By Louie Ferrera

Where do you go when you die? At one time or another every human  has asked this question. The fear of death is the fear of the unknown, what happens to you after you die is the deepest and most perplexing unknown of them all. Philosophers, shaman, mystics, artists, poets and priests across every culture in every corner of the Earth have all attempted to answer these questions: When you die, do you just cease to be? What happens to the sum of all your thoughts, memories and experiences? What happens to your soul? Is there even such thing as a soul? Is there an afterlife? How about reincarnation? After my death will I return to the land of the living as a sentient being like an elephant or a hummingbird? Is karma real? If I’ve lived a good and virtuous life will I return as a sunflower or a double rainbow? If I’ve been an evil creep will my encore be as a sewer rat or a cockroach?

Growing up Catholic I was taught that the church had it all figured out. You either went up (Heaven), down (Hell) or somewhere in-between (Purgatory). Heaven was the most beautiful place that you could ever imagine, you spent eternity beyond the clouds and among angels. Of course in Hell, the Devil himself is your eternal host, there you suffered and burned in the most sulfurous of flames. From what I can gather, Purgatory is  some sort of way station where your “up/down” fate is decided.

I think that I may have seen the afterlife. Honest. Many years ago I had a dream, the details of which mostly elude me. Here’s all I’ve got: I was with another person or two, we were standing in an open space around some kind of signpost or pole, a wizened old man was there too. That’s it. In my mind’s eye, I can still somewhat make out this scene, but it’s gradually being consumed by the fogs of time. What I do still remember though is the feeling of the dream. I knew that I had died and this was what came next.

Some believe that everyone has their “time”, a predetermined moment when your death will occur, no matter what you do. I’ve had two experiences in my life that have lead me to believe that perhaps this theory is plausible.

About 25 years ago I was hiking in the rugged backcountry of Big Basin State Park in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I was peering through my binoculars at a bird while standing on a narrow trail that ran along a steep ridge. I heard a rattling/hissing sound, looked down and to my left to see a large rattlesnake less than three feet from me. It was coiled up  in “strike” mode. I slowly took a couple of steps back and watched the snake slither away. I was six miles from the parking lot, this was the pre-cell phone era, there was no one around to help me. Had I been bitten, who know what would have happened to me? Maybe it wasn’t my time?

About ten years ago, I watched with horror as our then 8 year old son dashed across a narrow two-lane street in rural Sonoma County. He and his mom and sister had gone into a bakery and Sam was coming across to show me what he’d bought. To my right I noticed a car speeding towards Sam. I shouted at him to stop but he just kept on coming. Had he stepped off the curb a second or two earlier he would have taken the full force of that speeding car. This horrific moment still burns in my memory. How was he not struck and killed? My only explanation is that it wasn’t his time.

So, maybe you just die with no plan, no predetermination. Maybe you go peacefully or violently; after a long illness or suddenly from a heart attack or stroke. Perhaps you go out in a blaze of glory in a plane or car crash. Your death could be horrific in a mass shooting or gentle while surrounded by those who love you.

Someone very close to me has recently died, it has brought me face to face with death and forced me to confront my own mortality.  A month ago my friend Kim died suddenly. She was a few weeks short of her 55th birthday and as full of life as a person could be. Now she’s gone. Her death makes no sense. We are still waiting to find out the cause of death. What was her death like? Where is Kim now? Has she been reincarnated? Will I recognize her in the knowing smile of a passing stranger or in the lilting call of a wood thrush? Is she in Heaven? Hell? Who knows? I certainly don’t.

By Louie Ferrera

Carol and I dropped our daughter Denali off at college last week. It was a momentous occasion and a watershed day in our lives. I don’t think Denali was able to fully grasp the enormity of this moment but Carol and I were hyper-aware of its importance. It was a bittersweet day for sure. I was so happy for our daughter and bursting with pride over everything she’s accomplished in order to get to where she is today. But I also felt sadness and a sense of loss. Denali would most likely never again live in our home full time.

Since Denali graduated high school in June, I’ve been doing lots of reflecting back, each memory a snapshot of a moment in her life. Long before I began publishing my essays in this blog, I dabbled a bit with writing stories for children, one of which recounts one of those snapshots: a special morning that Denali and I used to share when she was just a toddler. The other day I went back and reread that story, took its essence and completely rewrote it. Here it is. 

