By Louie Ferrera

About and hour north of Santa Rosa, CA on the 101 freeway, the Welcome to Mendocino County sign promises: “Wilderness, Waves and Wine”. Perhaps another time for us, this weekend we’re here for the music.

Self proclaimed hippie icon and Woodstock legend Wavy Gravy is hosting a three day music festival on his land in southern Mendocino County. Known as the Hog Farm, this oak-studded slice of heaven is the perfect place to let it all go and to proudly let your freak flag fly. For over a quarter of a century the Hog Farm has been the site of many music festivals, most notably the annual Kate Wolf Festival which honors the late, great Sebastopol singer/songwriter.

This year it’s the Hog Farm Hideaway. Headlining all three nights is the reason Carol and I and our merry band of fellow travelers have made the trek north: The String Cheese Incident. We’ve been following The Cheese since discovering them at the 1996 High Sierra Music Festival. Over the years, this Colorado based bluegrass cum jam band has built a loyal following that’s Grateful Dead-like in it’s intensity and the envy of any touring band. Like The Dead, no two String Cheese shows are alike, they rarely play the same song the same way twice and a typical show lasts three hours or more. When The Cheese is firing on all cylinders, the crowd is transformed into a swirling cauldron of ecstatic dancers. Tie-dyes, long hair, sparkles and smiles all combine to form an intoxicating brew of bliss. This is what keeps us coming back for more.

The world of 2022 is fraught with seemingly insurmountable problems. The news media does its best to provide us with an endless stream of doom and gloom. It’s easy to fall into despair, to think that it’s all shit. If you were at the Hog Farm last weekend, you would quickly have seen that it is most definitely not all shit. Beauty and hope and love permeated every square inch of the place. The event was impeccably organized. If there were any fights or hassles or violence, I didn’t hear about it. For three days thousands of us treated each other with kindness and respect. It was about “us and we” not just “me”. There’s no cell service at the Hog Farm so instead of being slaves to our phones, we were present and fully in the moment. Our troubled world desperately needs a healthy dose of the kindness, love and straight up silliness that abounded at the Hog Farm Hideaway. I saw a guy with a shirt that read Unfuck The World. Taking some of the vibes from this past weekend and spreading them over the planet would be a good way to start.

For Carol and Me, our relationship had its genesis in the context of the summer festival scene. Our love blossomed while dancing to our favorite bands at High Sierra, Kate Wolf, Strawberry, Whole Earth and the Oregon Country Fair. Our twins came along in the spring of 2004 (they were conceived at the 2003 High Sierra Music Festival). We didn’t miss a beat and just brought them along for the ride. For the first eight years or so of their lives, Sam and Denali were our festival companions. Being exposed to so much love and freedom has definitely informed their lives in a positive way. However,  as our kids grew older we gradually phased out of the festival scene, our month long trips to Hawaii becoming the focal point of our summers. 

While driving up to the Hog Farm, I realized that it had been more than a decade since Carol and I last attended a multi-day music festival. I began to feel a bit apprehensive. After such a long absence from the scene, a few questions swirled through my brain. Would we still fit in? Would It still be as fun as I remember it to be? Did I still want to do this or was it best to leave this scene in the past? In short, could I “go home” again?

Well, all doubt quickly evaporated as we drove through the main entrance to the Hog Farm. In short order we showed our tickets, got our wrist bands and found our friends in the campground. All the while we were greeted by smiling and helpful people. The energy was so positive, so happy.  Fond memories of festivals past came flooding back. Now I knew why we were here.

For three days this was a feast for the senses. Three stages ensured that music would be happening from early afternoon into the wee hours of the morning. Temperatures were in the low 90’s for the first two days but a cool off was just steps away. Ten Mile Creek bisects the property and was still flowing thanks to late spring rains. There were “clothed” and “clothing optional” sections. We chose the latter and happily floated naked with our festival brothers and sisters. The Hog Farm Hideaway was also part family reunion. We ran into so many people who we hadn’t seen in years. Just because we’d dropped out of the festival scene didn’t mean that they had.

