Category Archives: Treasured Finds

Photographs and Memory

20 Wednesday Jul 2022

Posted by in Art and Artists, Living Our Values, Music and Art, Photography and Memory, Treasured Finds

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For a person with minimal photography skills, I take a lot of pictures. Most will fall into the “so what?” category, filled with poorly framed generic shots of trees, clouds, people, the occasional animal, and shorelines that could be anywhere along the Central Coast of California. They will have little meaning to anyone other than myself. But still I snap away, not for any great artistic reason, nor as gathered testimony to a historical event of a searing moment. I do it to trigger my memory, tomorrow, next year, or whenever. I recently came across a series of pictures I took a few weeks before my wife and I began our transition from east coast to west.

Day Tripping

Over the years, we made day trips up the road to the Kent Falls area, a short drive from home. The Morrison Gallery was a favorite place to spend an hour or two, wandering the spacious, serene, and thoughtful spaces that homed fine art, contemporary painting, and sculpture. On this particular visit The Gallery featured playfully sculptured ravens hanging out on different pieces of discarded items, including old cans. For some reason, these pieces resonated with us. As we moved about the space, other, much larger sculptures, including life-sized pair of mountain lions and, outside in the garden, massive elephants drew us in . Many of the pieces, by artist Peter Woytuk, had been part of an installation around Manhattan.

I snapped away with my trusty cell, not holding out much hope that I would capture anything worthy of wall space in this, or any, art gallery. I remember the day, the feel of the wood floor under my feet, the room’s scent, and the colors and shapes of the art. I can retrace the route around the main hall, the small alcoves and rooms off to the side, and the never-failing streams of natural light shining in service of the artist’s vision. And I remember turning to speak with my wife and stopping, stilled by her beauty, equal to any display. She paid me no mind, her focus instead on the literature accompanying the exhibit.

Art and Craft

As weak as I am with a camera, I am equally good at being captured by the work of three artists who possess the eye, the soul, and the skills that force my heart to open and transport me to a place I may have never been, but through the grace of the artist, can easily imagine. I may not have stood where they stood or followed whatever spiritual beam led them to the perfect picture, but their art moves me personally.

I have sought and received permission to share a few examples of their work, and note the images here belong to them. As with all creatives, what appears in final form begins much differently. Art meets craft, imagination meets technique, and time, time, time is spent making what we get to see. Please enjoy the art, and respect the artists.

Nigel Paul

Nigel Paul represents a natural blend of Art and Craft. Nigel has an impressive history as a concert audio engineer, working with a roster of top-tier progressive rock musicians who compose and perform complex technical pieces, with virtuosos filling each position within the group. The audio engineer’s job is to translate the complexities into a clear output that delivers the breadth and depth of the artist’s composition and performance. Doing it well requires incredible technical skill, next-level focus, and a creative, musical mind that translates it all into the performance the audience hears.  

Nigel’s photography reflects all of those characteristics. The detail he captures in his wildlife pictures is stunning. The feathered breast of the burrowing owl, the life in the eyes of the weasel, the complete intensity in the bobcat’s posture and glare – they are life. Imagine the time and patience it takes to find the spots where these animals live, then the stealth and skill needed to stop, wait, and carefully bring the camera to bear on creatures that are not likely to stand still for too long.

When I look at his collection, currently featured as part of San Luis Obispo County’s Cambria Public Library, I see the beauty and mystery of life in this part of California. His backgrounds and colors are reflective of the environment. I can smell the sage, hear the rustle of the dried grass, and in the distance, the faint roll of waves rushing around the shore.

In addition to his wildlife photos, Nigel is passionate about classic and unusual automobiles, as seen in the picture below. Please visit Nigel Paul Photography and enjoy his galleries.

Click the images below for a larger view. Images ©Nigel Paul

Debbie Gracy

When I need a New England fix, I look to Debbie Gracy’s photographs to fill my heart with beautiful, classic, and unique images. From her home base in Hollis, New Hampshire, Debbie sets out across the northeast’s back roads and byways, capturing uniquely American landscapes that bring me back home.

I have been blessed to know Debbie and her amazing family for twenty years and have been an eager observer of her development as an artist. I proudly feature four of her pieces in my home, including a pair of winter scenes, heavy wooden gates half buried in snow, either opened or closed. They are the first images I see as I enter the front door. Down a short flight of stairs hang two more of her photographs; happy sunflowers against a brilliant blue sky.

Through her images, I feel the chill of Autumn and the scents of Spring. The grass, the trees, and the vast skies look, feel and smell completely different from California. Debbie seems to stand a step or two aside, giving her work a barely-noticeable offset perspective. Her work radiates wonder, happiness, curiosity, and always beauty. Which also describes Debbie’s artistic soul.

Treat yourself to the vast landscape of Debbie’s photographs at the  Debbie Gracy Collection

Click Images below for a larger view ©Debbie Gracy

Maureen Calderwood Wiltsee

I have known Maureen since I was zero. My sister has a passion for photography, building a cache of images that feature brilliant seascapes and coastal hideaways from her beloved vacation retreat on Cape Cod. I love the way she captures the light that blankets the scenes below. Always a line of color and a sense of connection to the sea.

Maureen has been a fixture among the community of photographers and visual artists that live in the Northern New Jersey/New York corridor, displaying and winning awards for her striking images. Every year, brothers and sisters would drive to a small New Jersey town to see her work standing tall amidst an impressive gallery of visual artists.

“The Peacock” featured below hangs in my home, cased in a classic white frame that keeps the focus on the subject. It causes people to stop and wonder at the depth and detail captured by the lens, an extension of the eye and artist heart of the photographer.

Click images below for a larger view. ©Maureen Calderwood Wiltsee

The Peacock

Thank you to Nigel, Debbie, and Maureen for allowing me to feature your beautiful pictures. And thanks to all the others who capture moments and memories, whether by luck, determination, or good fortune. The world is a beautiful place indeed.

A Father, A Son, and a Record Review

04 Monday Apr 2022

Posted by in Home, Living Our Values, music, Social Responsibility, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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I write about music a lot and often look at it through the lens of how it impacts me emotionally. So, I will write about the album “Currents” through the same lens. It will be interesting to see where this exercise takes me. It may be a jumble of parents, friends, musicians, creative souls, and flawed humans. I guess we will see.

 My son John is a musician, a songwriter, and a rock and roll poet-philosopher.

He is part troublemaker, part peacemaker. He is a bundle of love, hope, despair, optimism, and pragmatic fatalism, at times impossible and always completely loved. The perfect combination to make a great rock and roll record, which, in my opinion, he has done with his band Original Son.

