By Louie Ferrera

There’s the family that you’re born into and the family that you choose. Almost everyone has the former but only the most fortunate of us also have the latter. Like all families, there are ups and downs, joy and conflict, we try and overlook the blemishes and burnish the bright spots because of course no family is perfect. A chosen family doesn’t happen overnight. Relationships develop over time, trust is built up, you go through cumulative experiences together and if these experiences are filled with love and joy, if you can truly be yourself around these people, if you’re allowed to fail as well as succeed, these are the qualities that form the bedrock of your chosen family. Growth requires a solid foundation along with love and acceptance.

One of my chosen families had its genesis in 2001 when I first attended the Strawberry Music Festival. Our camp (soon to be dubbed Camp Tequila Mockingbird due to the copious amounts of the eponymous liquid that we’d consume over the course of the weekend) was a patchwork confederacy of teachers and environmentalists, dancers, do-gooders and dreamers. The love of music was the common thread that united us all. Many in our camp were musicians. The joyous sounds of mandolin, banjo, bass, fiddle and guitars, guitars, guitars would ring through camp from the first light of dawn into the wee hours of the next day. The musical lineup at the festival was often a star studded affair filled with some of the top names in bluegrass and Americana. Quite often we’d miss some of these bands performances however because we were too busy in camp making music of our own.

Strawberry happened on Memorial Day and Labor Day weekends and we never missed one. Like birthdays, anniversaries and holidays, attendance as a family member was mandatory. For over a decade we grew together, relationships began and bloomed within the confines of our little camp beneath the stars. Babies were born and flourished into childhood. My relationship with Carol was barely a month old when I introduced her to my friends in camp. Our twins were infants at their first Strawberry in 2004. The blissful times that we all shared are way too many to recount here. Gradually our camp expanded to include new members. Someone would bring a friend or new love interest. Some of these new arrivals would stay a short while and move on, others are with us still. I remember one sunny afternoon being deep into one of our furious jam sessions when I heard the sound of…an accordion!   Now when you hear an accordion you think polka, right? I doubt Bill Monroe had this instrument in mind when he invented bluegrass music. Well, eventually this guy drifted over and sat in on a few tunes. Turns out the dude had chops, and a cool wife who could pick it on mandolin. Bluegrass and accordions do mix, who knew? Mr. and Mrs. Accordion have been mainstays in our camp for a long time and have since brought like minded folks into our scene. The circle keeps getting wider.

Around 2012 a perfect storm of events forced Strawberry from its longtime home at Camp Mather on the outskirts of Yosemite National Park. Suddenly our little family found ourselves homeless. We carried on for a couple of years, holding our gatherings at several different locations around the Santa Cruz area, all of them wonderful in their own right, none of them sustainable in the long run. That’s when our friend Mike found Camp Loma.

Tucked into a remote corner of the Santa Cruz Mountains, surrounded by towering redwood trees and bisected by a happy, bubbling creek, Camp Loma was everything we could have hoped for. It had a fully equipped industrial kitchen, large covered dining area, a sunny meadow, ample camping space and even a pool (frigid in spring but the perfect place to cool off in when temperatures soar in September). Here we could freak freely and bask in the glow of love and easy camaraderie that we’ve created over the years. The Mockingbirds had come home to roost.

Like any new home, it took us a while to get the lay of the land and settle in. Once we ironed out the kinks, it felt like we’d always been here. Loma has no wifi or cell service so we can truly disconnect and interact with each other instead of our phones. We’ve created wonderful traditions: a camp wide bocce ball tournament, dress up happy hours and a kids vs adults whiffle ball game complete with good natured trash talk. One family member celebrates his birthday during spring Loma. Instead of cake, his wife whips up an enormous tray of Rice Krispy treats (remember those?). The kids descend like pirañas. There’s never any leftover. Of course, like a lazy river the tequila continues to flow. We celebrate anniversaries, marriages, births and birthdays. Last year a month before Labor Day Loma, our dear friend Kim Kenney passed away suddenly. Kim had been an integral part our family since the Strawberry days and her death was a devastating loss for us all. Loma was a place for us to share our collective grief and to celebrate the shining light that was Kim. The memorial we held at the center of camp was one of the saddest and most beautiful events I’ve ever been a part of. Loma is a microcosm of life.

