My wife and I were watching a movie the other night. About halfway through the film, a man pulled his car off to the side of the road to call his wife. He was in the process of leaving a message when it began to rain. The rain started slowly, gradually building in intensity until raindrops were pounding on the roof of his car. Rain covered the windows with thousands of silver droplets. It appeared as if this man was on the inside of a fishbowl looking out. He cracked one of the windows and held the phone outside so his wife could hear the sound of the rain falling. You see she is the commander on a spaceship headed to Mars. Both of them may have been thinking this could be the last time that his wife would ever hear rain.

As I watched this scene play out, intense feelings of longing and sadness flooded over me. I felt the way that couple were probably feeling. Would I ever hear the sound of rain again? Where I live it’s been nine months since there’s been any measurable amount of rainfall. I’ve nearly forgotten what the rainy day experience is like. The land is brittle and baked, covered with ash and dust from  relentless heat and wildfires. Rain; cool, quenching rain. I close my eyes and reimagine the experience.

What does rain sound like? It rat-a-tats onto the roof of our deck. It swishes through our fruit trees. It hisses under car tires rolling along rain slicked streets. It splashes over squealing, puddle stomping children. It rushes through a rain swollen creek. It drips down the rain gutter outside our bedroom window, lulling me to sleep.

How does rain feel? It’s cleansing and cool on my face as I tilt my head back to catch each drop. It’s cold and wet and squishy when I walk barefoot through the grass.

What does rain look like? Trees and plants bending under its weight. Raindrops forming perfect crystal balls on leaves and petals, each one reflecting an infinite piece of the sky. Cars and streets, sidewalks and trees all take on the glow of the freshly cleansed. The surfaces of lakes and rivers transformed into millions of glittering, dancing diamonds.

What does rain smell like? Wet hair and wet fur. Mud and memories. Hope and possibilities. Gardens and growth. Relief and renewal. The promise of a new day.

What does rain taste like? Life.

Scientists are convinced that water once flowed freely on the surface of Mars. Drenching storms fed mighty rivers which carved massive canyons more grand than our own. It’s been a few million years since umbrellas were needed on the Red Planet though; rain and flowing water there being memories more distant than the human mind can wrap itself around. Will intelligent beings studying our planet in the distant future say the same of us? “Rain once fell there, rivers flowed…”

The water in Bullfrog Pond is olive green and still. The breeze, ever so slight, is just strong enough to push a few leaves across the surface; small vessels who’s destinations are unknown. As I approach the lichen spotted and weathered picnic table from where I am writing I startle an enormous Great Blue Heron. With two flaps of its prehistoric wings it’s off in a flash of blue to hunt in peace somewhere else. A dinner plate sized dark shape glides slowly by, occasionally popping its periscope-like head above the surface of the water; it’s a Western Pond Turtle. A few unlucky insects land on the surface and are quickly gobbled up. I watch this creature move with stealth and grace until it’s body disappears beneath the green. This pond is so full of life, the beauty here subtle. The key to unlocking some of its mysteries is to stop, observe and breathe; a meditation on what it means to be here right now.

The cacophony of our world today is deafening and unbearable. I’ve come here today to press the “mute” button for a few hours. I’m realizing that in order to survive these insane times, I need to find the quiet spaces within myself and in the world at large. I’m being screamed at from everywhere I turn so it feels really nice to be at this peaceful spot today where the only sounds I hear are the occasional buzz of an insect, the chattering conversation of a pair of Acorn Woodpeckers and the ringing in my ears. Out here there are no screams, only whispers.

The hunter I’m watching now is a Black Phoebe. This elegant little bird swoops down to the surface of the water from it’s perch, catching an insect in mid-air and returning to enjoy it’s snack. I walk down to the bank of the pond and the stillness is broken by a chirp and a splash; my footsteps have startled a bullfrog, its camouflage so complete among the algae and duckweed as to render it invisible. Flame orange and cerulean blue dragonflies perform their impossible acrobatics in the still autumn air,  their vibrant colors are a stark contrast against the muted greens and browns. Tiny black fish occasionally break the surface of the water, each time creating the miracle of a perfectly concentric circle as fleeting as a shooting star.

Life in the latter part of 2020 is at times painful and devastating, full of fear and anger. Humanity lurches along on its self destructive path but thankfully the rhythms of nature continue as they have for millennia here at Bullfrog Pond and at other sacred places in the natural world. Long after the evil and the greedy have passed on, nature will continue to provide us with solace in troubled times.