Rocking Chair

Dawn is trying really hard to break, its pale light barely illuminates our bedroom. My wife Carol is asleep beside me, our cat Bugsy a black and white ball of fur in the crook of her legs. I’m drifting somewhere between the dream I was lost in and the new day that’s just beginning. That’s when I become aware of a presence at my side of the bed. “Daddy, I want to go in the rocking chair” you whisper. I peel the covers off, swing my feet over the side of the bed, gather you into my arms and down the hall we shuffle towards the living room. My feet make a soft swish, swish sound against the carpet, your head rests on my shoulder, your tiny arms are wrapped around the back of my neck.

I plop down onto the rocking chair with you in my lap. This rocking chair doesn’t really rock like the classic chair with curved runners affixed to the bottom, rather it moves forward and backwards on hinges.  For extra warmth I cover us with your favorite quilt, handmade especially for me by the grandparent of a former first grade student of mine. This is a county fair, blue ribbon quality piece of art decorated with motifs of musical notes and instruments.

Light slowly begins to fill the room. With sunrise on the way, the promise of a new day is before us. Color needs light however so right now everything appears in varying shades of pre-dawn grey, adding a dream-like quality to the scene. The soft hum of the furnace and the squeak, squawk as we move back and forth in the rocking chair are the only sounds. Some mornings we share a bowl of crunchy breakfast cereal while I read you a story but today is simply a “snuggle up together and listen to the quiet” kind of morning.  You’ve got your favorite pajamas on, the ones with feet and pictures of kittens on them. Your body is soft and warm next to mine, your long auburn hair smells of the baby shampoo from last nights bath. After a few minutes I hear your breathing change and notice that you’ve fallen back to sleep.

I cherish these morning with you and savor each moment knowing full well that in the blink of an eye you’ll be grown up and about to strike out into the world on your own. But right now the world has shrunken and everything is exactly as it should be while we’re together here in the rocking chair.

By Louie Ferrera

I had to run to Safeway the other day to pick up a few items. If I’m in a hurry I sometimes use one of the automatic checkout kiosks, yea they’re dehumanizing and one of the many manifestations of our increasingly impersonal society, but when I want to get out of the store in a hurry, I just grin and bear it. Yesterday was not one of those days so I chose a checkout lane with an actual person behind the register.

The sudden passing of my dear friend Kim last week is still fresh in my mind and weighing heavily on my heart. I went through this checkout lane hoping for a bit of real human interaction, I wanted the chance to put some light and kindness out into the world like Kim always did. Kim had a way of making a complete stranger or  someone she had just met feel like a long lost friend. Her manner was so gentle and accepting, Kim would hold them in that intense gaze of hers and and there would be no doubt that she was totally present. So with Kimmy in mind, I got into the queue in Lane #4.

Ringing up the sales was a pleasant and personable middle aged woman named Linda. Her short grey hair framed a round face, smiling blue eyes looked out from behind a pair of wire rimmed glasses. Linda had struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me. He had placed two large boxes of Popsicles onto the conveyor which prompted Linda to tell him that she also liked Popsicles but what she really loved were those 100% fruit juice Outshine Bars. She was going off on how she couldn’t get enough of her favorite flavor, tangerine/pomegranate. Linda’s manner so reminded me of that knack Kimmy had for bringing a stranger so easily into a conversation. I immediately joined in, sharing my love for Outshine Bar as well. While Linda bagged the guy’s groceries, she and I continued chatting. I told her that one of my passions were those coconut fruit bars that are often found in Mexican markets.  I had a few Mounds and Almond Joy bars among my items so she proceeded to sing a line from that old tv commercial; “Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. Almond Joys have nuts, Mounds don’t”. I just cracked up!

As I was putting my groceries into the canvas bag that I’d brought, I told Linda how much I enjoyed our brief conversation and how nice it was to have had a real human interaction instead of a cold encounter with Siri. She smiled, wished me a god day and went on to the next customer in line. As I walked away I heard Linda immediately strike up the banter with the next person in line.

The world desperately needs more light, more love, more opportunities for meaningful human contact, more Lindas. With the pandemic finally receding in our collective rearview mirrors, there’s really no longer any excuse for not getting to know people, for not lending a smile and a kind word to a stranger, for not bringing someone out of their lonely bubble of isolation and into the light. This was a Kimmy moment for me. With her spirit in mind I tried to do my part to bring the light, to bring the love. Get out there yourself and spread the love. 

Love like Kimmy.