There were art installations, a particularly trippy one featured an array of a dozen doors standing straight up from the ground and painted in outlandish psychedelic swirls. At night the doors were lit from below to create a truly otherworldly effect. There was a camp dedicated solely to unicorns complete with a Unicorn Advice Booth. I saw a huge day-glo ocean diorama complete with neon tropical fish and jellyfish (jellyfish being one of the many String Cheese icons, in honor of their zany song of the same name.) Someone had set up a giant sling shot along the road to the campground. Dozens of stuffed animals were provided for anyone who wanted to launch them into the air. There was a myriad of handcrafted wares for sale at the many vending booths. I had one of the tastiest slices of pizza ever from the food court on Saturday night. The carb load gave me the energy to keep dancing during The Cheese’s second set that night.

And String Cheese Incident? This sextet of virtuoso musicians never fails to deliver. They reached musical heights that I hadn’t experienced in a long time. You never know what you’re going to get with these guys. A straight up bluegrass tune can quickly devolve into a feverish techno-infused jam into a choice cover song back into the bluegrass. Like the Grateful Dead, so much of the String Cheese concert experience is about the symbiosis of audience and band. We are full participants in each show, The Cheese and their fans always pushing each other to new heights.

Speaking of the Grateful Dead, that beloved band’s presence, particularly that of Jerry Garcia, was felt heavily all throughout the weekend. Jerry’s image was everywhere, from t-shirts and banners to buttons and bumper stickers. My favorite Jerry “sighting” was the Trip Advisor logo altered to feature Garcia’s grinning face in each sunglass lens. There were two Dead cover bands. Every band we saw played at least one Grateful Dead song. The currently thriving jam band scene arose from the ashes of the Dead’s demise following Garcia’s untimely death in 1995. I could feel Jerry smiling down on this wonderfully freaky scene that he was so instrumental in helping to create.

With a nearly full moon shining above the main music meadow, String Cheese Incident sent us home on Sunday night with a spot-on cover of the Peter Rowan gem Midnight Moonlight. They had played over nine hours of music throughout the weekend and never repeated a song. We made our way back to camp sweaty, spent and sated. This was a weekend to remember for sure and an affirmation of all that’s still right with the world.

My mom is a musician. There weren’t any instruments in our house when I was growing up. My mom didn’t play the violin or strum the guitar. As a teenager she did play a bit of piano. Mom often spoke of that period in her life. There was a piano in the small flat that she shared with her parents and five sisters. Mom took a few lessons and learned a bit but the piano was left behind when her family had to move. But make no mistake, my mom is a musician.

What did she play? My mom played records. When the record player wasn’t spinning she’d be playing WNEW-AM. When the radio wasn’t on mom would be the music. While our dad was at work, mom ran the house. In the tireless fashion of women of her generation she cooked and cleaned and got us dressed and off to school on time every day. And all the while mom would be singing. She had an absolutely beautiful voice, it was expressive and sad and soulful. Mom couldn’t just carry a tune, often she would be the tune. To be a effective singer one really has to feel the music, and man did my mom ever feel it! It’s one thing to have chops as a musician but to really stand out you’ve got to have soul and a true love for the material. My mom had all of that and more. I truly believe that given the opportunity, my mom could have been a professional singer.

Mom’s greatest hits ran the gamut of the best pop and jazz singers of her generation. Ella Fitzgerald, Lena Horne, Sarah Vaughn, Barbara Streisand, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Tony Bennet, Johnny Mathis and of course, The Chairman Of the Board, O’l Blue Eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. To say that my mom worshiped Sinatra does not do justice to the depth of her love for Frank’s music. Mom’s take on the melancholy Shadow Of Your Smile was heartbreaking. When she’d get into Fly Me To The Moon, she could swing with the best of them. Years ago when I heard of Sinatra’s passing I immediately called mom. She was crying.

Of course as a kid I never liked any of mom’s music. A child of the 60’s, I was all about The Beatles and The Stones and Motown. Sinatra? Ella? Streisand? Give me a break! But all the while I was listening. Like a sponge my young mind was soaking up every note, storing them away for future use. It took me well into adulthood to finally appreciate these songs for what they are: timeless and enduring classics of American music. One of my most memorable concert experiences ever was seeing Ella Fitzgerald perform in San Francisco shortly before her death. If only my mom could have been there with me.

I’ve been a Giants baseball fan ever since moving to the San Francisco area. I go to lots of games. After every Giants victory a collage of iconic San Francisco locations is projected onto the huge scoreboard above the outfield. Accompanying this video is Tony Bennet’s signature tune I Left My Heart In San Francisco. I always sing along at the top of my voice and imagine my mom singing there beside me.