As I write this, the Air Quality Index (AQI) is 15. This is good, very good. Lately I’ve become quite well versed in the parameters of the AQI. Anything below 50 is good, smooth sailing, no problem, might as well be sitting on the beach in Maui. Between 50-100 we’re still in good shape but better be vigilant. Once we start getting into the mid to upper 100’s, well now we’ve got problems. A few days ago the AQI in my town was 220! In Oregon, the latest front in the climate fires currently raging out west, my friends there are choking on air with an AQI of 450 and higher! That’s equivalent to sticking your head into the top of a smoking chimney.

The perfect storm of Covid, wildfires and toxic air have me now more than ever appreciating one of the simplest, most basic pleasures in life: breathing clean air. Freak lightning storms in August sparked numerous horrific wildfires in California and Oregon. I don’t think I need to recap the news for you. As a result of these fires the air here has been basically unbreathable for over a month. That’s why today feels so good. 

The gentle breeze moving across my back deck creates a wind chime symphony, clearing out the smoke and purifying the air. What’s that huge patch of blue up there between the eucalyptus trees? Oh right, that’s the sky. After experiencing Apocalypse Orange and Nuclear Winter Grey, I much prefer the Robin’s Egg Blue that I’m currently looking at. And the air! I fill my lungs. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth… I better be careful or I may hyperventilate! I walk around my yard and smell my neighbor’s barbecue, freshly mown grass, the tomato plants in our garden, night blooming jasmine. I’m so grateful  for one thing that I don’t smell, smoke! When is the last time I breathed air this clean? The breeze feels so damn good! I can breathe! Thank goodness I can breathe!

Let it rain

Cats and dogs, pigs and frogs

Oodles, puddles, gushers, mushers

Let it flow

Meander, tumble, rumble

A cascade parade

Buckets, sheets, fill the streets

Let it pour

More, more and more

Rivers, streams, dreams

A wonderful gullywashing downpour

A soaking baptism

A never-ending stream of cloud tears

A desperate weeping waterfall

Tumbling over a conical phantasm of endless umbrellas

Deflecting an infinite multitude of raindrops

The birds and bees, rocks and trees

Are arid and parched, brittle and baked

With all of my hydration imagination

Please let it rain

It was another lifetime ago. Actually it was just six months ago. Spring training was in full swing. Me, my son and our baseball pals were already making plans to buy tickets for upcoming games at Oracle Park in San Francisco. Another season with our beloved Giants was on the horizon and we could hardly wait to get out to the yard and root our team on. Well, you know the rest of this story.

Of all the aspects of life that have been disrupted  since Covid-19 has had us in its grip, the cessation of sports has been particularly difficult to come to terms with. Sports is such an integral part of the fabric of American life, a focal point of civic pride and an opportunity for people and communities of all types to come together to laugh and cry, cheer and jeer. The loss of sports has left a gaping hole in our collective hearts. From the mightiest MLB slugger to the littlest t-baller, baseball players and baseball diamonds have gone silent. Think about this: Little League was cancelled this year! Of course the entire sports world has been upended by Covid, but since baseball is so near and dear to my heart, that’s what I’m writing about.

Baseball is the source of my earliest and most vivid sports memory. It was  Father’s Day 1965. I was 8 1/2 years old and on my way to see my first major league baseball game. My mom packed the lunches, kissed us goodbye and loaded me, my older brother Ray and my dad into our ’64 Dodge Rambler. We were on our way to The House That Ruth Built: Yankee Stadium. 

My dad has always been a sports fanatic. Sports is the way that he and I  connect. As a kid I spent countless hours watching games on tv with my dad. Baseball was and still is my favorite sport. Back when I was a kid, the Yankees were my favorite team and my hero was Yankee icon and Hall of Famer Mickey Mantle. The Mick was in the twilight off his career on that Father’s Day and it turned out to be the first and only time I would ever see him play. Mantle retired three years later at the end of the 1968 season.

When we got to the gates, the usher took our tickets. As we walked through the turnstiles, Ray and I each received a genuine wooden baseball bat with a Yankee signature on the barrel. Mine was signed by  third baseman Clete Boyer. This was the first ever giveaway day at The Stadium and the place was packed with a record 71,245 fans! Our seats were in the upper deck in left field so we had to walk up several steep concrete ramps to get there. The sight that greeted me was simply breathtaking. What I remember most about that moment was the color of the grass. It was the greenest green that I had ever seen. It was all of the Saint Patrick’s Days that had ever been, rolled into one. Like the names given to those endless shades of colors at the paint store, this green needed its own unique name: Baseball Green.