The album “Currents” shows Original Son’s roots in punk and builds out from there. In my mind, the band and the record are just good old-fashioned kickass rock and roll with a heart and a conscience.

The ten songs are full of emotion, from deep anger to natural optimism. Rhythmic shifts and musical intensity slam against subversively upbeat choruses, creating a fast-moving thrill ride. The connectivity between music, lyrics, and performance has the flow of good storytelling. The arrangements drop surprising little hooks, with background vocals, percussion, snatches of piano, and some tasty Hammond organ adding to the sonic picture. Producer Tim Hutton keeps it all flowing, never stealing focus from the guitar-bass-drums vibe that is the core of Original Son.

Johnny Calderwood – Guitars, Vocals, Songwriter
Justin Chester – Bass, Vocals
Jeff Robinson – Drums

The musicians – singer/guitarist Johnny Calderwood, bassist Justin Chester, and drummer Jeff Robinson, sound like a band– an honest compliment to them. Each player has a knack for dropping lines and phrases that make me go, “Woah, I didn’t see that coming, or just DAMN!!!” Younger, hipper reviewers have compared their playing to more contemporary musicians. I hear flashes of the players I have listened to over the years. In Justin, I hear John Entwistle as much as modern players like Flea and Mike Dirnt. Drummer Robinson reminds me of Mighty Max Weinberg, not so much in tone but in intense, rock-solid time and taste. (I asked John, “how hard does he hit?” to which he replied, “As hard as he needs to.” A compliment I know musicians who play in bands will understand and appreciate.)

 As a guitarist, Johnny is an intense, dynamic rhythm player with a thick tone that fills out the mid-range with solid time and controlled aggression that lays down a bed for his crazy-good vocals. His solos, mostly short and to the point, dispense with gimmicks and make statements appropriate to the song. He shows a surprising range of stylistic influences, and nods to everyone from Mike Ness to Neil Young. I’ve had a love-hate relationship with his lead tones, but I have realized over time that his sound is his sound. His note choices and poignant phrasing in his short solo during “The Avenues” stopped me cold and had me hitting rewind. Moments may go unnoticed during casual listening, but these little glimpses beneath the bold and brash add dimension to my understanding of the artists.

The opening track, “Castles,” made me sit up and think, what do we have here? A dark, almost menacing eighth-note bassline joins with gritty power chords dragging a tail of feedback and crashing cymbals. A forceful voice asks, “Is this is the end/ Are we running out/of solid ground/did you learn to shout?” And then – BAM!!! Full-on punk-flavored power trio rock spitting social commentary on our fractured and divisive society and the actors who orchestrate the hate. “We’re all locked out /of the rooms of the castles/ of your masters. / In a world /built on deception/ you did not question/you are the weapon.” The song moves through a few subtle yet distinct styles, at one point causing me to flash to Deep Purple’s “Highway Star.”

Then comes “Parasite,” the first single released from the album. Brighter, bouncier, a bit cleaner sounding, giving the impression that it was a happy piece. Until I read the lyrics. This song’s moral and political core targets those who choose to attack rather than build. “You got your merry men/they keep their torches raised/so we can identify them/ You are a parasite/an American Parasite.”

“Well’s Run Dry” beats me up with the fury of the lyric, the ragged emotion of hurt, and the undeniable glimpse of acceptance and guarded reconciliation in the chorus, “we don’t want to talk about it.”. And then comes the breakdown courtesy of a volcanic performance by hardcore legend Lou Koller of Sick of It All. “You cannot fake this/you cannot break this/we turned our rage to hope and changed the whole perspective.” Then comes the heys and reminder that “we don’t want to talk about it.” “We” may not want to, but there it is.

Aha – “Currents.” A minute-long respite to collect myself. Guitar and vocal. Snatches of piano, a bit of keyboard, and one minute of philosophy-driven questions and observations about the world we find ourselves grinding through. The vocal is outstanding, almost beautiful—a strange word to use, given the delivery’s ragged edges and gritted teeth. There is courage in letting the lyric and vocal stand in the clear. And then it is over. I need to rethink the use of the word respite.

My absolute favorite in this collection of favorites is “The Avenues.” The song is a big basket of little hooks and moves like a ride on a gently rolling road of lyrics and melody. It is part rage, part despair, and part guilt. The story is inspired by what he sees in his adopted city of Los Angeles; the homeless, the underserved, the everyman and woman being driven farther and farther into hopeless situations while the ones with the means remake the city into walls of privilege. Johnny reflects on his journey in parallel to the changing communities he knew and shared. “We all found shelter here/and then it disappeared/between the lights and the glamour we made our way and survived. /Did we lose ourselves/in those dim-lit rooms/did the city slip away while we broke all the rules?” Then the relentlessly melodic chorus of “We’re just waiting for the fallout, baby. We’re just waiting for the walls to come tumbling down. Did they build it up/just to push us out? Recycle everything and turn this town upside down….” The band marches resolutely through the deceptively simple, repetitive chord progressions, allowing the lyrics to tell the story. A signature guitar phrase runs through the song, including the beginning of the solo, which adds a short eight bars of melody that breaks my heart every time I hear it. The final chant at the end says it all – “They’re gonna fuck it up. They’re gonna fuck it up” over a swirl of layered vocals repeating “down, down.”

“The Turnaround” is a reimagined take on an earlier recording, moving away from the more pop sound of the original into a gritty, almost punk-funk reading. Like “Currents,” the intro is low-key and a bit tense, then the band tears into an aggressive rock-funk slam that is invigorating and soulfully nasty. Power move here.

“Fire Away” is a therapy session in two and a half minutes. “I might be broken beyond repair ’cause the pieces are too jagged to fix.” The background vocals on the ending are almost dirge-like ooh – oohs. The message is mixed, but the almost rockabilly feel shakes things all around, so the listener has the urge to sway and shout FIRE AWAY!

“Flesh and Bone” and “Shelter” are raw and rollicking. On these tracks, the rhythm section rules. Drummer Robinson kicks off Flesh and Bone with a Mick Fleetwood-like drum intro, switches to a pounding, unclenched hi-hat, then hits the gas with a punishing beat that calls the rest of the players to the table. Bassist Chester lets loose with some dynamic solo lines that make this old bass player grin like a schoolboy. He also pops out in Shelter, shoving every inch of air out of the low end and into the atmosphere. Another tear of minor-ish guitar runs crashes into a pounded piano, ending in a glorious wash of tones, tunes, and atmosphere. I hear things in my headphones that I’m not sure are there – yes, it is that ear-opener.

