There’s an event pavilion on the slopes of Mt. Diablo about forty-five minutes from my house.

You can either pay extra and sit under the canopy or bring a blanket and sit under the stars. I’ve done both and prefer to spread out on the grass and take my chances with the mosquitos. The sound is the same and maybe even better.

I don’t know how many concerts I’ve seen at the Concord Pavilion over the years but without a doubt, this guy and this song made the biggest impression on me.

For one thing, Lightfoot had a mini-orchestra on stage behind him and when they ignited, we were all on that doomed ship, thrown about in the merciless waves and counting the last moments of our lives.

The other song that electrified the crowd that night was “Canadian Railroad Trilogy.” It tells the story of the men who built the railroads across Canada, the men now “too silent to be real.” But also of the “green dark forests” that covered the wilderness “long before the white man and long before the wheel”… also too silent to be real. It felt like, in the dark hills surrounding us, druids watched and wept.

He’s gone, dammit. Another chunk of my soul just chipped away. He wasn’t a young man (84) but then, like Leonard Cohen and so many of the legendary poet/folksingers, he never seemed like a young man. They came to earth as old souls, flawed old souls who made mistakes just like the rest of us but were able to confess in word and song.

Fella, it’s been good ta know ya!

Lately my eye has been drawn to images of loneliness. Like this guy who sits on our railing and coos all day long. For a long time I thought I was hearing owls but then I caught him in the act.

According to the experts, owls hoot for a variety of reasons but the mourning dove, well, he’s just horny. According to my husband, who also loves to postulate about animal behavior, this guy’s beloved mate was chased into a window by a hawk. She broke her neck and died and he’s not horny; he’s in deep mourning and will be for the rest of his life.

These two guys are not cooing at each other. The man on the left is wondering if the man on the right is the person responsible for upending his well-ordered life. Not on purpose but as the result of poor timing; the wrong word said at the wrong time. In the above scene, for over four minutes there’s no dialogue or music. Just scenes of a wasteland through the eyes of a doomed man. And then Cary Grant (as Roger Thornhill) crosses the damn road and the action begins again.

Next to our house is a vacant lot with a lone birdbath. When we first moved in there was a teepee village next to the birdbath only we never caught a glimpse of any children at play. But we had nine to five jobs and teen age children to keep us hopping and thus no time to get to know the neighbors.

Then one day I was gardening when I heard a child’s voice: “You’re not supposed to go barefoot in the garden.” I looked over to see a girl of about eight draped in the fence. “Where’s Betty?” she asked. Betty was the previous owner of our house. I explained that Betty had remarried and moved away. “I liked Betty,” she said in a way that made it clear she could never warm up to someone stupid enough to go barefoot in the garden. I didn’t find out until years later that the little girl’s mother was dying of cancer and that Betty was someone she could confide in.

I never saw her again. She abandoned the teepee village. Years went by, the teepees fell apart and someone started dumping tree trimmings on the lot. The swimming pool behind the house next door filled with algae and the property became run over with weeds and overgrown bushes. However every summer someone comes by to trim the weeds around the birdbath and where the teepees once stood.

At some point this little maple will probably grow large enough to disguise the rather odd architectural feature behind it. Right now, it just looks lonely to me. Which is okay. Far by better to be lonely and know you have a purpose than surrounded and lost.

All great and precious things are lonely.”

John Steinbeck

When told he is always welcome to return home to live, my charming son makes a face. “That would be like returning to the pits of meaningless despair.” I can’t say it makes my day but I can understand.

If your childhood home came up for sale and you could afford to buy it, would you? I know two people who inherited a childhood home and decided not to sell. They’re actually living in the houses they grew up in and neither had what I would describe as a “happy” childhood. Divorces, premature deaths, alcoholism, insanity. The works… all enclosed in cramped houses with faulty plumbing, aging wallpaper and moldy basements. Perhaps they wanted to return to the familiar, no matter how filled with sour memories. Or perhaps they hoped to form happy memories to drive away the demons.