Because of my mom I too have become  a musician. I have a great ear for music. I play guitar, sing, write songs and have recorded two cds of original music. Throughout my long career as a teacher, my classroom was always filled with music. I can’t imagine my life without music. Music is the greatest gift that my mom has ever given to me, it’s a gift that keeps on giving.

Our daughter Denali is eighteen years old and about to graduate high school. When she was little I’d come into her room and often hear her humming these soft, lilting melodies. There was never any set tune to her singing and no two tunes were alike. I believe that this was a subconscious act, I don’t think Denali even realized that she was singing. Just like my mom who was always singing around the house, our daughter was doing the same. A part of my mom, the musician, that lives on in her granddaughter.

Mom is 92 now, in failing health with advancing dementia. She doesn’t sing much anymore. Mom is currently at a long term care facility, rehabbing from a recent stay in the hospital. It was a sobering sight to see her the other day, looking so frail and lost sitting in her wheelchair. I sat down beside mom, kissed her then pulled out my phone. I dialed up the Mom’s Mix playlist that I had made especially for this visit, held the phone to her ear and pressed “play”. As soon as the opening notes of Fly Me To The Moon came through the speaker, mom changed. Her face lit up in a beatific smile and she began to sing. Frank Sinatra’s voice and my mom’s voice became one. Of course she knew all of the words. Like I said, my mom is a musician.

Back in the 1970’s there was this thing on FM radio called “Desert Island Discs.” From time to time DJ’s would pose the question, “If you were stranded on a deserted island, which ten albums would you take?” A friend and I were reminiscing about this recently and she wondered about books. Along with my chosen ten albums, what three books would I take? Now that’s a tough choice. I’ve been a life long reader and have read many hundreds of books, but which three to choose?

My love of books dates back to my early childhood. When I first became a reader, my mom would take me and my older brother on weekly sojourns to the public library where I’d just devour books. My first “biblio-love affair” was with a series that featured a young boy named Danny Dunn. In each book, this kid would get into some sort of exciting science/nature based adventure. I found these tales irresistible and couldn’t get enough. Danny Dunn showed me that there’s magic in books, he started me down the road of reading, a road that opened up worlds of possibilities that I had only dreamed of. That journey continues to this day.

So…how do I possibly choose just three books to take with me to this hypothetical desert island paradise? There are record albums that I’ve listened to thousands of times. With the best of them (Let It Bleed, Abbey Road, Crosby, Stills and Nash…) I still hear new things. But books? I usually read a book once and am done with it. There have been the occasional rereads (I’ve read the Lord of the Rings trilogy twice and am contemplating a third go), but rarely do I revisit a book. When making my choices, I had to consider which books have spoken to me the loudest, which ones have had the biggest effects on my life, which books would I like to read over and over? So here goes nothing, my three books are as follows:

 At the top of my chosen trio is the counterculture classic, Tom Robbins’  Another Roadside Attraction. This was Robbins’ first novel and and my introduction to him. Getting turned on to Tom Robbins’ books has had a life changing effect on me. His psychedelic zaniness, strong and sexy female characters and profound Zen utterances have shown me that there’s a different way to live life, that there’s goodness and beauty and wonder and fun all around us if we just take the time to open our eyes, that to smile and laugh in the face of adversity is not a bad strategy, and that we absolutely must question authority. Robbins once described the crescent moon as “a clipping from a snowman’s toenail”…brilliant!

Next up is Kurt Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan. At one time or another throughout our lives we all come across a teacher who gives us a priceless gift, something that has enriched our lives. I am forever grateful to my high school English teacher Ms Nancy Friedlander, for it was she who introduced me to Kurt Vonnegut. As an impressionable 16 year old I was questioning everything and itching to bust out of small town New Jersey into the wider world. Vonnegut was like nothing that I’d ever read before, his humor, irreverence and world view struck a chord in me that reverberates to this day. The Sirens of Titan is an outlandish, time tripping and brilliantly original work of science fiction and unlike anything I’d read before or since.