The last song, “Hymn For The Underground,” is a punk-rock pep talk for everyman, capturing the essence of accountability and self-destiny. “You’re not replaceable/ they can’t walk on water/we are the ones who make the gears turn…you are glorious.” Be good to yourself, find and celebrate your value, and “stand up for what you love.”

To my ear, The Turnaround,  Avenues, and Hymn For The Underground call out for social awareness and activism from the masses.

Well’s Run Dry, Flesh and Bone, and Shelter share the more intimate and painful truths of trying to find some peace in a life filled with great highs and lows. Alienation and anger singe the edges, but a bit of jaded optimism is threaded throughout the pain. The one word that comes to mind is “accountability.”

I love this record for a whole lot of reasons. One of the best ones? It makes me want to sing, dance, pound the table and yell words not suited to a man of my age. And I will, and you just might too.

Album Credits

Words and Music by John Calderwood Arrangements by Original Son

Guitar & Vocals – Johnny Calderwood

Bass & Vocals – Justin Chester

Drums – Jeff Robinson

Additional Vocals on Well’s Run Dry – Lou Koller

B3 Hammond – Howard Laravae Piano – Tim Hutton Percussion – Chris Reynolds

Recorded at Canyon Hut Studios

Produced by Tim Hutton Engineered and Mixed by Chris Reynolds Mastered by Hans DeKline

Available on Sell The Heart Records

https://selltheheartrecords.bandcamp.com/album/currents

And on all the Streaming Services

The Bass

24 Thursday Feb 2022

Posted by in music, Music and Art, Perserverence, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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An ad from a well-known music shop in New York popped onto my Facebook feed, and the image of a Fender Precision bass from the 1970s stopped my heart for a beat. Certainly not one of the highly desirable “vintage” basses for sure, but an excellent instrument.

I read the product description and felt my pulse quicken with each line.

“Here’s a really nice Fender P-Bass from 1974 in a natural finish. It has had a refret with new electronics, including a replaced DiMarzio pickup. The pickguard, bridge are replaced. Comes with a nice non-original case. A great price for any player looking for a nice vintage P-Bass with a nice neck and feel!”

So why the heart attack?

I had a 1970s P bass, just like this one. I installed a DiMarzio pickup and replaced the original bridge with a brass Badass. The original pickguard was white, and the replacement one, as noted in the description, is black. The kicker, though, was the featured picture and the description of the neck. I stared at the picture and dug out a photo of me with my P bass. 

I know, just like I know my children, my family, my now aged face. Guitar players know. Violinists know. We know our special instruments as well as we know our art.

Accidental Treasure 

In the late 1970s I had a gig in Jupiter, Florida, home to the legendary Burt Reynolds Dinner Theater. I carelessly leaned my a beautiful cherry Gibson EB-3 against my amp and gasped in disbelief as it fell over, hit the hard tile floor, and split the headstock and part of the neck—a disaster for a musician who was dependent on his instrument for his living.

That Gibson had played a whole lot of sets in a whole lot of places, including a USO tour of Germany, Greece, and Turkey. And then it was gone. 

I found a music store down the road in Stuart. I was hoping to find another EB-3 but instead landed a beautiful Fender Precision. Gibsons and Fenders are different beasts, with distinctly different sounds and feel. This Fender, though, had something special.

It had a beautifully figured natural finish body, a maple fretboard, and a tapered neck profile more like a Jazz bass than a Precision. It fit my hands like it was custom carved. It toured the country, took a horrific trip to Greenland, and later served me well when I returned to New York for the next chapter of my musical career.

A boy and his Gibson
A boy and his Fender

Loss

A few years passed. After a long day of rehearsal and recording, I parked on 56th street near 5th Avenue for a few minutes while I ran into a local club that hosted songwriters’ workshops. When I came out, I immediately saw the smashed window. I knew my bass was gone.

It began to rain. It rained all the way home, the long drive up the Taconic Parkway made more brutal by the wind-driven water stinging my face with each gust, the plastic garbage bag taped to the broken window rendered ineffective as it tore and flapped. The loss of my instrument, made worse by the mocking weather.

Over the following days, I visited the music stores and pawn shops around midtown Manhattan, particularly the legendary strip on West 48th street. I hoped that the thief would try to sell the bass to one of these shops, and I would recover my instrument. No luck.

Moving On

Life went on. I got a new bass, a beauty, from Leo Fender’s new company, G&L. I still have that instrument. It is worn, beaten up, poorly refinished, and mostly unplayed now. It is a worthy axe, but my aging hands struggle with the wider neck, and my old body struggles under its heft. I have tried to find a bass with the same magic neck of the purloined Precision over the years, with no luck. Every state and country I have been lucky enough to visit has included a stop at the local music shop: part white whale hunt, part habit.

Coda

As I sort through the impact of this sudden appearance, I realize that it is not just about the bass; it is all the memories that surround it. A bandmate who went with me to the music store became my true and forever soulmate. That story has its share of love and loss and so much music. More than any bass could produce. 

I could repurchase the bass, but that seems somehow wrong. It would perhaps have me playing again, but more likely, it would have me remembering things better left behind.

My only real wish is that wherever it goes next, it will pull some joy from the hands and heart of the person playing that oh-so-perfect neck.

Shaken and Stirred

12 Saturday Dec 2020

Posted by in Home, music, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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Oh, Danny Boy

As a young child, upon hearing the song “Danny Boy” I would almost immediately devolve into a sobbing, tearful, emotional mess. Perhaps it was the way it was sung, often by my mother and a host of Irish relatives, some immigrant, some first generation. I hadn’t been alive long enough to understand the connection between music, lyric, and story. I just felt the melancholy, hope, and fatalism of the song. I was an old soul in a young body.

A lot has changed in the sixty or so years since my small boy heart cracked and shook to that particular song, but the visceral response to a powerful lyric still stops me in the same way.

Sunday Playlist

On a recent Sunday morning, I was in the kitchen going through my customary breakfast-making, waiting for Jan to return from her socially distanced church service. I was in a reflective mood, asking Alexa to play a series of songs that popped into my head, and as often happens, one led to another. I noticed my playlist featured three songs that, in some way, brought me back to Danny Boy boulevard.

Each song spoke in an intimate, conversational style, artfully using short, powerful lines that put the listener in the same place as the writer.

Within each of these stories live short verses that are stunning in their simplicity and emotional depth.