We settled into our seats and I tried to take it all in. This was the most people that I had ever seen in one place. The field and the stadium itself were larger than life. I had no prior experience to compare this to. Yankee Stadium was more awe inspiring than I could have imagined. It was like the Grand Canyon, only made by humans. The starting lineups were introduced by legendary announcer Bob Sheppard. His sonorous voice  boomed over the PA system like the voice of God: “Batting third and playing first base, numbah seven MICKEY MANTLE!” The roar that greeted The Mick’s name was deafening. There were hits and runs scored. One of the opposing players hit a home run into our section in the upper deck. It was so hot, the concessions ran out of soda.

Miraculously, Major League Baseball has managed to salvage this season, so all has not been lost. The fans have been replaced by cardboard cut-outs, the roar of the crowd is pre-recorded and piped in through the stadium PA system. There are a couple of temporary new rules, more akin to Little League than MLB, and the shortened 60 game season is already more than halfway through. But I’ll take it. Whether you’re a fan or not, the fact that major leaguers are playing baseball right now on those impossibly green fields is a glimmer of hope that we can all hang onto.

People’s homes burn to ashes

The air turns yellow with smoke

We listen for evacuation notices

Deciding what to take if we have to go

People flee for their lives

One step ahead of the flames

Like a war zone

The chatter and roar of aircraft fills the sky

Heroic firefighters risk their lives

So that ours may be saved

Friends and family come together

To comfort and grieve

Our sacred wild places are reduced to ashes

Again

I miss the movies, the especially the smell of popcorn. I love to stand by the snack counter and watch the popper at work. The stainless steel tub rotates as it stirs the oil and unpopped kernels. When the oil reaches just the right temperature the staccato sound of popping begins. Slowly at first, it gathers in speed and intensity until  it sounds like a hundred firecrackers exploding all at once. Popcorn begins spilling from the lid of the tub in an avalanche of white, slowly filling the clear rectangular box that the tub sits inside of. The twin aromas of warm butter and popped corn kernels are simply intoxicating to me. Of all our senses, smell is the strongest activator of memory. Whenever I smell freshly popped popcorn, I’m immediately transported inside the comforting confines of a movie theater.

My mom always worked at the movies so I basically grew up inside a movie theater. She began as a ticket taker and candy girl and gradually worked her way up to theater manager. Up until I moved to California as an adventure seeking 22 year old, I never once paid to get into any movie theater in our area. All my mom had to do was call the theater manager and I’d be on the guest list. 

Like most small towns in the 60’s and 70’s, my hometown of Caldwell, NJ had a single screen movie theater. The Park Theater opened in 1925 and was a classic example of the movie theater architecture of that era; plush carpet, cushy seats, ornate ceilings. Saturday double feature matinees at The Park were a staple of my childhood and a rite of passage for me, my older brother Ray and our friends. Throughout my life I’ve had many a magical experience at the movies, but none stands out as much as the one I had on a cold and grey winter afternoon in 1965. 

The Sound Of Music was the big hit movie at the time so my mom took me and Ray to see a matinee screening at The Park. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, we were greatly anticipating the upcoming holiday and the first snow of winter that we hoped would precede it.  I don’t recall much about the actual movie viewing experience that day but I’ll never forget what happened afterwards. When the film ended, we stepped from the darkened theater into the light of the afternoon and were amazed at what we saw; it had snowed while we were inside! It was slightly more that a dusting but just enough snow for everything to be blanketed in a thin layer of white. The magic of that moment and the magic of the movies are forever linked in my mind.

A year earlier, The Park was the scene of another seminal movie moment for me. Ray and I screamed and sang along with a couple hundred other kids while The Beatles frolicked their way through A Hard Days Night. We loved The Beatles so much and this was the closest we’d ever come to seeing them live. Our dad sat stoically beside us, not sure what all the fuss was about. I remember thinking at the time how cool it was that dad had taken us. Sadly, The Park Theater was destroyed by a fire in 1974. A bank now sits on the site.