By Louie Ferrera

The fragility of life came into pinpoint focus for me last week when I learned of the passing of my dear friend Kim Kenney. How could such a shining beacon of light and love be extinguished so quickly? I last saw her two months ago at a three day music festival up in Mendocino. For Kim and I it was business as usual-we hugged, we laughed, we swilled tequila, we danced wildly to our favorite bands, we simply reveled in each others company. Before getting into my car to head home after the festival Kim and I shared one more deep and heartfelt hug, already looking forward to our next hangout at Camp Loma over Labor Day weekend. How could I possibly have known that this would be the last hug that we’d ever share?

Life is beautiful and heartbreaking, blissful and sad, filled with incredible highs and fathomless lows. This thing that we call life hangs by an oh so slender thread, a tether that can be severed all too suddenly. If ever I needed another reminder of just how precious and fragile life is, Kim’s passing has been the ultimate wake up call.

Listen: Love your friends, love your family, forget about petty differences, don’t hang on to stuff, get to know your neighbors, be kind, be caring, find a way every day to put some goodness out into the world, take chances, don’t postpone joy, hug your kids, tell those closest to you just how much you love them, and tell them often. Above all, live life like there’s no tomorrow because there will come a time when tomorrow will not come…for all of us.

Experiencing the passing of my dear Kimmy is devastating and has forced me to look unflinchingly at my own mortality. Death is harsh and final. Throughout the entirety of human history the  question “Where do I go when I die?” has been asked by everyone who’s ever lived. Now Kim knows.

So, maybe she’s at a String Cheese Incident show. It’s midnight on New Years Eve and the balloons are always dropping. Or perhaps she’s at the Greek Theater dancing to the Grateful Dead. The band is deep into one of their 2nd set jams and Kim is riding Jerry’s crystalline guitar notes out among the cosmos. Or maybe she’s just at Camp Loma and we’re all there too, basking in the collective love that we create whenever we’re together. Wherever you are my dear friend I hope that it’s a place filled with as much joy, love and light that you put out into the world while you were still among us. Rest in peace Kimmy. I love you.

On July 27, Carol and I celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary. How did I end up with this amazing woman as my life partner? More on that later.

Twenty years is a significant milestone so we wanted to do something extra special to mark the occasion. Initially we thought about having a big blowout, complete with a live band and all of our closest friends at a site in the redwoods. We quickly realized that the logistics of putting on a party like this were more that we were willing to take on, so Carol and I opted for something a little more our speed.

Since our kids came along eighteen years ago, opportunities for us to spend time together away from familial responsibilities have been few and far between. We also wanted to go somewhere new so the usual places (Point Reyes, Mendocino, Santa Cruz) were out. A couple of months ago one of us suggested the Seattle area. Being the travel agent of the family, Carol started researching places around Seattle and stumbled upon Vashon Island. We did some cursory reading up on Vashon, found a place on VRBO, booked our flight and were ready to go.

Our travel day was seamless. We landed at SeaTac airport, got our rental car and soon found ourselves on the Fauntelroy Ferry over to Vashon Island, a mere 15 minute ride across Puget Sound from the Tacoma area. As soon as we parked our car on the boat, Carol and I headed up top to enjoy the ride. The day was absolutely stellar! A cool breeze blew the hair back from our faces, salt air filled our lungs. Off to the starboard side of the boat the awe-inspiring sight of snow covered Mount Rainier dominated the landscape. It’s easy to see why the native peoples of the Pacific Northwest so revered this mountain. The power and energy emanating from Rainier was palpable.

Vashon Island is a heavily forested, peaceful world upon itself. There’s no traffic, no traffic lights, no freeways, no sirens, no crowds, no homeless camps and except for an Ace Hardware and a Subway, no chain stores. The downtown is comprised of small local businesses. There’s even a vintage single-screen movie theater. Most places were closed on the Monday that we arrived, on the other days nothing opened until 11:00am. We had stumbled upon something beautiful and increasingly rare in modern day Generica: a “real” place. The densely populated urban centers of Seattle/Tacoma are within sight of Vashon Island but they may as well be a thousand miles away.

The drive out to our place took us along the coast, up and down rolling hills and through the forest. Our aptly named Forest Cabin is situated at the end of a long gravel driveway. Nestled beneath huge broad leaf maple trees and towering madrones, this was the ideal place for Carol and I to unplug and reconnect with each other. The dappled light that was filtering down through the forest canopy brought to mind a similar location twenty years ago.

We were married in the midst of an enchanting place near our home in Santa Rosa called Griffith Woods. A small creek meanders through this predominantly redwood, oak and madrone woodland, the air is alive with the sounds of mysterious songbirds. On that day when Carol and I promised to love and honor each other for the rest of our lives, the dappled sunlight that played upon everyone and everything is a sight I will always hold dear in my memories of our wedding day. The light at our place here on Vashon and the light at Griffith Woods reach across time to embrace each other.