Warren Zevon

“Keep Me In Your Heart For A While” is the last song on Warren Zevon’s final album “The Wind,” written and recorded as he was losing his battle with cancer. It is a gentle call for remembrance, and a bit of a promise that his spirit will remain part of the woman he loved. These lines get me every time.

Sometimes when you’re doing simple things around the house

Maybe you’ll think of me and smile

You know I’m tied to you like the buttons on your blouse

Keep me in your heart for a while

Warren Zevon and friends perform Keep Me In Your Heart For A While

Emmylou Harris

“Red Dirt Girl” is a heartbreaking story wrapped in a gorgeous sonic bed of guitars, bass, percussion, and atmospheric production, channeled through Emmylou’s otherworldly voice. It tells the story of a girl named Lillian, delivered by her best friend. Lillian’s life was not easy or joyful, and the tragedy of it all was not her death, but the life she endured. The short bridge contains Lillian’s truth.

One thing they don’t tell you about the blues

When you got ’em

You keep on fallin’ ’cause there ain’t no bottom

There ain’t no end at least not for Lillian

Emmylou Harris performs Red Dirt Girl

Bruce Springsteen

“Moonlight Motel” from Bruce Springsteen’s Western Stars album, gives me Danny Boy level shivers. It is a complex emotional recipe of loss, remembrance, wistfulness, and acceptance. His description of the fading motel drew such a vivid picture that I was right there, standing next to the storyteller, seeing what time and life had done to a cherished and sacred place.

Now the pool’s filled with empty, eight-foot deep

Got dandelions growin’ up through the cracks in the concrete

Chain-link fence half-rusted away

Got a sign says “Children be careful how you play”

Bruce Springsteen performs Moonlight Motel

Bonus Cut – Puccini

It is opera. It is in Italian. I don’t speak Italian. It doesn’t matter. The passion, the lush orchestrations. The angst of Tosca channeled by the great Angela Gheorghiu. This one endures.

In the hour of pain,
Nell’ora del dolore,

Why, why, Lord,
Perché, perché, Signore,

Ah, why do you pay me so?
Ah, perché me ne rimuneri così?

Angela Gheorghiu as Tosca sings Vissi d’arte

And One For The Road

I am eagerly awaiting the release of “Hymn For The Underground” from my son John’s band Original Son. He continues to amaze me with his insightful, defiant, and powerful lyrics. I call this one a Punk Rock Pep Talk that acknowledges and encourages the everyday people who “make the gears turn.” It is glorious!

You’re not replaceable

And they can’t walk on water

We are the ones who make the gears turn…

You are glorious.

Hymm For The Underground – Original Son

Queen of Cards

28 Wednesday Oct 2020

Posted by in Home, Living Our Values, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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The FaceTime alert on the iPad started jingling around noontime. That usually means the grandkids are calling.
Knowing how low their tolerance for delay can be, I quickly tapped the display to accept the call. Sure enough, three chattering children filled the screen, each waving a colorful Halloween greeting card that they had just collected from the mailbox.
After a short chat – well, maybe more of a whirlwind of questions and an attempt to give each of the children equal time and attention, Chloe’s voice cut through with a request for an explanation of her card, which featured a witch trying to decide on a broom for the day. “What does “accessory” mean?” she asked, staring into the camera while I fumbled for an answer.
“Uh, well, um, I guess…”
I was saved from further flummoxing by the arrival of the keeper of all things card-related, the tracker of tidings, the manager of messaging, the Queen of Cards, Nana Jan. She quickly and authoritatively answered Chloe’s question, using an example of a purse that goes with an outfit. Chloe got it right away, responding with a crisp set of accessories based on Jan’s definition. “Oh, I get it. Like a bracelet. Or a necklace.”
“Exactly!” Jan answered. She then went down the line, speaking to each kid in a way that was very specific to how they communicate. River studied her card, reading the text and describing the pictures. Ben happily waved his card at the camera, spilling words and word-like sounds that joyfully conveyed his interpretation of what his card contained.
Jan has always been a card-sender. Birthdays, graduations, anniversaries, births, and deaths require a card that captures the right sentiment, with the right words or a meaningful image. I can’t count the number of times she will say, “I need to pick up a card for…” She finds them in the local places, like Among Friends. She’ll somehow extract the perfect greeting from the rack at the Cookie Crock, or get lucky and discover something funny or poignant at the Post Office. Sometimes she adds a short note, other times just a “Love, Jan.”
But these kids, they get Super Nana. Cards are just a small part of how she lets them know she is always thinking about them. Surprise gifts will appear in their mailbox. Twirling ribbons for the girls. A collection of Matchbox cars for Ben. Magazine subscriptions from Highlights and National Geographic Kids land in rotation. Zoo memberships so they have a place to visit where they can run, laugh, and learn about the magnificent animals that share our planet. Books are chosen and sent, to be read together when the time comes to sit side by side once again and explore the stories revealed through paper and ink.
I know, no matter how many birthdays or anniversaries we have left together, there will be a card sitting on the table when I wake up. And I know that every son, daughter-in-law, sister, niece or nephew, and dear friend stand a good chance of seeing that familiar, bold hand-written envelope appear on a special day.
Queen of Cards? More like the Queen of Hearts.

3252

The Owl

23 Sunday Aug 2020

Posted by in Communicating, Home, Living Our Values, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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We adapt because we must. The unbelievable darkness brought by a raging pandemic has changed the way we live and work within our home. Artificial intimacies keep us connected to the rest of our world. Outside, communities also adjusted, some with grace and acceptance, others with fear and anger. It had become a familiar and  numbing routine.

Then the owl appeared.

We have spent the past few months engaging with the world through the looking glass of laptops, cellphones, and tablets. In the forty years we have been together, this is the longest time where it has been just us: no kids, no shows, no bands. No career grind, no months away from home, no fifteen hundred-mile separations. Just us, finding our spaces together.

Jan was at her piano, working through a complex arrangement of “Somewhere Over The Rainbow,” a classic song that features the wistful lyric “Where happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow…”

A riot of screaming scrub jays interrupted the music. These little bluebirds were not the happy variety. They bounded from branch to branch, aggressively vocalized their objection to an outsider visiting their neighborhood. An equally persistent group of smaller birds sang backup, fueling a constant screed. Their message was angry, unrelenting, and unmistakable. You are not welcome here.

Jan spotted the owl perched atop a rain gutter that runs down along timg_0935.jpghe outer chimney wall. The chosen spot sits under an eave, about three feet to the right of the dining room window. To see him, you need to tilt your head slightly to the left.

The visitor closed his eyes for minutes at a time, while the jays railed and the humans angled cellphones to capture a perfect picture of the unusual guest.