The entire movie going experience is still magical to me. Entering the dimly lit theater, the low murmur of conversation, the anticipation of the feature film, the larger than life aspects of the giant screen and surround sound. Most people leave at the end of the film but I stay until the last credit rolls and the house lights go on. Some directors add little surprises during or after the credits and I never want to miss any of those. I’ve carried the love of the movies with me all my life right up to the present day.

Ever since the arrival of the VCR and video stores, movie attendance has been on a slow, steady decline. DVD’s came along and home movie viewing improved both in quality and ease of operation. The ubiquity of online streaming services has nearly rendered the movie theater obsolete. Why shell out $10 a head to go out and see a movie when you can now watch virtually any film ever made in the privacy of your own home?

The existential horrors of COVID-19 have forced movie screens across the country to go black, further accelerating their decline. Hopefully it will once again be safe to sit inside a theater and watch a film. When that day comes, I wonder if there will be any theaters left to go back into? What a devastating loss that would be, another shared experience with other human beings gone as our society becomes more and more insular.

I’ll leave you with this thought.  If popcorn is popping in the lobby of some future movie theater and no one is there to hear it, does it still make a sound?

We were quite the flotilla. Six adults, three teenagers and two dogs heading out on paddle boards and kayaks for an afternoon on Sparks Lake near Bend, Oregon. This idyllic lake in the shadow of majestic Mount Bachelor is the perfect place to spend a lazy summer afternoon with family and friends.

Our first stop was a small sandy beach which we thankfully had to ourselves. Sandwiches, drinks and snacks came out as we relaxed deeper into this sunsplashed day. Our kids Sam and Denali had other plans. They immediately set off down the beach together to explore. With no Instagram or Snapchat to distract them they quickly segued into pre-smartphone mode. It didn’t take long for them to discover that the water nearest the shore was teeming with two inch long, olive green tadpoles. Denali came running over excitedly to show me one of these critters wriggling in her cupped hands. The adults munched, the dogs splashed happily in the lake and our kids were off on their own Discovery Channel adventure. Sam came up and cut the top off of an empty soda can while Denali dug a shallow hole a few feet from the water. The can was now a tadpole scooper and the hole their new home. The kids created a similar project two summers ago in Hawaii. While hiking a deserted beach on Kauai we came upon a creek filled with small black tadpoles. Our young wildlife biologists spent a couple of hours constructing a temporary home for those tadpoles too.

Watching Sam and Denali today I marvel at how effortlessly they can turn into little kids again, they’re sixteen going on six. That childhood sense of wonder is still inside of them, simmering just below the surface and it takes but one simple thing, like today’s tadpole discovery, to awaken it. The older our kids get the fewer and further between these spontaneous moments occur. However by getting them away from the trappings of civilization and technology there’s always a chance of them occurring again.

Kids reach a certain age, some sooner than others, and it’s suddenly not cool to be a kid any longer. Why does this happen? There seems to be an unwritten chronologic age at which childhood ends. However, I know plenty of adults who manage to retain that kid spirit, refusing to “grow up”.  Kids are intuitive and sensitive and whip smart. Their wide-eyed “oh my god, look at this!” sense that everything is new and possibilities are unlimited is refreshing and magical to be around. To spend time with kids is to live in the moment, experiencing life to the fullest. I try every day to see the world through the eyes of a child and hang on to their unique sense of wonder.

On a recent camping trip I had the opportunity to spend some time with the four year old granddaughter of a friend. She and I walked along the rocky beach of a lake collecting bird feathers. I found one feather that was particularly beautiful. It was about half an inch wide and three inches long, light grey at the bottom, gradually giving way to a darker shade of grey. It abruptly changes into a band of pure white, terminating in a point of jet black.  I asked my little friend Raya what kind of bird she thought this feather came from. She paused for a moment, opened up her dark rimmed blue eyes as wide as they could go and exclaimed, “A rainbow bird!” 

May we all continue to see the rainbow birds of the world.

Would you like to be part of my barefoot wish? We could walk hand in hand dodging rainbows on the beach in Hanalei with cool rain falling on our heads and warm sand squishing between our toes. Clouds slip past the sun and the rainbow colors become so intense that our eyes fill with joy tears. We run faster and faster  filling our lungs with the sweet salty air as we try to reach the end of the rainbow before it melts back into the furry green mountains. We’re nearly there and can almost touch the colors. A pod of dolphins gets there before we do. They leap with childlike abandon, spinning and flipping towards the rainbow, absorbing the vibrating colors until each individual is now a rainbow of its own. This is my barefoot wish.