My final choice is The World According To Garp by John Irving. This was his fourth novel and the point at which I jumped on the Irving bandwagon. I’m still traveling down that road today. Garp is the quintessential John Irving novel. It’s a sweeping epic spanning many years, there’s a “story within a story” and more twists and turns than a mountain road. Throughout his many novels, Irving has his finger firmly on the pulse of the joy and sorrow, tragedy and ecstasy of what it’s like to be human. In The World According To Garp, he seamlessly blends tragedy, comedy, chance encounters and fate into an unforgettable story. I read this book when I was in my twenties. Little did I know then that I would someday have children of my own and become just like the doting, worrying and loving dad that is T.S. Garp

So there you go. I had long ago chosen my ten albums, now I’ve got my three books. All I need now is a bucket of cold beers, sunscreen, my Tommy Bahama chair and a destination. I’ll send ya a postcard. In the meantime, tell me which three books you’d choose.

The Northern Mockingbird is so entertaining. From sunrise to sunset it sings incessantly and I have no idea what its actual voice sounds like. Its palette of sounds is seemingly endless: chirps, trills, whistles, peeps, coos and everything in between. You see the Northern Mockingbird is a mimic and there doesn’t seem to be another bird’s voice that it can not replicate. It will rattle off the songs of a scrub jay, white crowned sparrow, house finch and black phoebe in a staccato  burst that can last a minute or more. I read somewhere that mockingbirds have even been known to mimic the sounds of car alarms. Amazing, huh?

These birds are year round residents where I live so I see and hear them often. It’s in springtime that I appreciate them most though as that’s when their songs are especially vociferous and celebratory. On most spring mornings I find a mockingbird perched atop the tallest cypress tree in our backyard, catching the first rays of sun and welcoming the new day with its repertoire of  tunes. I never tire of listening to this bird sing. Like springtime itself, the mockingbird’s happy chirping fills my heart with joy, hope and a feeling that on this day, at this moment, all things seem possible. When the mockingbird is onstage, there’s no room for fear and negativity and all seems right with the world.

When I was in my mid-30’s, I shared a house near the beach in Santa Cruz with my girlfriend at the time Michelle and our close friends John and Diane. Our backyard was a green haven surrounded by tall shrubs and a mini-bamboo forest, it was often the setting for spring and summer parties. Many in our circle of friends were musicians, when we got together we’d fill this tranquil green space with our voices, guitars and drums. On one particularly golden Saturday in April, my friend Mark and I were deep into a spirited version of the Grateful Dead gem “Birdsong.” Throughout the entire song we were accompanied by a mockingbird. This tuneful little sprite seemed to have a real feel for what Mark and I were playing. As we jammed, it chirped and bebopped right along with us, weaving its voice in and out as the music flowed between us. Luckily, one of our friends recorded this human/avian duet. It was upon listening back that we were able to hear how perfectly the mockingbird’s song blended with our own. Also audible on the tape was the voice of our dear friend Suzy, who six years later  would succumb to ovarian cancer at the age of 36. She was a middle school teacher and an adventurous soul, who loved to travel and dance. Suzy was all flowing auburn hair, hazel eyes and acerbic wit, she squeezed every ounce of joy that she could out of life. She and I were good friends. For many years Suzy was a mainstay of our scene. She played congas and was usually part of our jam sessions. She left this world much too soon, her passing was a shock that left a gaping hole in our tightly knit little hippie confederacy.

So once again spring is upon us. The myriad voices of the Northern Mockingbird figure prominently in the soundtrack of the season. In the mockingbird’s song I always hear a little piece of Suzy and that luminous morning so many years ago when we made music with a mockingbird.

I stood before the large picture window in our kitchen this morning and watched a Coopers Hawk systematically devour a small bird. Bit by bit he picked it apart until there was nothing left but a few feathers fluttering in the breeze.

This window looks out upon our side yard which is dominated by an apple tree, a pluot tree, and two cherry trees in various stages of spring awakening. Just beyond our neighbor’s fence stands a tall, dead plum tree. I spied the Coopers Hawk going about its breakfast business on one of the large limbs of this tree. This was an immature bird who’s markings are quite different from those of an adult so it took me a few minutes to correctly ID it. What a striking bird! It looked to be about a foot and a half tall. Its long tail feathers, horizontally striped in alternating bands of dark and light brown hung over the branch where it was perched. Its wing feathers were dark brown with scattered patches of white. When it turned to the side I noticed its breast streaked in light brown and white, its hooked beak and yellow eyes intent on gobbling up its prey.