The owl opened his yellow eyes wide, turned towards us, and slowly blinked. “Hello,” we said, fully expecting that he would understand us and feel comfortable staying for a while.

The jays continued their assault but to no real effect. The owl – I suspect he is a bit of a badass – just looked calmly at them and, in a splendid display of serene composure, began blinking in time to the blue jay’s cries. 

This unexpected visitor energized us. Jan grabbed her bird book – one of the very few thoughtful, unexpected gifts I had given her over the years. She thumbed through the pages, some of which have broken free from the binding, and found the owl section. We deduced it was a young Western Screech Owl.

The owl left for the evening, undoubtedly looking for a meal from the bounty all around us. We kept checking, wondering if he took off for good.

Ben and River

Wanting to share this close encounter, we tried unsuccessfully to connect with our grandchildren. We did the next best thing and sent them pictures and videos.

Two-year-old Ben is the youngest of our three grandkids. On the last, pre-pandemic visit, we spent a bit of time with a book that featured pictures of various animals. Ben would point at an illustration and make the sound the animal makes. Cows, ducks, horses were all covered. Then came the owl. Ben quickly began hooting softly, as expected. I decided to see if he could say the word “owl.” After a few tries, he did get it out. Owww- lll. Oww-ll. Ow—l. We were so excited by his accomplishment that the family spent the rest of the visit saying, “Ben, say owl!!!” And he did, every time. Two syllables, but still, the word is now in his forever vocabulary. He immediately knew what the pictures revealed.

 River, the four-year-old philosopher, said, “There’s an owl at Nana’s house? She should keep it, but not in a cage. Birds should be free.” River can confound, confuse, and converse at a level way beyond her four short years. She is a bulldog when she wants to know something, and doesn’t settle for glib answers. You need to be nimble when you engage with her.

Hello Again

The owl returned the next day to the excited jibber-jabber of the neurotic jays. Jan was thrilled and immediately started talking and waving to him through the closed window. When the owl rotated its head, Jan did the same. When it preened, she preened. When it twisted about, in the way owls do, she followed along. It was funny, sweet, and a bit weird.

Jan suddenly left the room, returning a few minutes later with a gift for our visitor. This small, lovely object is a beautifully smooth stone, hand-painted with an exact representation of the owl perched on the other side of the glass. The totem had appeared a few weeks earlier, fallen out of a box during a friend’s move. It was safely sheltered in Jan’s creative space, ready to be returned after the dismal time of distancing and separation ended. 

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Jan carefully set the stone on the window frame, balanced between the upper and lower panes, a perfect line between woman, stone, and owl. She spoke conversationally, introducing the idol to the subject. Later, she retrieved Windex, paper towels, and a squeegee, cleaning the windows so everyone could see clearly.

These efforts made her very happy. I have a million thoughts as to why; some of them might be correct.

Chloe

We picked up the iPad and succeeded in connecting with our oldest granddaughter, Chloe. After a few short moments, the picture came into focus, and Chloe saw the beautiful bird, blinking back at her. We watched her watching the owl.

 In that distant moment, I saw all of her lifetimes at once. An infant’s innocence, a toddler’s curiosity, an adolescent’s puzzlement, and an awareness and intelligence that hints what is still to come. It shook me, I admit, and made me realize how much of her life- all their lives – we are missing as we wait out this plague.

Until Next Time

The owl left us again for what we believe to be the last time. The painted one still sits on the windowsill, ready to restart the discussion should the living one decide to come back for a visit. Jan and I both look out the window towards the perch several times a day, hoping for another blessing. The jays come by every few hours, posturing like treetop bullies, spitting their dire warnings should anyone dare encroach on their turf. So far, the only interlopers are the squirrels that had been making a mess of the plants on the back deck, before the owl showed up. Somehow, the rock-faced replica does not seem to intimidate them as much as the living predator.  

We know that this painful time of separation will end. We will hold our children and their children again. The painted owl will find its way back to the rightful owner, and we two will be stronger friends and partners for having survived this time together.

A Last Long Look

We were gifted one last surprise, wrapped in a spectacular rainbow of a fiery summer sunset. We watched from the front deck as the sky turned in the evening hour. As the sun slid down into the ocean, a magnificent bird glided gracefully above the tree line. We followed its flight path, thinking it was a hawk. It landed atop a Monterrey pine a distance away. It sat tall and still, then slowly rotated its head, coming into focus through the binoculars we keep next to the french doors.

The big, majestic owl looked at us for a short while, and then, he too was gone.owlintree

 

 

 

Cow Boy

01 Wednesday Jul 2020

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Communicating, Educating a Community, Home, Humor, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds

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A few ‘Stay at Home Sundays” back, Jan and I headed out to enjoy a beautiful, socially responsible afternoon. Our plan, we agreed, would be a visit to the Elephant Seal rookery. 

We headed out and immediately noticed the heavy traffic flowing in both directions. Moonstone Beach Drive was packed with cars, vans, campers, and bodies. We continued up the road to San Simeon, where the narrow road leading to the pier sat clotted with vehicles parked on every inch of the roadside. 

Okay, new plan. We turned around and headed back towards town, deciding to mosey up Santa Rosa Creek Road.

To those readers not familiar with beautiful Cambria, Santa Rosa Creek Road is about nine hundred and seventy-two miles long, goes pretty much straight up, and at its widest is maybe thirty-seven inches. Cars pass so tightly that they are required to wear masks. My math might be a bit off; perhaps Mike Broadhurst can sharpen up the numbers for me.

The road takes you past Coast Union High School – go Broncos! – and ascends past farms, ranches, vineyards, and homesteads. Farm machinery and farm animals share the soundscape with the call of birds, the rustle of swaying trees, and the gurgle of water from the namesake Santa Rosa Creek that winds alongside the roadway, feeding the farms and fields and nourishing the wildlife as it makes its way to the ocean. It is stunning, beautiful, and for those of us who seldom make the drive, it can be white-knuckle inducing. (Full disclosure – I am a terrible driver, even under the best of conditions. I am the chagrined recipient of numerous “STOP TALKING AND FOCUS ON THE ROAD” awards.)

As we motored along, we encountered a few cars, a motorcycle or two, and several bicyclists laboring up and gliding down the road. I maintained a forward speed of at least thirteen miles per hour as a courtesy to those who had the misfortune of following behind. I assume the confident and occasionally impatient drivers were residents who know every twist, bump, and divot along the route.