And the  music? Simply stated the alchemy that happens when we’re playing together is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Music is such a personal thing, it can sometimes be scary to take chances and fully let go. Loma is a place where us musicians are free to bare our souls and let the emotions flow through our instruments. From intimate two person jams to massive sing-alongs around the campfire, there’s a place for all levels of players. At Loma, everyone has a chance to shine. Musically speaking I’m at my best here and have had experiences in jams that I can only describe as transcendent.

One of my favorite aspects of our gatherings is watching all of the kids grow. Before they were old enough to drive and to make decisions on their own, Loma was a place we took them to, they had no choice. What’s so cool now is, the teens and twenty somethings want to come here. Our kids start talking about Loma weeks beforehand and can’t wait to reunite with their chosen siblings. The exuberance of their initial greetings is heartfelt and beautiful to watch. They’re developing relationships with each other that will endure for years to come.

Next year we’ll celebrate ten years here. The kids have gone from diapers to high school and college graduates. We used to hide the liquor from them, now we do shots together. Great parenting, huh? The grownups get a little grayer every year and the lines around our eyes are from smiling. Growing up and growing old together at Camp Loma.

Breathe in the Buddha, weathered and worn but still flashing that beatific smile, he knows something that we don’t know. His once gilded body is now covered in bare patches, bleached bone white by years in the sun. Nothing lasts forever so one day our Buddha will be all white, his golden body just a memory.

Breathe in this redwood tree, a mere infant by redwood tree standards. From its humble beginning as a tiny seedling that sprouted from a patch of mulch in our backyard to its current height of nearly fifteen feet, this tree is a testament to persistence, it clearly wanted to grow here. Breathe in  the hundreds of pale green fingers of springtime growth that cover the tips of it’s branches. I feel the joy that our little redwood tree feels as it’s crown reaches skyward to catch the first rays of morning and the last pieces of the sunset. This tree’s trunk is straight and strong, it’s upper branches already a master of the wind dance.

Breathe in the sounds of this fountain, the centerpiece of Carol’s inspired new Zen garden that she recently created in the midst of a small triangular shaped bit of wasted space behind a shed in the far corner of our yard. Where there were once just weeds and rocks, old scraps of wood and the rusting bones of Sam and Denali’s first two-wheeled bicycles, has now risen a peaceful space ideally suited for quiet meditation. The fountain is solar powered and requires the sun’s rays to give its waters their voice. I close my eyes and breathe. This fountain’s song is a creek tumbling over polished stones as it makes its way through the forest, it’s the sound of the receding surf flowing back over thousands of shimmering sea stones, a symphony of aural psychedelia.

Breathe in the songbirds of spring that call our yard home. The brilliant yellow hooded oriole, the mockingbird, the tiny titmice and finches, towhees and robins, the zip, zip, buzz of the hummingbirds, the chattering call of the woodpeckers. Our fountains and feeders, trees and bushes offer our avian companions everything they need. If I were a bird I’d definitely live here! Our cat Ella is bemused by it all. She’s no threat to the birds and seems content to just sprawl on the deck in the sun and watch them go about their business. Living here for over two decades, we’ve become very acquainted with the ebb and flow of our birds throughout the year and their seasonal dances as they come and go.

Breathe in the chimes, they’re just pretty ornaments until the wind gives them voice and the music begins. Like clockwork the wind picks up every day in late afternoon and the songs of our chimes fill the air. From the high tinkling sounds of the smallest to the deep and sonorous tones of the largest, they sing together in harmony, celebrating the ebb and flow of the wind, the clean fresh air, the blue sky and foggy mornings, the blessing of this glorious green spring and the gift of another day.

Breathe in the cloud dance, a slow motion serenade across an impossibly blue sky on this serene late afternoon in May. The crows and ravens are black V’s as they and the clouds glide together with the wind. I spy a heart-shaped silver balloon sailing way up there with them. The last rays of sun illuminate a bright red heart at its center. Love on the wing. The tops of towering eucalyptus trees shimmer and sway as they join the clouds and the birds. I’m in shadow now but up there the sun is still shining, the tops of these majestic trees have the honor of bidding this day a final goodbye. Namaste.