We unpacked, settled in then set off to explore our surroundings. A clawfoot tub sat just outside our cabin underneath a small cedar tree. It had running hot and cold water and even a showerhead. Strung beneath two massive maple trees were two hammocks. Carol and I would spend much time over the next few days at both of these places. A chicken coop sat on the other side of the hammocks. Several large birds roamed freely about and were the recipients of all our food scraps. A two minute walk from our little haven brought us to a bluff lined with more towering madrones and patches of huge white daisies. We surprised a bald eagle that was perched atop a snag. Dominated by Mount Rainier, the view across Puget Sound from here was breathtaking. It was one of those moments when I was simply speechless, breathing in the beauty and grateful to be alive. Over the course of our three days here we saw porpoises and harbor seals, osprey, Arctic Terns and Great Blue Herons all from our spot on these bluffs. On this first night we watched Rainier slowly be consumed by the alpenglow of sunset, the windows of the houses on the opposite side of the sound burned with the firelight of the setting sun.

There was much to explore on Vashon Island and Carol and I just managed to scratch the surface. One of my favorite things about this trip was our lack of a plan. We knew next to nothing about Vashon so we just let each day unfold on its own. This made for some wonderful discoveries. One day we decided to explore the west side of the island and happened upon Fern Cove. The pullout on the side of the road was wide enough for just a few cars. A short hike through the forest along an enchanting little creek brought us to the cove. It was a minus tide so the vast mudflats were exposed and easy to walk on. We watched an osprey atop a tall cedar tree devour a fish. A Great Blue Heron patrolled the shoreline, its long slender neck periodically shooting out to catch small silver fish in its beak. A pair of belted kingfishers chattered and flew about. Terns and gulls squawked and wheeled overhead. Ravens poked through the mud for clams and other morsels. Osprey were everywhere, their telltale whistles proceeding them. A lone hiker, walking stick in hand, moved slowly across the flats.  

And so it went for three beautiful days-exploring, relaxing, reconnecting. Carol and I couldn’t have picked a better place to celebrate our love and twenty years of marriage. It was hard to leave Vashon. Watching the island recede on the ferry back to the mainland, we vowed to someday return to this very special place. Oh, to answer the question of how I ended up with Carol? I guess you could say that I hit the jackpot!

By Louie Ferrera

This stretch along the Russian River, just over the hill from Riverfront Park, at times seems like a river otter highway. It’s a rare occasion when I don’t see an otter or two while I’m here. When I least expect it there they are, but always  from a distance. My encounter today with otters was definitely out of the ordinary and unlike any that I’d had in the past.

I was relaxing on these flat rocks a few feet from the edge of the river, it was late afternoon. The group of kids who had been making quite a racket downriver from me had just left. Finally it was quiet. Having just returned to my chair from a refreshing swim, I was drying off on the rocks, digging the solitude and watching the green river on its slow slide to the Pacific. My eyes were closed, my body gratefully soaking up the warmth of the sun when I heard a soft snuffling sound similar to that of a pig. I opened my eyes to find four river otters, their furry heads and puppy dog like faces looking directly at me, from the water just off the edge of the rocks not ten feet from where I sat. Their natural curiosity as intelligent animals must have gotten the best of them, they just had to come and see what this naked human was doing in their house. We looked directly at each other for perhaps 10-15 seconds. I was amazed at how human-like their eyes are. As soon as I made a slight movement they dipped below the surface of the river and were gone. The coolest thing about this encounter was that for those brief few seconds the otters and I had a real connection. I can only wonder what they were thinking. A moment later they  reappeared along the opposite bank of the river. I always bring my binoculars when I come here so I was able to watch them for several minutes as they frolicked among the willows and water hyacinth; mom, dad and the kids out for a late afternoon foray. I marvel at the sleekness of their bodies, nature’s perfect design for water travel. I watch them glide effortlessly, disappearing in a flash, only to reappear a moment later further downriver.

Today’s encounter filled me with joy and wonder. I felt blessed to have been chosen by this otter family for an up close and personal visit. This was a magical experience for sure at a place where magic is a regular occurrence.

By Louie Ferrera

My most memorable moments in nature have been those that were the least expected. A case in point was on a secluded beach along the Russian River today.

