeze ever so slightly moves the new green shoots of the surrounding willows. The breeze needs the trees to announce its presence and create the dance of spring.

The river current is languid and lazy, broken only by small ripples, swirls and dimples. The river is a canvas for the towering trees on the opposite bank, their naked skeletal branches are reflected in its surface. Diving ducks explore the edges of the canvas, vanishing suddenly as if pulled down from below only to reappear again a few yards away. Feathers and twigs are in no hurry on their way to the sea, they always arrive right on schedule.

The breeze picks up, giving voice to the trees around me which creak like the bones of an old woman. I can feel the ancient spirit of the Pomo whispering in the wind. With a flash of black a cormorant jets past, its long, black neck pointing like an arrow downstream.

Two crows are conversing now, it’s an age old discussion filled with mystery and wonder. A tiny butterfly, bone white and brilliant against a landscape of browns and greens, lets the wind take it where it may. 

Hope.

Heaven On Earth

Taylor Mountain is a 1,000 acre gem in the crown of the numerous open space preserves that dot Sonoma County. I was enjoying a day free from obligations today and hiked to the mountain’s 1,380 foot summit. Once at the top I was higher than the hawks and turkey vultures that circled below me, the nearly 360 degree vista was breathtaking. It’s easy to feel inspired at a place like this and I think that’s what prompted this snippet of conversation that I happened upon on my way down.

A woman was hiking with her three small children the oldest, a girl around five years old, turned to her mom at the moment I was walking past and asked, “Mama, what do you think heaven looks like?” The hillside we were standing on is dotted with majestic oak trees and the grasses Ireland green from recent rains, the clouds wispy brushstrokes across a robin’s egg blue sky. We could see across the valley below many miles to the north and south and to the western foothills and beyond. To the little girl perhaps this was what  heaven looked like, she just needed confirmation from mom.

The view from heaven

As a long time elementary school teacher and father of twins, being asked questions like the one posed by the little girl were once a routine part of my day. Kids unfiltered view of the world is so refreshing to be around, they see it as it is and just let it fly. Their wonder and inquisitiveness is a breath of fresh air in our “been there, done that” world.

When you think about it, what a strange concept heaven is. You die and your spirit (essence, prana, mojo…whatever) goes “up.”  I know it’s up because when virtually every major league ballplayer is rounding third base after hitting a home run, they point both of their index fingers skyward and gaze gratefully towards the heavens. The moon, stars and galaxies are known collectively as “the heavens.” They are, after all, “up there.” Humans through time immemorial have looked to the stars for inspiration and knowledge. No wonder we think of heaven as up.

So anyway when you finally make it “up there”, you’re met by white clad angels who float by atop whipped cream clouds to greet you. There may be harps involved. Someone by the name of Peter may review your life in his “naughty or nice” book. Everyone and everything is exactly as it should be. There are no words to describe the beauty. You stay here for all of eternity. My concept of heaven is a bit different.

You don’t need to wait for the end of your life to get to heaven, there are little pieces of heaven everywhere. My son’s eyes are bluer than the mountain sky, my daughter’s eyes a shade of hazel previously unknown to humankind. If that ain’t heaven, I don’t know what is. A day spent with the ones you love in a place that you love? Heavenly. The waves and the wind, the sand and the shorebirds. Some call it the beach but I call it heaven. 

Heaven is up, it’s down, it’s all around, it’s within you, without you. Heaven is right in front of us, we simply need to open our eyes to see it.

My Sweet Lord

Do some things really get better with age or does our familiarity with them over time deepen our love and appreciation, thus making those things more special to us? I think one of the keys to answering this question is to make a conscious effort to always be looking for the new and unexpected in the familiar. It’s all too easy to take someone or something for granted, forgetting about the uniqueness and beauty that has always been there. The people and places that we most cherish are always in motion, constantly changing. After all, the only real constant in life is change. Whether it’s a loved one or a favorite place in the world, being present and aware of the unique beauty that’s before us is one of the keys to really showing up for life.

The idea for this essay came to me while out for a walk one recent evening. Sometimes I just listen to the quiet sounds of life in my neighborhood, and other times my walk has a soundtrack. On this particular night I decided to plug in my earbuds and put my iPod on “shuffle”.  After a few minutes of strolling, George Harrison’s My Sweet Lord came up. If a list could somehow be compiled of the most listened to songs of my life, this song would certainly be near the top. I was 14 years old in 1971 when I bought the 45rpm vinyl record of My Sweet Lord at the local record shop in my hometown. This song has been part of my life for half a century so I think I’ve given it some very deep listens. However, during my walk the other night I heard a nuance in the background vocals that I had never heard before. It was amazing, after countless listens I actually heard something new. Suddenly I was hearing this song with new ears. I liken this phenomenon to noticing something new in the smile of a loved one or perhaps a previously unseen characteristic in that person. I thought I “knew” My Sweet Lord but all I know now is that there are still doors that remain to be opened by me in that song.

Every time I listen to My Sweet Lord, my reaction is quite profound. I’m often nearly overcome with emotion while the song is playing. This music taps into a deep well of spirituality that I never knew existed within me. The Beatles were all very spiritual men, how else could they have created music that has resonated so deeply with so many millions of people? However, because of his deep connection to Indian music, it is  George Harrison who is known as the spiritual one of the group. I have no idea who or what God is but I think it has something to do with eternal love, joy and beauty. If that’s the case, then surely My Sweet Lord is the musical embodiment of God.