The summer of 1969 was the summer of Woodstock. While the festival was unfolding at Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in upstate New York I was at the Jersey Shore on our family’s annual week long vacation. I was fascinated by it all.  Hundreds of thousands of young people converging in one place, grooving to the best bands of the time. It was an event for the ages. During the week of August 15-18 Woodstock dominated the news and was a welcome respite from the grim nightly body counts of the Vietnam War. I really wanted to be at Woodstock and pleaded with my mom to let me go. There was only one problem: in August of 1969 I was 12 years old. While I couldn’t physically be at the festival, I was there in spirit and that was the summer that I became a hippie.

To my conservative parents and others of their generation, the word ”hippie” had very negative connotations. Where they saw a ragtag confederation of dirty, drug taking, draft card burning bums, I saw beautiful and free young people with flowers in their hair who dared to dream of a better way to live. To a young boy on the cusp of coming of age, the allure of the hippies and everything they represented was powerful. 

Luckily at the shore that summer I had an ally in my cousin Patty. We were hippies together, much to the chagrin of our parents. In order to gain their approval, we assured our folks that we were “clean hippies”. We promised to take baths and brush our hair, however we did walk barefoot everywhere and wore colorful strands of “love beads” around our necks. Meanwhile I was engaged in a near constant battle with my mom over the length of my hair. Long hair in the summer of 1969 was a political statement and an outward show of solidarity with the hippies and mom was having none of it! However, I persisted and somehow managed a bit of a McCartney-esq coif with bangs sweeping across my eyebrows. My cousin wore her hair in the classic style of that era for girls: long, parted down the middle and falling past her shoulders.

Ten years later I ended up living in Northern California just a few miles south of San Francisco, the flashpoint from where the hippies and the counterculture as a whole sprung from. I’ve tried to live more of an alternative lifestyle and to hold the essence of the hippie ethic in my heart. Well, I can proudly say that I’m most definitely still a hippie. I never made it to Woodstock but I did manage to write and record this song, it’s called I Wanna Be A Hippie At Woodstock. You can give it a listen at the bottom of this story.

Our hyperdrive, instant gratification, attention span of a flea culture has recently become more so: there is now a clock in a baseball game. Up until the start of the current season, there were no time limits in baseball, the only major sport without a clock. Since its inception in the mid 1800’s a baseball game unfolded at a leisurely pace. The pitcher took as much time as he needed to throw a pitch, the batter stepped out of the batter’s box whenever he felt like it. A game could last two hours or four hours or… as Hall of Fame catcher Yogi Berra once famously stated; “It ain’t over ‘till it’s over.” Outside of minor tweeks to the rules, baseball has remained basically unchanged. However, our culture has done nothing but change. We’re living in the age of smartphones and Google and “Hey Siri”, everyday life unfolds at a dizzying pace. The popularity of the NBA and NFL have grown dramatically as these sports have become faster paced with more action and scoring, reflecting the times we live in. In contrast baseball, where a game could theoretically go on indefinitely, has become increasingly out of step with the times. Attendance and television viewing were both down. Baseball wasn’t attracting the younger crowd. “Gotta speed up the game, keep pace with the times,” they said. Hence the pitch clock.

In order to speed up the game a pitcher now has :15 to throw a pitch, :20 if there’s a man on base. If he fails to do so, an automatic ball is called. A batter is allowed one time out per at bat. If he exceeds that or is not ready when the pitcher throws the ball, an automatic strike is called. The pitcher is allowed to throw over to a base three times while a runner is on. If he fails to pick the runner off on the third attempt, a balk is called and the runner advances one base. So far the effects of the pitch clock have been dramatic. The length of an average game has been cut by over 20 minutes. The overall pace has increased, the game moves along. I’ve been to a couple of games so far this season and watched many on tv. Gone are the endless throws over to first base, the constant dance of pitcher and batter as they take turns stepping in and out of the batter’s box and pitching rubber. I was quite skeptical at first but I must admit I’m enjoying the way the games now move along. However, a big change like this comes with a cost. Something has been lost here.

In everyday life we are always concerned about time. Am I late? Early? Gotta get there, can’t waste time. We’ve become a society of clock watchers. A baseball game was one place where time had no importance, one place where I didn’t have to watch the seconds tick away. While at a game I had all the time in the world because there was no time! Thankfully, there’s as yet no clock on the time of the game as a whole but with the pitch clock, games are now shorter, their length more predictable, it almost feels like the games are timed. My main issue here is, like it not, I now have to be aware of the time at a baseball game. Yes, things move along quicker, but a game now feels rushed. Prior to the pitch clock, nothing felt hurried about a baseball game, it unfolded at its own leisurely pace. While at a game, I’d just relax, it would be over “when it was over.” Now there’s a time restraint in a game that has never had one. But we’ve gotta get the game in, spend less time at the ballpark, get out of there quicker so we can do….what?