I knew that I was witnessing something special and not often observed by humans. This was the same bird that I spotted in the same tree four days ago. I was hoping to see it again but never thought that I’d be treated to such a show. There’s much mystery surrounding the workings of nature, especially the behavior of animals. The goings about of animals is more often than not hidden from our view. Equal amounts of patience, luck and awareness of my surroundings came into play this morning as the scene with the hawk unfolded outside our kitchen window. I could just as easily have missed it but I always scan these trees hoping to spot something special.

While reading up on the Coopers Hawk in my bird guide, I learned that it preys mainly on small birds which it catches in mid-flight. It can often be found around bird feeders. On any given day I routinely observe ten or more species of songbirds flittering around our suet-filled feeder. While the hawk was feeding, our yard was devoid of birds and birdsong. With an apex avian predator in their midst, they knew better than to hang around.  With such variety and easy pickings this Coopers Hawk will most surely be back.

When I first met you you were wrinkled and red, covered in that white powdery stuff, fists clenched, eyes closed, wisps of hair dark and damp and plastered to your scalps. A few inches of umbilical chord, your lifeline to mom, was left protruding from your soon to be belly buttons. I asked the nurse, “Can I touch them?” she smiled, “Sure, they’re yours.” She handed me a pair of scissors, the metal gleaming in the blinding lights of the delivery room. I did a symbolic snip at the end of each of your umbilical cords and you were off, you lives on this earth just begun.

We were new parents suddenly faced with these two impossibly beautiful, totally helpless beings that were entirely dependent on us. This was a difficult to comprehend and overwhelming responsibility. It was and still is scary, terrifying really, how much I loved you, love you, will always love you.

Now you’re toddlers. It’s getting harder every day to contain your endless curiosity and desire to explore and expand the boundaries of your ever expanding world. For you, everything is new and mind blowing and amazing, your hazel eyes, your blue eyes, wide with wonder; touching, tasting, seeking; the dawn of a lifetime of exploration and discovery.

Your first steps are a game changer. The boundaries of your world suddenly have no boundaries. If we were to turn you loose outside you’d keep walking to the ends of the earth or whenever you run out of energy, whichever comes first, with nary a backwards glance. Your world is exploding with color and sound and tastes and wondrous aromas. A hummingbird is magic, tulips and daffodils miracles of color. We can barely keep up with you on this open ended psychedelic adventure called life.

Birthday cakes come and go, up to your elbows in frosting. Sleepless nights for us. Diapers, diapers, diapers! Story time at bedtime. You absorb these wondrous words and images like little sponges, your appetites are voracious for knowledge, your desire to experience and to know show no limits… trips to the ER, fevers, cuts and bruises, worry, worry, worry. I’ll take the sickness and injuries if you could somehow give them all to me.

Did we blink? We must have because somehow you’re both off to preschool, climbing the steps of your new school with your new clothes, new shoes, tiny backpacks strapped to your backs. The door close behind you. The only tears were ours.

The years tick by, the wheel picks up speed. No matter how hard we try to slow it down it just keeps going ‘round and ‘round as it should.

Kindergarten…grade school…just when we’re all in a groove, boom! Another  milestone comes around. Gotta roll with it, evolve right along with you both…More birthdays, more cakes, more frosting finally gets into your mouths instead of all over your bodies. The candle count is rising. You’ve learned to ride bicycles? When did that happen? Training wheels are on then they’re off, a push from us and off you pedal into your future. You’re wobbly at first and there are many falls but you grow steadier and more self assured with each spin of the wheels.

Artwork on the fridge, a hundred pieces of original art drawn just for us. Like Van Gogh you sign your own names at the bottom of each masterpiece. The days stretch behind and before me. The four of us plus kitty become a tight unit. It’s called a family. So this is how a family should be! Loving and warm, sharing and encouraging and supportive.

T-ball, baseball, soccer, basketball, climbing, skateboarding, sports is a thread that has run through both of your lives for as long as you could run or throw or kick a ball. Wins, losses, tears and smiles. Guiding you through the ups and downs. So proud and bursting with joy just watching you compete. So adorable in your uniforms. When it starts to become all about winning some of the joy fades.