Recently my nephew was in the market for a new house. One of the listings that he found and shared with his father, was the house we’d spent the majority of our childhood in. Even though my nephew had been there when he was a child, he hadn’t recognized it. Will he buy it? Who knows.

I know I’m in the minority. From the quotes I found on line, most folks think of home as a welcoming, warm place full of wonderful memories.

After you leave home, you may find yourself feeling homesick, even if you have a new home that has nicer wallpaper and a more efficient dishwasher than the home in which you grew up.”

Lemony Snicket

“You can’t go home again because home has ceased to exist except in the mothballs of memory.”

John Steinbeck

“You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back home to romantic love, back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of fame, back home to exile, to escape to Europe and some foreign land, back home to lyricism, to singing just for singing’s sake, back home to aestheticism, to one’s youthful idea of ‘the artist’ and the all-sufficiency of ‘art’ and ‘beauty’ and ‘love,’ back home to the ivory tower, back home to places in the country, to the cottage in Bermuda, away from all the strife and conflict of the world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for, back home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden for you, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time–back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

Thomas Wolfe

Whenever I hear about a mass shooting, particularly a mass shooting in a school, or church or even a grocery store and then I read about all those politicians who defend owning military grade assault weapons as if it’s a god-given right, I feel so damn old. God plopped you on this earth, naked and defenseless with absolutely no rights.

I guess that’s why this song by the Beatles (George Harrison) always resonates with me at times like this.

It’s been a long, long, long time
How could I ever have lost you
When I loved you
It took a long, long, long time
Now I’m so happy I found you
How I love you
So many days I was searching
So many tears I was wasting, oh, oh
I could see you, be you
How can I ever misplace you?
How I want you, how I love you
You know that I need you
Hope I love you

It’s a simple song, written for the so-called “White Album” toward the end of the Beatles. At that time, George was coming into his own as a songwriter while Paul and John were feuding and pouting and pouting and feuding – which is understandable considering the stresses they were under..

Thus I was surprised to read that one night, in the midst of all that craziness, somehow all four Beatles managed to make it through 67 takes of Long, Long, Long without killing each other. 67 takes! That must have been some night. The result is a piece of music that critics have praised as “a touching token of an exhausted, relieved reconciliation with God” with a “weird spectral ending.” (They accidentally recorded the sound of an empty wine bottle rattling on top of a speaker and decided to leave it in, along with Harrison’s “palpable spiritual wailing.”)

George was talking about the life force we are all a part of. Animals, plants, the oceans and rivers. We can’t break the connection but it’s easy to misplace and if that happens, time drags on forever.

You’ve probably seen the above image many times but I really don’t think it can be shared enough, do you?

**”The music of deep silence,” is how one Rolling Stone music critic referred to Long, Long, Long

We had a whopper of a storm yesterday which lingered into this morning. The winds sounded like jumbo jets flying low over house and the rain went on and on and on.

Around three in the afternoon we lost all contact with the outside world. The power went out as did the internet. It’s happened before and it’s something we’re prepared for with plenty of battery and solar powered lamps. And when I say plenty of batteries, we buy them Costco bulk style.

Luckily we own one of the oldest Wolf stoves in the world. We have to light the pilots with matches (also something we buy in bulk) but it sure is nice on a cold, dark and stormy night to have a hot meal. Mr.Wolf Stove can’t do anything special and is a bitch to clean but I’m not getting rid of him until they make me.

The most unnerving thing that happened during the storm was losing cell phone service. I didn’t realize how much like the old transistor radios those things have become. I was a fool to get rid of the ones we had.

I probably wouldn’t have gone out this morning as many trees are down in my neighborhood and on the local highway but it was my last regularly scheduled physical therapy session. Hurrah! I wasn’t about to miss that! And when the clouds did part, boy oh boy was Mt Diablo a glorious sight. A symphony of greens.