Spring. Is there a more glorious time of year? The other seasons all have their upsides. Summer: the heat and sunshine, the lazy river and the ocean, barefoot days and a cold Mexican beer just when you need one. Autumn: the golden glow of the vineyards as their leaves turn, the quality of light as the Earth begins its tilt away from the sun, cool nights, crisp and fogless days. Winter: rain…finally, fires in the fireplace, bare trees, short days and frosty mornings. But spring…oh dear, sweet spring! Rebirth and renewal, the Earth begins to warm, trees bud out, hillsides painted with broad brush strokes of green, baseball! Spring is about hope, a fresh start, a clean slate. On the perfect spring day life’s possibilities seem unlimited. There’s nothing that I feel I can’t accomplish, I’m limited only by my imagination.  I look out upon this spring day from my  backyard and see a shifting psychedelic mosaic playing out before me.

The birds are changing shifts. The tiny yellow-rumped warbler that I’ve watched flit around our feeder all winter has been replaced by the rufous hummingbird. This diminutive bird is a temporary visitor as it passes through our area on the way to its summer home in Washington and British Colombia. I see it for perhaps a week at most. The ephemeral nature of this bird’s presence in our backyard makes me appreciate it all the more. The same goes for the western tanager. Unlike the rufous hummingbird, we get to see the tanager all spring and summer. The male’s bright yellow and red coloring appears as a flash of brilliance among the green of our fruit trees. My favorite spring visitor is the hooded oriole. It arrives like clockwork every year between the end of March and the beginning of April. Its electric yellow-orange feathers are hard to miss. This bird nests atop our neighbor’s fan palm tree. Spring really hasn’t begun for me until my initial spotting. This year the oriole showed up on April 10…right on time!

We had a record breaking rain year here in California. All things green are rejoicing from this wonderfully wet winter. The trees have been cleansed of months of dust and grime and literally pulsate in the sunshine. The hillsides all around us are greener than I’ve seen them in many years. The wildflower bloom has begun and promises to be one for the ages. I can feel the Earth’s gratitude after so many so many months of nourishing rain. Our grapefruit tree is heavy with golden orbs of fruit, each one a miniature sun. The word yellow was surely invented to describe the teardrop shaped fruit that hangs from our Meyer lemon tree. The snowy blossoms of our Asian pear  and cherry trees happily gather the sun into their hearts. Bright pink apple blossoms burst forth into even more snowdrifts. There is yet more sunshine in the brilliant yellow flowers of our African daisy bush. We planted this many years ago from a one gallon container. It’s now nearly six feet high and as many feet around. Our winter carrot crop is in and they’re crunchy and bursting with flavor.

Our neighbor’s Japanese maple tree has leafed out in all its glory. The subtle hue of its thousands of light green seven-pointed leaves dance before me in the late afternoon breeze. Twenty foot high columns of pink jasmine snake upwards and engulf two 30 foot tall cypress trees. Thousands of delicate blossoms are poised to fill the air with their sweet, heady aroma.

The air surrounding me is alive with the breeze and the song of the wind chimes and the blip-blop from the trio of fountains on our deck. At one time or another nearly every bird that calls our yard home pauses to bathe or drink here. We’re beginning to prepare the ground for our various vegetable gardens. Is there a more life affirming smell than that of freshly turned soil? Soon the seeds and starts will be sown, tiny green shoots reach skyward. We carefully nurture this new growth, to be rewarded in summer and fall by a bounty of fresh organic veggies.

Nearly seven years ago we planted a foot high redwood sapling behind a shed in the corner of our yard. The sapling is now a twelve foot tree and from my vantage point on our deck is visible above the peak of the shed. Growth, renewal, beauty…spring!

By Louie Ferrera

Rain, rain, rain! I’m so delighted to be experiencing actual winter weather for the first time in a long time. Too much of a good thing you might say? Never! The news media is doing its level best to try and rain (pun intended) on our parade. Hyperbole like “atmospheric river” and “bomb cyclone” do nothing but ratchet up the level of anxiety that most of us are already feeling in these uncertain times. I try my best to tune out this kind of fear mongering.