The sound of a vocalizing cow cut through the air. As a city boy, this sound was not something I’d often heard in person. Rather than the gentle mooing of a TV cow, or the more enthusiastic proclamations from the animatronic cow at Stew Leonard’s, this sound had both a volume and sharpness that got my attention. The surrounding rocks, trees, and hills amplified the tone as it bounced around, making it hard to locate where it originated. A nearby herd soon joined in, creating a bovine dialog that filled the early summer air.

As we reached the upper section of the road, a beautiful scene unfolded in front of us. Headed downhill came three massive black cows being gently managed by a young man of perhaps thirty, who guided the herd with a quiet voice and a small stick. The trio headed toward a pasture where a cluster of fellow cud chewers grazed, lolled, and lowed. And that is the extent of my cow terminology. Standing beside the open gate that led to the pasture was a young boy of about six or seven. His job, which he was taking very seriously, was to control traffic, and then steer the cattle through the open gate. He waved us to a stop, then turned to his next task.

Now, this may seem like a “so what?” moment to those familiar with cows and such. For me, it was inspiring. 

Here is this young boy, facing several thousand pounds of animals headed right towards him. He didn’t even have a stick! Yet he stood his post, ready to turn the herd when they reached him. He held a little too close to the gate, so the man (his father? his brother?) quietly directed him to take a few steps back to give the cows all the room they required. The boy never took his eyes off the animals as he repositioned himself. The cows made the turn through the open gate and into the pasture. Their arrival set off another round of mooing, like a bovine version of Norm entering Cheers. The boy closed the gate and received a measured “good job” from his mentor.

So, a young boy facing and controlling three beasts hundreds of sizes bigger than him. A calm, focused adult giving quiet, confident directions to both the animals and the youngster waiting for the hand-off. No fear, no yelling, no big deal. Just two generations who were working together to accomplish what looked to be an intimidating and challenging task to the uneducated. As we resumed our drive, we offered our own “good job” to the two cowboys, who nodded their acceptance and went on with their work.

For those of us struggling through these unsettling times, perhaps there is a lesson to be found up on Santa Rosa Creek Road.

Lunchtime

07 Friday Feb 2020

Posted by in Home, Humor, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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Bring the Trader Joe’s bags, we’re going to Albertson’s!

Thursdays with Morro Bay

My well-organized wife is the Keeper Of The Grocery Lists – actually, a half-folded sheet of paper filled on one side with previous writings or misprinted sheet music. The clean side keeps track of wants and needs. There are three headings – Costco, Albertson’s, and TJ’s. Sometimes an item will migrate from one column to another, or get crossed out and replaced with something else.

Non-grocery tasks are tracked on index cards. It’s a process.

Basics

The weekly trip to Albertson’s is never dull. For a guy with a minimal range of lunch likeables, this has not been a good couple of weeks. I’m a three-item menu man. A simple tuna sandwich on a whole wheat pita will appear twice a week. On Albertson’s day, a basic American cheese on a plain bagel will land on the fiestaware. A beautiful bowl of hot chicken noodle soup, courtesy of Lipton, will round out the lunch week. Of course, no soup is complete without a short sleeve of Premium Saltines, half in the bowl, 45% as stand-alone crackers, and the rest, crumbs that bounce off the table and land under the chairs. It’s a process.

Groans Ahead

Just a simple man with a simple soup and sandwich lifestyle, living the dream until an item in one of the inescapable news feeds caught my eye. An iconic brand was ensnared in a scandal that cut to the core — actually, the albacore. Bumble Bee, busted. This one stung.

It turns out my long-held wariness of that Charlie Tuna character was well-founded. According to the news report, Mr. Tuna and his henchmen conspired with that little mermaid from Chicken of The Sea and the Bumbling Bee to market canned tuna with all the price fixin’s.

“The troubled brand was embroiled in a price-fixing scheme that drained its resources. Major grocery chains, including Walmart, Kroger, and Albertsons, sued Bumble Bee, Starkist, and the maker of Chicken-of-the-Sea in 2016 for fixing prices. In 2017, Bumble Bee agreed to plead guilty for its role in the conspiracy and to pay a $25 million criminal fine.”

$25 million – that’s a lot of clams! The weight of the penalty has proven to be too much, causing the bumble to tumble into bankruptcy. Thankfully, there were still plenty of cans on the shelves, flashy gold-colored tins promising a premium experience. “Hah!” I thought, “More marketing gimmickry designed to entice the unwary.”

I picked up three cans.

Moving On

A few yards down the aisle, an open space appeared where my preferred brand of soup mix usually stood. I wasn’t too worried since the popular classic often stood stacked in rows that extended several boxes deep. Worst case, I’d have to grab a few of the “with real chicken” varieties and wait for a restock. However, that was not going to be an option. Hanging off the lip of the shelf was a printed piece of HELL NO!!!! I silently screamed as the words “recall” and “listeria” leaped off the page. “This simply can’t bee,” I thought, mixing my metaphors as I struggled for some sense of normalcy. All manner of craziness ran through my mind. “These are not my reading glasses,” I thought. “I must be misreading the words.”

I whipped my head around, looking for my wife. She wears progressive lenses; she will know what this all means. Unfortunately, she was still two aisles over, weighing the differences between generic and name – brand crushed tomatoes. I frantically spun around, looking for Angela, or Kyle, or Brenda. But no, Angela had moved over to produce, Kyle was ringing away on register 4, and Brenda was now working for the bank – so close yet so far!!!

Keep Moving

Panic was setting in, or maybe it was hunger. It was time to move on. I closed my eyes and silently recited my go-to mantra; “what would Shirley do?” The answer came to me in a flash. I wheeled my cart around and headed to where I knew I would be safe. The frozen food aisle. Thanks, Shirley!

Wait – what the frosted hell is this??? Another sign, blurry through the refrigerator glass. I slowed my roll – actually, a misbehaving front wheel had already done that for me – and wobbled up to a familiar section only to find yet another nightmare. It seems listeria was not satisfied with just taking out the soup. No, those mischievous microbes set out to take down the king. Yes, that little bio-bastard went straight to the top, laying siege to the freezer aisle. White Castle has fallen.

Oh, those many Bronx nights, weaving down Fordham Road in Pete’s Firebird or Tommy’s father’s station wagon, towards the bright beacon of regrettable choices and reckless consumption. No matter how many quarts of beer sloshed around in our bellies, no matter how many Sambuca shots left lips licorice-y, there was always room for one or twelve murder burgers. There was no listeria hysteria then, no microbe that could stop us. Germs were expelled in a stream of “all the above.” It was a process.