Using words to write about music is about as futile as trying to describe colors to a blind person. Trying to describe my feeling while listening to My Sweet Lord are equally futile, but I’ll take a stab at it anyway.

The song begins with a shimmering wash of acoustic guitars, layered like the brushstrokes of a master on a canvas. At :16 the sweet, melodic, double tracked slide guitar sound that is George’s trademark makes its entry with the first of his two guitar solos. At :48 the first hint of Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound appears via some beautifully understated flutes. The backing vocals, in the guise of a chorus of angels, debuts at 1:26 with the joyous refrain of “hallelujah, hallelujah”. The song changes key as the Wall of Sound kicks into full throttle at 1:45 when drums, percussion, bass, more acoustic guitars and the kitchen sink are added to the mix. At this point George is so deeply into his lead vocal that at 2:23 when he sings, “I really want to show you lord but it won’t take long my lord”, his voice cracks with emotion. My eyes well up with tears here every time. The second guitar solo, between 2:39—2:53, is pure manna from Heaven. At the 3:00 mark, more angels join the choir as the mantra “hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, hare hare” is repeatedly sung. By now, My Sweet Lord is no longer just a pop song (was it ever?), but rather a prayer, and I’m filled with the hope and possibilities of love and beauty that this song invokes. During the final 1:47, instruments and voices are all working in perfect harmony, the joy of the musicians shining through like sunbeams shooting out from behind a cloud. The final fade out is a walk on the beach at sunset, the pinks and yellows, reds and oranges gradually giving way to the deepest shades of blue, then silence.

With the writing and recording of My Sweet Lord, I believe George Harrison and producer Phil Spector created music that is truly divine. Like this song, the people and places that I hold most dear will continue to improve with age because I will continue to find new and different ways to love and appreciate them. Hallelujah indeed.

Brothers From Other Mothers

As the sun finally rose, he was starting to understand the meaning of life. Well not really, but last night while he and his two best friends were deep into conversation, it seemed like they had it all figured out. Their talk was wide ranging and free form, bouncing from one subject to the next with a Kerouac like urgency. As the level in the tequila bottle got lower and lower, the three friends let it flow. Love, sex, aging, death and just how amazing is Roger Daltrey’s scream at the end of Won’t Get Fooled Again?  The sun was beginning to peak over the eastern foothills and yet the three friends felt like they were just getting started.

Like a Coltrane solo their conversation flowed effortlessly, folding over and doubling back, constantly reinventing itself, tendrils twisting and climbing, reaching toward the morning light. There is much history between these three. Their friendship was forged in the psychedelic swirl of the Grateful Dead. Their roots go deep into the past and far towards the future. Theirs is an enduring friendship, rock solid and steady. Their conversation continued to swing from the hilarious to the sublime and to all points in between. They were improvising and playing off of each other. Coltrane continued to blow.

The Ritual.

Outsiders listening in would  be amazed at the amount of sarcasm and abuse that’s bantered about. However one thing would be very clear, the love that these guys have for one another is undeniable. They can keep it light as a feather or go as deep as you’d be honest enough to let yourself go.

Their tequila ritual, born on a winter night in Mexico, is essential to these proceedings. The pouring of the amber liquid. The slicing of the lime. The clinking of the glasses. The deal is sealed once again. They are brothers in every sense of the word.

Pitchers And Catchers

When I awoke this morning, the sun looked a little brighter, the sky a deeper shade of blue, the air seemed fresher, crisper, the birdsong a bit cheerier. I wasn’t thinking about covid or Trump or racial injustice or climate change. All seemed right with the world because today, pitchers and catchers reported to spring training camp.

As our long covid winter begins to wind down, major league ballplayers dust off their gear, bid farewell to their families and head down to Arizona or Texas or Florida to begin the annual rite known as spring training. Last season is a memory, the slate is wiped clean and for now every team is in first place. For one brief sun splashed moment, all things seem possible.

The boys of spring, Scottsdale, AZ.

The start of the baseball season coincides with the beginning of spring and shares the associated themes of rebirth and renewal. A baseball season unfolds at a slower pace than the other major team sports. It begins amidst the promise of springtime, gradually giving way to the dog days of summer and culminating in the chilly air of autumn. When the first pitch of the season is thrown, spring flowers are reaching their shining faces towards the sun, trees are beginning to bud out. By the time the World Series champions mob each other atop the pitcher’s mound, the ground will be covered with frost and the colorful leaves of autumn.

In our brave new covid world, there are many unknowns surrounding the upcoming season. Barring unseen circumstances, games will begin on April 1. Sooner or later (hopefully sooner) actual fans will be allowed inside the ballparks, thankfully avoiding the sad spectacle of  seats filled with cardboard cutout humans. The air will be alive with the screams and cries, laughter and cussing of real fans, not prerecorded crowd noise piped in over the stadium’s PA system. The twin aromas of hot dogs and peanuts will waft through the air. Fourteen bucks for a beer? I will pay it, as long as I can sip that beer in a seat along the third base line with my friends on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. The starting lineups will be announced, the booming sound of the players names echo through the cavernous ballpark. The anthem will be sung, we’ll stand along with the players, caps over our hearts. The home plate umpire will shout two of the sweetest words ever uttered together in the English language; “Play ball!” I can hear it now, the snap of a brand new baseball hitting the catcher’s mitt, the crack of the bat, the mighty roar of the crowd as a majestic home run arcs into the left field bleachers. Spring is on the way and baseball is back!