All over California reservoirs are full, the ground is surated, rivers and creeks once again sing songs of joy as they make their way happily to the sea. Trees and bushes, finally washed clean of dust and grime, once again have that glorious green glow to them. The vernal pools behind our house will soon be alive with the nightly chorus of frogs. Street side ditches in our neighborhood are filled with water and anxiously await  their first populations of tadpoles. It promises to be a banner year for amphibians. The sounds of rain are back too. The rat-a-tat of raindrops on our backyard deck’s roof and the whoosh of rain through the trees is literally music to my ears. And the mud! I love the squelchy sound it makes beneath my feet and the evidence of nocturnal creatures that’s left in it. We’re still conserving water though, as old habits die hard, but right now I don’t feel so guilty wasting a bit now and then. A long, hot shower is a simple pleasure that’s nice to indulge in.

Rainy day hikes have been rare these past years so I’ve been taking advantage of this gloriously wet winter by getting out in it as often as possible. The smell of wet earth, the green glow of the forest after a storm and the sounds of running water are all seasonal gifts that will vanish as soon as summer rolls along so I’m squeezing as much joy and appreciation out of them as I possibly can. And the rainbows…oh my! There have been so many this winter. I never tire of their brilliant hues and fleeting, mystical beauty. When I was teaching first grade one of our units of science study was weather. One day I told my students that I was going to make them some rainbows. It was a brilliant sunny day, we went outside and gathered around the dark outer wall of our classroom. I proceeded to pull a crystal out of my pocket the size of a ping pong ball. The sun shone through this crystal and cast hundreds of mini rainbows onto the wall. The collective gasp from the  kids is one of my most cherished teaching memories. Whenever I see a rainbow, that’s how I feel…every time!

The snowpack in the mountains and rainfall totals are off the charts but this wet winter is not done with us yet. Here in California, winter rains mean spring wildflowers. The daffodil and hyacinth bulbs that we’ve planted are all blooming; their bright yellow and vivid purple brushstrokes are everywhere. Next up the tulips and freecias  will add their colors to the palette. Springtime is on the horizon. I can picture in my mind’s eye the Monet quality of the impending wildflower blooms. Hillsides everywhere will literally explode with color.

I’m well aware that the unprecedented storms of this winter haven’t been all fun and games. High seas, crashing waves, mountains of snow and drenching rains have wreaked havoc on many communities. Familiar landscapes may never be the same. My heart goes out to all those who’ve suffered. The news media is keeping up its drumbeat of doom and gloom. “The drought is not over!”, they warn us. That may or may not be true but it’s hard to think drought while looking  at the scene being played out right now outside my kitchen window: lashing rain and towering eucalyptus trees bending like rubber in the wind. Let it rain! I’m digging every drop!

By Louie Ferrera

Point Reyes National Seashore, Valentine’s day 2023

The last raindrops drift away, they splatter our windshield with kisses of winter. Grey skies give way to blue, a patch here, a patch there. By the time we begin our hike the storm clouds have retreated to the south until above us the azure sky rings like a bell. 

Suddenly, Great Blue Heron is there, silent sentry on the edge of a small pond just off the trail. This stately bird, tall and proud, is commanding a space among the aquatic plants and newly green grasses. It stands statue still, the feathers on its back overlapping until they come to a perfectly rounded end just above the tops of its impossibly long legs. The “blue” of this bird is really a seamless blend of light teal-to-grey and all points in between. A thin tuft of coal black feathers sweeps back from the top of its head like a 50’s Elvis hairstyle. Now the heron coils its neck and with a lightning strike it hits the surface of the pond, coming up with a small fish in its bill. I feel blessed to be given such a prolonged period to observe this bird. We continue on.

We surprise two grazing deer. I notice one of them has two small bumps above its eyes, the faint beginning of antlers. Deer are a common sight here but I never take that for granted. Deer are proud and graceful, gentle and wise. 

Like perfect Christmas ornaments a pair of songbirds land atop a lupine bush. The western meadowlark’s breast feathers are streaked in the most lemony of colors, its song is a joyous greeting to all who hear it. The spotted towhee’s bright red eyes glow from its black head feathers. The rest of its body is a mulit-hued painting of rusty red and deep black peppered with white spots. A northern flicker is the next avian wonder to greet us. Its rounded head and long, pointy beak characteristic of the woodpecker family. The flicker has a black, heart shaped patch at its throat which gives way to a black spotted grey body. Rusty tail feathers rounds out this striking bird.