Nothing Stays The Same

Those days are long past. I’ve come to an uneasy truce with alcohol and all that followed. Pete has gone on to whatever existence comes next. Tommy, too, along with a few others that took that late-night slalom down the broad street that both connected and divided neighborhoods, cultures, and realities. But many of us are still here, carrying the scars and badges of the histories we have written for ourselves.

It is nearly impossible to find a real live White Castle anymore. Pretty much all that is left are the frozen replicas that take well to the microwave, but fail to recreate the full foolish experience of over-consuming things that are bad and potentially fatal. I guess it’s good that they are not as great as I remember — less chance for reigniting old bad habits.

Receipts

I walk past the wine, beer and whiskey with no hesitation, thanks to thirty years of practice. The thousands of cigarettes I smoked could likely stack as high as a detached garage, but that number was frozen a quarter-century ago. But White Castle, Bumble Bee, dehydrated pre-packaged soup? Yellow American – the lowliest and most misunderstood of all cheeses? They still find a place in the shopping cart, surrounded by yogurt, fruit, and (I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly) vegetables. The beer is alcohol-free, the wine is not mine. But these things that have shaped me, both literally and metaphorically, hang on for dear life.

I’m okay with that.

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Tales From The Bluff

27 Wednesday Nov 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Home, Humor, Satire, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds

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A Man and His Dog

Ted was worried.

It was the second time in a week where the solitary woman appeared in the jcvisorgrdistance, striding aggressively along the scenic ocean bluff. It was odd, he thought; where’s the lumbering man in the off-white windbreaker and faded cap?
But this day was different. The woman walked alone, singing softly into the ocean air.

At one end of the leash, Chloe strained ahead, looking impatiently back as Ted’s long strides shortened and stuttered. A quick look towards the oncoming figure explained it all. “She is alone,” thought the gracefully graying beasts. “Again. Why? Where is the other of the pair? And why this week, this day?” The thoughts quickly left the canine’s brain, swooshed away by the appearance of one of the 63,245 squirrels that call the trail side fields and hillocks home.

At the other end of the leash, Ted had similar thoughts. As a careful and precise man, Ted did not easily trust that there were 63,245 squirrels. As a practical and pragmatic man, he realized the folly of counting them all. Chloe, he decided, could have this point. He let slack into the lead, silently transmitting his concession through the woven strap that kept the two connected.

“Maybe he broke free of his leash,” they both thought.” No,” they quickly realized, there had been no signs of a harness, or collar, or any such restraint. The man was often slightly behind, appearing to struggle with the pace set by the alpha. He likely had not the strength nor the stealth to escape.

Chloe grew more worried. Her angular face turned instinctively towards the ocean, taking in the crags that lined the bluff trail, angling down in places, while a few yards away dropping acutely onto the rocks below. “It would have been quick,” Chloe thought. A hip check would have upset his balance just enough to send him skittering towards the edge. He did like to take cellphone photos, so it would not be unusual for him to stand on a sandy patch of trail, better to get a shot of a swooping seagull or a preening pelican. Timed right, the crash of surf upon deadly rocks could easily drown out the sound of a surprised “what the fu…..aaaaarrrrrrggggghhhhhhhh!!!!”

The Fog

The afternoon fog came on little cat feet, gauzing the hills and altering the sound of the sea. As the distance between the duo and the solitary strider lessened, minor details become both more explicit and less. The approaching white-billed visor served as a locator, marking distance and direction. The arms swung forward and back in a precise rhythm, palms facing rearward, slightly cupped, an artifact of years of competitive swimming and piano training. The finely ground gravel whispered as each Keen-covered foot landed and lifted. It sounded familiar and odd at the same time, as there was no accompanying “whoosh” of a nylon windbreaker.

The distance closed. The three met at the dragon-headed bench, where the woman sat benchwith one leg casually curled atop the faded redwood slab. Ted remembered how the man would often mumble “five more minutes” as he reached into the bulging pockets of his off-white windbreaker crowded with Kleenex. Each sheet emerged mysteriously wadded, so there was no telling which was new and which was not.

Ted and Chloe put on their most nonchalant faces and greeted her in the usual way. The trio exchanged small talk about local goings-on. Finally, Ted asked, as casually as he could, about the other half of the team.

“Oh,” she replied, “he is home, uh, working.” Chloe looked up slowly, flashing a look that said, “yeah, right!”

Realizing that no further information was forthcoming, Ted and Chloe waved and resumed their walk towards the parking area.

Gloom, or Doom

The fog continued to gather, enveloping the white water line and swirling around the protruding rocks. As the neared the section where the trail ran close along the cliff’s edge, a blast of wind opened a momentary window to the shore. They froze. On the rocks below, a glimpse of off white stood out against the inky black of the protruding rocks. Just as quickly, the thick mist rushed back and obscured the view. Ted peered into the near distance, studying the scene as intently as if it were a balance sheet for the Friends of The Fiscalini Ranch annual report.

Chloe sat still, lightly panting as she sniffed the sea air. The blended scent of seagull and seaweed overwhelmed any possible trace of other organic matter. It was a moment of uncertainty that grew more sinister with the faint sound that rose from below, A bleat? A cry? A desperate plea? They could not tell. Still, the flash of off-white on the rocks below kept them rooted to the spot.windbreaker

Ted turned to his companion and said, “We should call someone, Chloe! But who? And how? Neither of us has a cellphone, and only one of us has thumbs.” He absently reached for his belt, subconsciously feeling for the beeper he carried years ago, All he found was a small grip of poop gloves tucked neatly between belt and waistband. Chloe, remembering she was thumbless, scratched her right haunch and thought of the oatmeal cookies that were cooling on the kitchen counter.

Enter Sandman

Suddenly, a new set of sounds floated through the mist, seemingly coming from around the bend that led to the parking area. The thud of footfalls floated through the thick, damp air. The crackle of disembodied voices, speaking in acronyms and numbers, adding yet another element of mystery to an already edgy vibe. As Ted and Chloe stared into the fog, a figure began to emerge, headed straight towards them.

A sturdily built man rumbled up the slight incline, dark hair visible through the mist. As he neared, more details came into focus. The man was draped in a Bill Belichick-styled sweatshirt, raggedly cropped sleeves falling defiantly over a long-sleeved athletic shirt. Long shorts reached down towards black laced work boots. Grey goatee and sharp sideburns immediately identified the approaching figure. Ted immediately thought, “what’s the guy from Metallica doing here? Are those sounds a rough mix from an upcoming album?”

Chloe growled softly. She knew who the man was, as sure as she knew Ted would slip her one of those oatmeal raisin cookies from the kitchen counter. He was no rock star.