To get to this secluded spot Carol and I had to hike about 45 minutes from the parking lot at Riverfront Park. It was a Tuesday afternoon so our car was only one of about a dozen. The ability to avoid weekend crowds is a fringe benefit of retirement. Today is warm and sunny and bright blue. We head down a wide trail, sticking to the edges where the sun angles through the redwood forest, providing us with plenty of dappled shade. We walked in silence, the shuffling of our feet through the dust and pebbles the only sound. Bird life abounds along this trail, the distinctive call of the Spotted Towhee was a pleasant accompaniment to our hike. We saw no other people. This trail circles the glittering gem of Lake Benoist, its cobalt blue waters ringed by emerald green water hyacinth. At the far end of the lake is a spur trail which connects to a second trail that eventually leads to our spot along the Russian River. This spur is overgrown with blackberries and it’s easy to miss even if you’ve walked here many times like I had. We gingerly picked our way uphill through blackberries and poison oak to the second trail. After a hundred yards or so we were looking down on a lazy bend in the river; green and languid on its slow slide to the Pacific Ocean 22 miles to the west of us at Jenner. From here the trail enters the dappled cool of a redwood forest. I looked down into a small eddy below our trail and noticed a half dozen torpedo shaped fish pointing motionless upstream. These were some of the largest fish I’d even seen in the river, several of them looked to be at least three feet in length. Our destination was just up ahead. We half slid, half walked down a steep hill using redwood saplings as handholds and made it to a small rocky beach. This spot is hard to find and not widely known. It was ours for the duration of the afternoon.

Tiny bits of fluff and detritus from the surrounding forest was sprinkled atop the river’s surface, otherwise the water was clear as can be, the sandy bottom clearly visible. Closest to the beach, the water was alive with small darting fish, the current barely perceptible.  A slight breeze gave voice to the trees, the air was peppered with the peeps and chips of unseen songbirds, otherwise the quiet was absolute. We settled in, ready to sink into the solitude of this place. Carol and I were hitting the “pause” button, taking a much needed break from the din and insanity that is the world in 2022.

Diving into the cool, emerald waters of the Russian River was a baptism, cleansing for body and soul alike. I sank in up to my neck, positioned myself at eye level with the current and just allowed the river to flow past me. While floating on my back, the view was all blue sky and towering trees. We brought no books or cell phones. Our conversations were minimal which allowed us to have our own private dialogue with the natural beauty surrounding us.

Tiny miracles kept popping up. A raft of twenty nine ( I counted ‘em) mergansers appeared seemingly out of nowhere. These are such stunning looking ducks, their head feathers glowed like copper in the afternoon sun. They were in no hurry as they swam upriver past us. A belted kingfisher announced itself with a distinctive chattering call. We watched it hunt from its perch in a willow tree. The bird and us were both rewarded when one of its dives yielded a tiny, black fish. How cool to witness the predator/prey relationship in real time. An osprey gave itself away with a high pitched “cheep, cheep”. We spied it nestled like an ornament atop a redwood tree just downriver from our beach. We almost always see a river otter or two in the river here. In the back of my mind I was expecting to see one today, which is exactly why I think we didn’t see one. I’ve learned that it’s best to enter nature with an open mind, an open heart and as few expectations as possible. Be open to the magic and just maybe you’ll be there when it occurs. Which brings me to the eagle.

A year or so ago, reports of bald eagle sightings around the lakes at Riverfront Park started coming in. On a couple of occasions, Carol and I were fortunate enough to have seen this majestic bird soaring high above us or sitting atop one of the redwood trees that line the west end of the lake. These were distant views however, brought closer with the help of binoculars. Our encounter today with a bald eagle was a bit more personal.

Having just awoken from naps, we were deep into the Zen like quality of our day when the silence was broken by the rush of wind through wings. Carol and I looked upon at that instant to see a huge bald eagle flying directly above our heads. I had no time to grab my binoculars but didn’t need them. This bird was maybe twenty feet above us. It was so close that I could see its powerful wing muscles pumping and make out details in its feathers. It’s pointed yellow beak, pure white head, yellow eyes and coal black feathers were all in motion. This bird flew with intensity and purpose. In a matter of seconds the enormous power from its nearly three foot wingspan carried it past us, up above the trees and into the forest. This encounter was short, it came and went like a dream. Carol and I were speechless. We sat there and just let the magic of this once in a lifetime encounter wash over us.

Indigenous cultures throughout the world have always believed that encounters with certain animals were a portent of things to come. Whether that was an event to anticipate with joy or dread depended upon the animal and the circumstances of the encounter. Bald eagles are powerful birds. Our experience today was a powerful one for sure, the meaning of which I may never know but that’s ok, I’m content to just let the mystery be.

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.