The wind is picking up now. As we approach Abbott’s Lagoon I see the surface is alive with tiny wind whipped waves. The color of the water is a deeply saturated shade of royal blue. Now the wind is really alive! We walk along the shore of the lagoon, this section is closer to the ocean and has  small whitecaps on it. A few brave ducks are being tossed about like bath toys. Now we come to the edge of a long stretch of dunes. An old weathered plank of lumber sits astride a giant tree trunk, weathered bone white by who knows how many years on the beach. Carol and I each climb onto an end and a teeter-tottering we go! Now we’re children, innocent and free we giggle with joy, breathing in the salty air and the wind and the blessing of this day.

The full force of the wind hits us as we leave the relative windbreak of the dunes. Now there’s just ocean and sky and an endless stretch of sand as far as we can see in both directions. We are the only ones here. Walking up the beach takes more than a bit of effort as this wind seems to have other plans for us. A strong gust kicks up and we’re nearly blown backwards, but we happily soldier on, grooving on this magnificent show that Mother Nature is putting on for us.

The sea is angry today. The surf is churning with white mountains of sea foam. One by one the waves roll onto the beach, there are no sets, no break between waves. The constant white noise roar of the wind and the surf fills the air. The air is alive and so are we! Mounds of sea foam, like whipped cream, like cumulus clouds come to rest on land, accumulate along the surf line. When the wind hits these mounds they are transformed into dancing sea foam faeries that break apart into individual bits and are blown up towards the dunes. They grow smaller and smaller as they travel until they literally disappear into the sand, it’s like a magician’s wand is waved and “poof!”, they’re gone!

Next we come across what at first appears to be a triangular piece of sun bleached driftwood about three feet on either side. Upon further inspection we find that this is actually a bone. Only whale bones are this big. It looks ancient. It’s been a very long time since this whale has plied these waters.

Sand is blowing low along the surface of the beach, it looks like smoke or the “sands of time” effect a filmmaker uses to show a character as they move back and forth through time, it’s surreal and magical. And the light…oh my! The quality of the light here today is dreamy and hypnotic and like in a dream, all edges are blurred. I feel almost hypnotized.

We see a small A-frame structure made from driftwood up along the edge of the dunes. Tattered buddhist prayer flags hang from the roof and dance wildly in the wind. Inside is a small rectangular box. I open it and find a journal. There are two years worth of writing among its pages. I read a few of the entries and am touched by the deep emotions expressed by the writers. The energy here seems to bring out the poet in folks. I leave a brief note myself, giving thanks for this day and for sharing it with the love of my life on Valentine’s Day.

We soldier on until we tire of fighting the wind. On the way back our bodies become sails, we move effortlessly with the wind now at our backs. Those sea foam faeries are everywhere, they dance across our feet on their way to oblivion. We turn into the wind and get sandblasted! I bend over at a crazy angle and the force of the wind keeps me upright. We’ve been here for hours now so the low angle of the sun makes this wild landscape look even more trippy. Our shadows, long and spindly, trail out before us. It’s easy to lose track of time while I’m here as this place seems to exist outside of time.

The lagoon is again within sight, its color has deepened in the late afternoon light to a cobalt blue. We cross a short wooden bridge, pause for a moment and that’s when we see the otter. A healthy population of river otters lives here and one of them has decided to come up onto the dunes just opposite us. With childlike abandon, this beautiful animal rolls about coating itself with sand. It sees us but we are just far enough away that it barely pays us any notice. With our binoculars we can get up close and observe the subtle colors of its fur, its large feet, perfectly adapted for paddling, its dark eyes and puppy dog-like face. After about ten minutes our otter friend slides back into the water and dives under, disappearing from view. We just stare in wonder, marveling at what we were so blessed to have witnessed.

Simply stated, Point Reyes National Seashore is a magical place. Out here at Abbott’s Lagoon in the far northern part of the park there’s always an extra dose of enchantment in the air. The convergence of sky and sea, windswept dunes and eternal beaches, otters, herons and songbirds and that unmistakable feeling that something unknowable is afoot fills my heart with joy and wonder.