Grade school gone in a flash. First day of school photos on our front lawn, growing taller, filling out a little more each day. The “little kidness” in your faces gradually replaced by a more mature look…Junior high, it’s getting “real”. School suddenly no longer all rainbows and unicorns. Challenges, struggling to fit in. I desperately want to make everything ok even though in my heart I know that I can’t. Your independence grows, you start to pull away. It’s subtle at first, your wings are getting stronger, the desire to fly becomes more powerful with each passing day. Your mom and I watch these test flights with a mixture of joy, pride and sadness, it’s a bittersweet experience that only a parent can truly understand.

High school hits like a tsunami! One of you loves it and thrives, the other struggles to fit in. Remembering my own struggles in high school, I think I can understand some of your mind. High school will be just a blip on your radar screen, but the only way out is through. The focus is now on friends and social life and challenging mom and dad; questioning, never stop questioning. Seeing you put up your walls is difficult. You’re pulling away. It’s nothing personal and I’ve got to remind myself that this distance that you’re putting between mom and me is an inevitable part of growing up. So I take the conversations and time spent together when and where I find them, knowing that in time this distance will grow shorter.

I love you both with a ferocity that I never dreamed possible, an intensity of feelings that I had no previous experience to compare to. The pride I feel over the beautiful, creative, caring, bright, funny and fun loving young adults that you’ve become is deep, it wells up inside me and bursts forth from all aspects of my being. Happy eighteenth birthday my darlings!

May you build a ladder to the stars and climb on every rung and may you stay forever young.

Bob Dylan

Our teenage twins are constantly in motion. If you blink, you miss ‘em!

Denali Dazzles

Denali dazzles when she runs. Pippi Longstocking braids fall past her waist and become scarlet jet trails that fly behind her as she whizzes past. It’s a blur of freckles- hazel eyes flashing with determination, all long gangly legs and pumping arms. The air is whipped into a tornado, a monsoon, a Santa Ana whopper of a windstorm when Denali flashes by. If you blink, you miss the show, it’s as simple as that! The birds, bees, flowers and trees shake their heads, wings, blossoms and branches in amazement. What the hell was that anyway? All that’s left behind is a cloud of dust, just like after the Roadrunner once again pulls the wool over Wile E. Coyote’s eyes.

When Denali jumps, watch out! Flying through the air like a whirling dervish, arms helicoptering with reckless abandon, she splits the sky with a sonic BOOM! Falcons, hummingbirds and swifts can’t hope to keep up with Denali. She lands with a tremendous splash, sand flying madly all around, completely engulfing her in a yellow-brown haze. Denali stands and flips her head from side to side, braids shedding sand like a dog shaking water from its fur. She’s focused and determined, hazel eyes burning with joy and purpose. Denali dazzles, she razzles, she never frazzles!

Sam Spins

When Sam spins, he always wins. Lucky 7 coming up roses, paying off with a jingle-jangle of gold, cascading down the run. Sam spins like a dervish in a turban, a turbine whirling, crackling with electric energy, always charging forward. His skateboard flies through the sky; four wheels spin, Sam spins, the world turns, our blue planet whirls through time and space. Sam is riding this cosmic twirling wave into the future. Brown hair- wild, free and freaky, flying out from under a black skater’s cap, earrings of silver dangling, glinting, reflecting back the sun’s energy. How does he do it? The board goes this way, then that way, Sam goes yet another way, all arms and legs; baggy jeans billowing out like parachutes when he goes airborne. Say hello to the hawks and eagles circling up there son. Float back to earth just in time to crash down perfectly on your board. The wood bows, almost breaks, but somehow manages to stay in one piece. Grinding, wood on cement, wood on metal. Like a cowboy bucking a bronco Sam stays with it until both board and boy run out of steam, only to start up again and again until the last bit of daylight melts into indigo, into purple, into black. Stars light the way now. Roll on my boy, roll on!

Ella’s ears are still pointy, that much hasn’t changed. What has changed is Ella no longer is a kitten, she’s a full grown cat.

Ella was once a foster cat. Eight years ago we took her in on a trial basis, fell immediately in love and decided to adopt her. The first thing that grabbed me about Ella was those pointy ears. When she was a kitten her ears were disproportionately large for her tiny body. They loomed above the top of her head, concave like  bandshells, coming to a sharp point at the top. From the summit of each of her ears sits a tiny tuft of hair. Back then Ella looked like one of those long-eared bats that live in the tropics, her tiny head and large ears were comical and cute at the same time. As an adult, her body has since grown into those ears, but they still look kind of big to me.