He was The Chief.

Clues

“Ted!”

“Chief!”

“Woof!”

With pleasantries complete, Ted began filling The Chief in on Chloe’s suspicions. “Just about every day those two make an appearance here on the ranch. But for the past few days, he has been absent. At first, we thought nothing of it, but something about the he’s-home-working line didn’t ring true. I mean, really…working? At what?”

Chief thought for a minute before replying. “I have to admit; this is a bit strange. I hadn’t seen him at any of the meetings lately, so I sent him an email to see if everything was ok. I got a reply, but something seemed…off. The typewriting just didn’t look authentic. And now you’re telling me that…”

Before he could finish his thought, a violent gust blew across the shoreline, revealing the scene Ted and Chloe had described. Chief saw it immediately. The off-white shape splayed atop the rocks was visible for just a few seconds. It was enough. He raised the radio he was carrying in his go-bag (actually, a black leather fanny pack) and began barking codes and numbers into the device, ending with the command to “launch the dinghy.” Chloe, who had also started barking, stopped, cocked her head, and thought, “launch the dinghy? I hope to heck that isn’t a euphemism.”

Within seconds voices came back through the handset, asking for clarification, directions, and a request to pick up some rice cakes on the way back to the station. Ted realized that there was no time to waste, and that he had given his last coupons to Dan during the great firehouse flood of 2019. A calm, clear voice broke through the escalating chatter, bringing everything to a sudden stop.

“Hi, guys! What’s going on? And what in the world is a dinghy?”

Ted gasped. Chief gasped. Chloe peed a little. “Whothewhattheheck!!!” they all thought, staring in disbelief at the man stuffing wads of Kleenex back into the pockets of his off-white windbreaker.

They looked at each other, then turned to peer over the cliff to the rocks below. One, then two outlines appeared, followed by a few more shapes emerging from the lifting marine layer. The largest, a good-sized, light-colored seal, turned to look up at the assembled group, which by this time had grown to include a passing group of visitors from Fresno and three women from the UU church. With a wave of a flipper, the seal wiggled and waddled to the edge of the rock, then slid gracefully into the water.

Ted, Chloe, and The Chief turned around to look at the man in the off-white windbreaker. They shrugged, looked back to the sea, and silently agreed that, well, there was a resemblance, anyone could have come to the same conclusion, he had been absent from his usual routine…

“Hey, what the heck is that?” shouted one of the Fresnonians, pointing into the swirling surf. “Is looks like some kind of visor.” Ted froze. The Chief froze. Chloe peed a little more. They turned slowly, afraid to see the reaction of the man in the off-white windbreaker. But he was gone, leaving nothing but two wads of Kleenex and a half-eaten oatmeal raisin cookie.

“So, do we still need the dinghy?” The Chief asked quietly. Ted took a long deep breath, ran a few mental calculations, and slowly shook his head. “No, I think it best we just go on about our day and see what, or who, tomorrow brings.”

Chloe picked up the discarded oatmeal raisin cookie and began the slow walk back to the car, the marine layer filling in the space behind her. In the distance, floating just above the ranch, a barely audible soprano voice could be heard, keening for a lost love. Or visor. It was hard to tell.grey

Scarecrow, or Pedestrian?

01 Tuesday Oct 2019

Posted by in Beautiful Cambria, Cambria Scarecrows, Communicating, Home, Humor, Searching for Cambria's Reality, Treasured Finds, Words matter

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I almost ran over Tom Gray today. Well, I think it was Tom. It wasn’t intentional, of course, and he probably didn’t notice. We were both paying attention to our Main Street surroundings, as sensible Cambrians do. The crosswalk and Tom were where they were supposed to be. So was I, buckled in, hands appropriately spaced on the steering wheel. My eyes ran through the sequence – straight ahead, sweep side to side, check mirrors, react, and repeat. Tom, it seemed, was doing likewise, sans steering wheel. He made it across safely, and I continued on my way. So what happened? I’ll tell you what happened; it was those damn scarecrows, that’s what happened.

Boo Who?

They are everywhere. On the corners, in the alleyways, and fronting just about every store in town. They pop out from behind the pines. They drop like party streamers from lamp posts. They stand guard at the entrance to the church. I stood on Cambria Drive for twenty-seven minutes, waiting for a Dancers By The Sea Flash Mob. Nope. Scarecrows.

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Nuns and priests. Cats and Dogs. Goblins and ghouls. Pirates and Italian Chefs. I waved enthusiastically to a group of cyclists, thinking it might be Andy, Susan, and Charles. I assumed they were going slowly to accommodate a new hip. Wrong! Scarecrows.

After a spirited discussion on local water politics, I took off my glasses to give them a wipe. When I put them back on, I realized I had been arguing with a dummy, and not Cindy Steidel. Hoping nobody noticed, I patted a stuffed shoulder and thanked her for service to the community.

Say It Like You Mean It

I decided to make the most of my mistakes and began shouting greetings to all the figures. “Hi, Elizabeth! Great pictures from the beach this morning!” “Thanks for the road closure matrix, Susan!” “Love the new sport coat, Mr. Lyons!” “How goes the potato crop, Leslie?” “Great piece on your time in country music, Kathe!” Sorry about almost running you over, Tom!”

And thus I made my way through town, thinking of something positive to say to each scarecrow. Words I might not have the opportunity to share in person with every real, living, and breathing character in Cambria’s ever-changing story.

Different Spirits

Arriving at the far end of town, I popped into the Cutruzzola Tasting Room to say hello. I thought they might be busy, based on the crowd next to the building. DOH! Scarecrows with streamers. Thank goodness a real live Mari was there to talk me down. I did most of the talking, as I am wont to do. By the time I left, she was probably hoping for a mute scarecrow to stop by.

A Happy Place

I made it to my original destination – the Cambria Library. I go there to write, and by write, I mean people-watch in between sentences. It seems like the natural place when trying to turn thoughts into words–into sentences–into paragraphs. I like this library. It is not so quiet that you can’t think. It is not so stuffy that you are afraid to sneeze.

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It is, instead, a welcoming place with friendly librarians, local volunteers who staff the bookstore, and kids with grandmas who come every week to exchange last week’s adventures for a whole new set of imagination boosters. Astronauts on week one, traded in for Lego Dinosaur adventures the next trip. Today’s choice features a Princess, a Snowman, and enough excitement to keep a young boy and a young-at-heart grandmother joined in exploration, building a bond that will strengthen with every turn of a page.

There should be a scarecrow for that.

Learn about the Cambria Scarecrows here.