Our hike comes to an end with the perfect grace note of sunset. Our star, the source of all life on Earth, dips into the blue Pacific and day is done. Namaste.

By Louie Ferrera

When you walk into our house one of the first things you notice is a unique looking mirror hanging on the right side wall of the entryway. The frame is about 1’x 2’, sparkly green with seashells and starfish painted around the border. It comes to a stylish point at the top much like the minaret of a mosque. The actual mirror is just 8”x 10”. It’s through this small looking glass that I can literally trace the growth of our son Sam.

Carol and I have lived here since 2002, it’s the first home we bought. Our two children were born just a few miles away in the hospital at Kaiser. We brought them here in their car carriers, walked past the mirror and into their bedroom, gently laying them down in their crib for the first nap in their new home. Our kids are 18 now and have lived here their entire lives. Nothing inside our house is the same as it was on that day except for that mirror. It still hangs in the exact same spot.

For some reason the mirror got to be a “thing” with me and Sam. When he was an infant, then a toddler, I’d hold him close to me with our cheeks touching and together we’d gaze into the mirror. In the beginning it was so surreal that I had become a dad at an age (47) when many parents are preparing to send their kids off to college. For me, our reflection in this mirror was concrete proof that fatherhood was indeed upon me. I couldn’t help staring, it was so amazing!

Sam continued to grow, his coos and gurgles gradually becoming words. I’d hold him before the mirror, bounce us up and down and sing, “Dad and Sam time, dad and Sam time” in a happy little melody that I made up. Sometimes, I’d move him out of the frame and sing in Spanish, “No mas Sam time…”, then I’d take a turn “disappearing”. We would both just laugh and laugh.

As Sam grew the soft features of childhood gradually gave way to adolescence and now young adulthood. The bigger he got, the more difficult it became for me to lift him up and perform our little number in front of the mirror. However, I soldiered on as long as I could. I’m not sure when I gave it up or how old Sam was when we stopped but I probably came to the realization that a hernia or busted back were too high a price to pay.

This mirror is a microcosm of watching our kids grow. If there had been a recording devise inside it, what a wonderful tale it would tell. There are so many milestones, so many firsts. Children move from one stage to the another in a fluid life dance, endings and beginnings blurring together into this crazy and beautiful mosaic that we call life.

A while ago it became official: Sam is now taller than me. I can still stand straight, look directly into the mirror and see my face fully reflected but in order to get Sam into the framer, he’s got to bend his neck and we’ve both got to scrunch in real close.

Watching Sam grow is bittersweet. I’m filled alternately with pride and sadness. He’s becoming more and more independent, working a full time job and preparing for college in the fall. He and I have a close and loving relationship and I know that as he continues to move forward in life that there will always be, in one form or another, room for a little “dad and Sam time”.

By Louie Ferrera

Dear David,

Well, you’ve finally crossed over to “the other side”, wherever that is. Perhaps Guinnevere, she of the green eyes and golden hair, was waiting when you arrived. Hopefully your beloved Christine was there too. 

David, your music has touched me to my very core. As a teenager learning to play the guitar, I dreamed of being up there on the stage with you, Stephen, Graham and Neil,  joining in on those soaring harmonies and ringing acoustic guitars. On the soundtrack album of my life, your music plays a prominent role.  I lost my virginity on a warm summer evening in 1977, Guinnevere was on the turntable and is forever linked to that watershed event. The Central Park shows you and Nash played in 1976 were transcendent. I was wearing that shirt and you called me out from the stage! There were so many other live shows, so many blissful musical moments spent in your company, but also that night at The Keystone; you were barely able to croak out the words to your songs, a broken and drug addled shadow of your former leonine self. You came back strong though, like a compass seeking north you managed to find your way again.

Almost Cut My Hair…glad you never did ‘cause neither did I. Hair of course and the non-cutting thereof, a metaphor for rebellion and staying true to your ideals and dreams. “I feel like letting my freak flag fly.” I love that line so much and the imagery it conjures up. When you wrote those words, long hair on a guy was a political statement. Growing your hair out in the 1960s and early 70s was a big “fuck you” to the establishment, and nobody said it better than you did with Almost Cut My Hair. I’ve always dug your attitude Croz.