Ella is a light tabby. There are hints of stripes along the last six inches of her tail as well as on her haunches. Her feet and the tip of her tail are slightly lighter than the rest of her body, otherwise her fur is a uniform light brown to blonde color and lustrous with health.

Ella’s eyes are a luminous shade of green similar to the polished sea stones of serpentine that are commonly found along the Northern California coast. The cornea of her left eye is partially clouded over, kind of like a cataract. Ella’s view of the world must be a little out of focus.

While she has grown a bit more feisty with age, occasionally swatting at us when she doesn’t want to be bothered, Ella is still an even tempered and very affectionate cat. She often greets me by climbing into my lap, gradually making her way onto my chest until we’re nose-to-nose. We give each other “Eskimo kisses”. She sometimes licks the end of my nose with her sandpaper tongue. I tell her, “I love you too.” I know she understands me.

Ella loves tummy rubs. In the evening when Carol and I are on the couch reading or watching television, she’ll often end up spread eagle on her back in Carol’s lap. Ella purrs with feline ecstasy and is nearly comatose while the tummy rub is being administered.

Cats are by nature quite independent, but Ella does not like it when we go away. A day or so before a trip, she just knows we’re going to be gone. While we pack the car and scurry around the house making last minute preparations, she is clearly agitated. She’ll follow us around the house and has even jumped into the car! We leave Ella alone if we’re gone for two or three days, any longer than that and we have our neighbor stay at our house and cat sit. Ella is a very social kitty and really needs someone to be with her. When we return home, she is almost always waiting for us in the driveway.

I adore Ella, but there’s a bit of irony here. I was never a cat person, however successive girlfriends in the mid to late 90’s would have it otherwise. When I met and fell in love with Carol in the spring of 2001, her cat Bugsy was part of the deal. Bugsy was a gentle soul who helped me to see the sweet side of cat ownership. She lived a long and full life and the day we had to put her down was a sad one indeed. Bugsy now rests in our backyard beneath a circle of sea stones, surrounded by purple irises that bloom every spring.

When Bugsy passed she was nearly eighteen years old. Ella is eight now so with a little luck we’ll have her around for another decade. Relative to humans a cats’ life is short. That fact gives me a deeper appreciation for every day that Ella is in our lives. Some say that a cat chooses you. I am so grateful that Ella chose us.

The beach is a place where a man can feel he’s the only soul in the world that’s real.

Pete Townsend

Driftwood…bleached bones. Tibia, fibia, a random scattering offered up by the sea, come to rest here. Finger bones, toe bones, skeletal remains of once living things. I love the shapes and sizes, no two are alike. This one is Moby Dick, mythical leviathan, gaping jaws, enormous unblinking eye, mottled and scarred skin, sounding then surfacing with a mighty blast through its blowhole only to disappear as quickly as it appeared. The whale swims across the lunar surface of this beach. Craters, peaks and valleys of sand stretch for miles in each direction, footprints of humans, gulls, horses, tiny birds, tinier mammals criss cross before me. These prints are a road map, they tell where to go, where I’ve been, where I hope to be. The tide will soon wash this map away, a clean slate for a different day, a new uncharted direction. We all have maps, inner paths plotted out for us, limited only by our imagination and the desire to follow the path of our choosing.

Wave after wave rolls to the beach, churning, roaring, sea foam flies back from each crest. These waves are my mantra; breathe in peace, breathe out hope. Again and again. The sun dips in and out of high clouds, its appearance and disappearance is a paint brush. Now the surface of the sea is cobalt blue, now it’s a deep olive green. The sun is an impressionist master playing with light and the infinite shades of color.

A quiet breeze animates the dune grass. Millions of slender, stiletto-sharp blades wave and shimmer. New green shoots emerge from dead brown ones, all dance together in the shifting light.

Coal-black Surf Scoters with conical white beaks bob up and down just beyond the breakers. The frigid sea, the roiling surf is their home. A small knot of tiny sanderlings appear to float as they scurry across the sand, their short, black beaks drill through the surface as each wave recedes. The outgoing tide will reveal a bounty for these diminutive shorebirds. With pure white heads and bodies, mottled grey wing bars, black tail feathers and tiny black legs, they are a study in contrast, a living Ansel Adams photograph. As one they take flight, knife point wings carry them swiftly down the beach to continue their foraging.