It’s one of the more unusual sounds in the bird kingdom. Beginning on a low note it gradually rises in pitch and speed, spiraling up and up, note by note until the sound just disappears into the forest air. It’s the sound of a wood faerie’s flute. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush always fills me with longing.

I first became aware of this mysterious and rarely seen little bird on my maiden trip to the Oregon Country Fair in July of 2000. The fair takes place inside this enchanting little forest within a larger property just outside of Veneta in western Oregon. During that fair I camped inside “the eight” (the fair’s main pathway being shaped roughly like the number 8). The eight is smack dab in the middle of the forest and birds abound inside this little slice of Eden.

Like the opening notes of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s classic Wooden Ships or the scent of spring’s first blossoming freesias, the Swainson’s Thrush’s song transports me immediately to a specific place and time in my life: the dappled green pathways of the country fair. It’s morning, hours before the public comes in. Vendors are beginning to open their booths, lines snake back from Liberty Coffee and other places serving the beverage that fuels the fair. In a few hours this pathway will become a human sea but right now it’s so peaceful and quiet. The recycle crew pass by in their rattletrap truck, cleaning up from the previous evening’s revelry. Sleepy eyed people are just waking up, or just going to bed, it’s hard to tell which. A trio of waif like young girls, all flowing hair and skirts, skip by wearing fairy wings and blowing bubbles. A man on stilts dressed like the Mad Hatter waits in line behind me. We are serenaded by an impish looking fellow sporting a bushy salt and pepper beard. He softly strums his banjo for us folks in the coffee line. The whirly copter atop his rainbow baseball cap twirls to the beat. The way the morning light filters down through the trees gives the pathway an underwater quality. I feel as if I’m swimming through a tranquil green pool. The song of the Swainson’s Thrush serves as a soundtrack to this calm before the storm scene, it’s the perfect background music to the fair’s magical, medieval vibe.

So what is the source of my longing? In a world filled with contrived and generic experiences, the Oregon Country Fair is a truly unique event. What began over 50 years ago as a ragtag gathering of hippies has grown over the years into a quirky, let your freak flag fly celebration of artists, musicians, dreamers, fun seekers and visionaries. My annual immersion into this bacchanalian scene is to be given a glimpse into what it’s like to be truly alive and free in a society that values neither freedom nor life. Acceptance and love, things that people are literally dying for, are found in abundance at the fair. For participants and organizers alike the possibilities really are unlimited among the forests and hayfields of the OCF.

By far my most favorite and magical place at the fair is the open air communal showers and sauna known as The Ritz. The walls, floors and benches are all exquisitely wood crafted. Water heated by an enormous wood burning furnace flows continuously through several rows of shower heads. Inhibitions are shedded along with the dust and grime as we all shower together. There’s a large circular fire pit surrounded by wooded steps and benches where people sit to dry off. A crackling blaze is kept going at all times. A small stage stands before the fire pit where acoustic music is performed. Performances are usually done au natural. My favorite gig ever as a musician was on that stage. Me and two close friends played and sang, naked as the day we were born.  The Ritz is an enchanting place whenever you’re there but at night it is transformed. Everything is bathed in a soft orange glow from the fire and subdued lighting. In the showers, steam swirls around all of the beautiful naked bodies making  them appear as if they’re moving in a dream. Everything is warm and peaceful. The snap and pop of the fire, the quiet hum of conversation and the hiss of the showers combine to create a meditative aural soundscape through which this scene is played out. If a return to the womb is possible, The Ritz would be it.

While immersed in the fair, I always feel a bit sad and nostalgic even while in the midst of the festivities. I guess it’s because Monday will eventually come and  I’ll have to say goodbye to all of this until next year. To say that you never want something to end is such a cliche but you know what? If my Bill Murray Groundhog Day moment were to be set at the country fair, then bring it on! I could lie on my back at night in the cool grass of Chela Mela Meadow, watching the stars and listening to the giggles of happy trippers. Then it would be on to The Ritz. Park me underneath a shower head and let the hot water run over me like a baptism. The smokestack from the furnace is painted with a Native American osprey motif. I’d watch the sparks fly from its mouth and become fireflies as they disappear into the Oregon night. I’d awaken each morning not to Sonny and Cher’s I Got You Babe but to the song of the Swainson’s Thrush. Longing.