The chance meeting with you and Jan on the beach at Hanalei Bay that morning in 2015 was just such a damn cool moment. I was starstruck and you were so gracious and smiling. And your voice, that voice! Many superlatives have been tossed around over the course of your career to describe it. Let me give it a try: I hear you sing and it’s the aural equivalent of a spoonful of golden honey on a warm summer’s afternoon slowly coating everything in its’ sweet, shiny glow. How’s that?

The CSN blend is one for the ages, a pitch perfect amalgam that will ring true for as long as there are devices that can reproduce music, a shimmering sheen of voices that never fails to send a chill down my spine. I feel truly blessed to have had so many opportunities to hear your voice, solo and in all of the various CSNY permutations. So many of your songs have touched me so deeply. I could write a thousand words on each one. The crowning moment on If I Could Only Remember My Name is Laughing. Those shimmering acoustic guitars and Jerry’s soaring pedal steel wizardry blasts this tune right into interstellar space. The climactic moment on that song, when Joni’s voice rises above the multiple layers of harmony singers into a perfect crescendo, is one of my favorite musical moments of all time.

I don’t know if you ever wondered what happened to the set list from your show at Great American Music Hall in 1979. Don’t worry, I’ve got it. I swiped it off the stage at the end of the show. Written in your hand with black marker, it’s one of my most treasured rock and roll relics.

And last but certainly not least is your brown suede fringed jacket, as iconic as Beatle boots and Janis’ feather boas. The word “groovy” was surely invented to describe that jacket. The CSN segment is my favorite scene in the Woodstock film. At the end of Suite: Judy Blue Eyes you have this beatific grin on your face, your right arm is raised triumphantly in the “peace” sign, trailing mini freak flags of fringe.

You were a true artist, uncompromising and driven to create right up to the end of your life. Your musical legacy is huge, your influence far ranging. The songs that you left us with will stand the test of time as long as these is time. Fare thee well Croz, may your spirit forever swirl among the infinite mysteries of the universe.

By Louie Ferrera

So, the other day I’m driving west on rural Hwy 12 towards the Sonoma coast just outside the little town of Bodega.The lush green hillside is dotted with grazing cows, the road slick from last night’s rain. It’s clear, dry and sunny, a rare occurrence these past couple of weeks due to the various “atmospheric rivers” we’ve been inundated by. I crest a hill and notice that a hundred yards or so ahead that a car is just stopped, right in the middle of the road. I see a woman emerge from behind this car running towards me, frantically chasing a large, shaggy white dog that’s trotting just beyond her reach. The closer they get to me the more I can see that this woman is in a panic. I stop my car, roll down my window and begin to gently tap the side of my car, calling the dog over. It comes right up to my window and stops. I grab ahold of its’ collar and speak quietly to it as the woman arrives. She is red in the face, out of breath and crying. She attaches a rope to the dog’s collar (his name is Bear) and tells me that she lives on a nearby farm and had been chasing him “for hours”.  She thanks me effusively. I just look at her and say, “I’m supposed to be here.” I roll up my window and drive on to the coast.

Was I really supposed to be there right at that very moment to rescue this poor woman’s dog? Is the concept of destiny real? Are certain chance encounters with other people preordained? Do some thing happen “for a reason”? Sometimes I believe that all of the above are true. My experience today with this woman and her dog did have the feel of destiny. How many other people would have even bothered to stop? To call the dog over? To even attempt to help? Maybe if I don’t appear at that exact moment, Bear or her owner gets hit by a car? I’ll never know what could have happened, only what actually did happen. These two were reunited safely because I was there to make it happen.

My experience today was an overt example of an event that seemed destined to occur. But sometimes strange and unexplainable things happen to us and we’re just not aware of their importance, or at least not aware at the time. In 1985 I was at a Grateful Dead concert outside Denver, Colorado and took a random photograph of a beautiful, smiling woman in the crowd. After snapping the photo I didn’t give it another thought until I ran into that same woman a couple of months later at another Dead show, this time in California. She and I would go on to have an eight year relationship. We remain dear friends to this day. That chance encounter turned out to be one of the most important events of my life, opening doors to people and experiences that most likely never would have happened, all because of the random click of my Minolta’s shutter. Frankly, I can’t imagine where I’d be and what my life would be like had I never taken that photo. Destiny? No question! So I say to you; keep your eyes open to the mystery, be aware and take part in life. Your destiny could be waiting.