The shapes of the clouds are the stuff of my dreams. Today they are soft with ill-defined edges, cotton balls and blurred lines, broad sweeping brushstrokes, sky waves spraying sea mist. The sun is a white blur as it struggles to emerge from behind a grey section of the sky canvas. A clear blue sky is endless but today’s clouds add definition and depth. Now the sun breaks through. Like a lizard I give my body over to its life giving warmth. Renewal.

One of the benefits of retirement, besides the obvious one of not having to go to work every day and deal with the trials and tribulations of a regular job, has been getting to spend more time with my wife Carol. Over the past year Carol and I have made it a point to set aside at least one day each week for what we call Adventure Day. Our days include brunches, lunches, walks and bike rides, but what we love most is to get out in nature. Hiking and kayaking the various parks, rivers and lakes in our area have been our main modes of exploration. I once wrote that “nature is an antidote to restless times”, that statement has never rang truer than it does right now. Exploring nature with Carol is the perfect way for us to reconnect and to shut out, at least for an afternoon, the insanity of a world seemingly gone mad.

Our most recent adventure took us to Olompali State Historic Park. This little gem of a park sits right off the busy 101 freeway about 20 miles north of San Francisco in Novato. Prior to our visit all I knew about Olompali is that it was once a favorite haunt of the San Francisco rock glitterati. In the mid 1960’s members of The Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin and virtually anyone else associated with the SF music scene could be found up here spending blissful days tripping and carousing among the oaks, meadows, hills and forests. Carol and I decided to finally take the freeway offramp and see what this place was all about.

When we arrived, there was exactly one car in the parking lot. Another fringe benefit of retirement: we can explore our favorite nature spots while everyone else is at work. The trail took us around various historical buildings from the turn of the 20th century and up a steep climb through a mixed forest of oak, madrone and bay laurel. The rains of November and December had everything looking green and alive. A few tiny wildflowers poked their heads up out of the forest floor, a preview of the bigger springtime show to come. The trail eventually leveled out and the remainder of our climb was through long gentle switchbacks. Our destination was the top of 1,500 foot Mount Burdell. After hiking for about two hours, we stopped short of the summit for lunch. The clearing we chose had sweeping views of Petaluma Marsh, the eastern foothills and San Francisco Bay beyond. Cars moved like ants way below along the 101. We were so close to tens of thousands of people yet it felt like being in the middle of the wilderness. The air was cool and clean, the quiet nearly absolute. Carol and I ate our lunches, enjoying the easy silence between us.

Tiny white flowers

Paint the forest floor

Harbinger of spring

The highlight of our day occurred somewhere between the sandwiches and the chips. I noticed two very large birds wheeling and soaring in the sky directly above us. I trained my binoculars on them and much to my surprise saw that it was a pair of Golden eagles doing this dance for us! I’ve spent countless hours exploring nature but have never once been blessed with a sighting of this majestic bird. To see a pair of them seemed nothing short of miraculous. These are massive birds with a wingspan of over six feet. Golden eagles are year round residents of our area but are rarely sighted. Next to the California Condor, these are North America’s largest birds. Carol and  I watched in awe, knowing that we were seeing something very special. The birds soared higher and higher, eventually disappearing behind us to the west.

In endless blue

Two Golden eagles

Dance with the wind

We continued on our way to the summit of Mount Burdell. The views of Mount Tamalpias and the hills to the west were breathtaking. Along the spine of the ridge we spotted several large prints in the trailside mud, most likely those of a mountain lion or bobcat. On our way back down we caught a fleeting glimpse of a coyote. The Trickster of Native American legends was sniffing around our lunch spot. It melted back into the forest before we could get a clear look at it.

A flash of fur

And he’s gone

The Trickster knows

Towards the bottom of the trail we crossed a gentle spring-fed creek. What beautiful music it was making as it tumbled down the hillside over rocks and fallen branches. After these past few years of drought, I’ve developed a deeper appreciation for the sounds of running water. We returned to our car, feeling newly connected, not only to ourselves but to the natural world at our doorstep.

The forest speaks

A gentle silence

We hold our breath