By Louie Ferrera

I can’t remember when I first heard the Allman Brothers, or who turned me on to them, all I know is their music has been part of my life for over half a century.

The Allman Brothers, it seems like they’ve always been there. It was sometime in high school when I first heard their seminal album Live At The Fillmore East, a record that has since become the benchmark for all live albums since. WNEW-FM was the progressive New York City rock and roll radio station that we all listened to. This was well before Spotify was even a glimmer in their creator’s creator’s eye. WNEW was where you turned when you wanted to hear new music so that’s probably where I first heard The Allmans. Their music was unlike anything I had ever heard before. It struck a chord deep within me that still resonates today. The sweet, twin harmony electric guitars of Duane Allman and Dicky Betts, Berry Oakley’s thundering bass, the rock solid drumming of Butch and Jaimoe and of course the soulful and gritty vocals of the incomparable Gregg Allman combined to create a brand new genre of music known as “southern rock.”

My older brother Ray and I were rabid fans of The Allmans. We wore the grooves out on Fillmore East and its follow-up Eat A Peach. We even indoctrinated our six year old brother Steve by requiring him to stand and salute during Duane’s blistering slide guitar solo on “Mountain Jam”. In the 70’s for us, it was all about the Allman Brothers. 

I was too late to the party to have seen the original lineup with Duane and Berry but fortunate enough to catch the band a couple of times as they reinvented themselves with keyboardist extraordinaire Chuck Leavell onboard for their blockbuster 1973 album Brothers And Sisters. This record vaulted the band into rock superstardom. During this period they consistently sold out stadiums and large outdoor festivals. Personnel issues and drug problems sidelined the band in the 1980s and by decade’s end, they were all but counted out as has-beens.

Down but not out, the Allmans came roaring back in the early 90s.  Warren Haynes was brought in and the original twin guitar sound was back. This new iteration of the ABB was what old fans like myself had been waiting for for years. The guitar interplay between Haynes and Betts was faithful to the original magic of Allman/Betts with a new twist. Haynes’ style was edgier than Duane’s but still a nice compliment to Dicky’s melodic, country flavored picking. Of course, no one could sing the blues like Gregg. This new configuration of the ABB forged a new path forward for the band. Their live and studio albums from this period are vibrant and filled with furious jams and original songs every bit as good as those from the band’s heyday With new energy and new life, the band’s live shows were once again a must see.

In 1993, The Allmans were headlining an outdoor festival with venerable jam band Phish. I attended this show with more than a bit of skepticism. My memories of the Allman Brothers of the 1970s were cherished. Could they ever match the magic of the band that I had loved back then? From the first notes of the show I realized that the band was indeed back. The Haynes/Betts combo was dynamic, adding a fresh element to the band’s sound and Gregg was in fine voice. I left that show as a reborn Allman Brothers fan.

All of these memories are swirling around my head as I read about the passing of Dicky Betts. The death of yet another musical icon of my generation serving as a stark reminder of my own mortality. After band founder Duane Allman’s untimely death in 1971, Betts gradually evolved into the Allman’s defacto leader. His songs “In Memory Of Elizabeth Reed”, “Southbound”, “Ramblin’ Man” and “Blue Sky” “were all staples of their live shows in the 70s. The shimmering, soaring instrumental “Jessica” has become one of the most beloved of classic rock songs. Lesser know Betts gems such as “Just Another Love Song”, “High Falls” and “Pegasus” are sprinkled throughout post Brothers and Sisters albums Win, Lose Or Draw and Enlightened Rogues. With Duane no longer up on stage beside him, Dicky had to handle all of the guitar parts himself, in the process honing his sound into one of the most distinctive styles in rock. His combination of sweet, melodic flat picking and stinging slide work is as recognizable as Clapton or Hendrix. Throughout the band’s 90s resurgence Dicky kept the quality songs coming with “Seven Turns” and “Nobody Knows”, the latter becoming a vehicle for some furious Betts/Haynes guitar fireworks.

Today was a picture perfect spring day; breezy, blue and beautiful. Poor Man’s Whiskey, a favorite local Americana band was giving a free outdoor show as part of the Sebastopol Apple Blossom Festival. Carol and I spent nearly two hours among a crowd of smiling, happy people dancing to this joyous band. The show was about to end, but they had time for one more song. The guitar player began to play an instantly recognizable pattern of chords as the band launched into a raucous version of “Jessica”. The crowd erupted and we moved as one in a celebratory swirl. For as long as there are moments like this, the music of Dicky Betts and the Allman Brothers Band will live forever.

By Louie Ferrera

Mitch, Andy and I are as close as friends can be. We’ve shared  countless blissful times together over the course of our more than three decade friendship. Our annual boy’s weekends are much anticipated touchstones in our lives. The following is an account of one such day on a recent trip.

It was a day unlike any of the other days that we’ve spent together throughout the ten year history of our boy’s weekends. We were in the flow, moving like a well oiled machine through the streets of beachside San Diego. We were in love with everyone and everyone was in love with us.

It’s 8:00am and the guy behind the counter of the mom and pop market near our rental is all smiles. He beams at us as he rings up our sale (one stick of butter). There’s something about his sunny attitude and this brief encounter that sets the tone for the day. Across the street is a coffee shop that occupies a narrow storefront between two larger buildings. Andy needs more coffee so we head over. I hear “Go Giants” and look down to see Maddy a Bay Area transplant who notices my Giants cap, recognizing me as a kindred spirit. Her brilliant, toothy smile and bright blue eyes are framed by perfectly straight copper colored hair that falls past her shoulders. Maddy was at one of the most legendary games in Giants history: Matt Cain’s perfect game in 2012. She was ten, I was watching the game with my family in Hawaii. The energy around us among the small gaggle of customers waiting for their coffee is vibrant, all things seem possible. The barista is Maddy’s friend, she’d dispensing caffeinated drinks with purpose and a smile on her face. Mitch chats up a guy whom he has a Sayulita, Mexico connection with, it’s one of those small world things. Andy gets his coffee and we cruise back to our place, buoyed by the promising start to our day. We can feel that special things are in store.

Once back home, we team up to make the perfect breakfast: cheesy eggs with Italian sausage and English muffins. When the clock strikes 10, out comes the tequila. Glasses are clinked and shots are consumed as we toast to another day of brotherly love and adventure. We light a “Goldilocks” joint; not too weak, not to stoney but just right and float out the door with no agenda in mind, our only plan is to put our good energy out into this quiet, overcast morning and see where it leads us.

Everyone we encounter becomes a supporting player in our little movie: the guy in the market and the folks at the coffee shop  and now our Uber driver. He’s a grizzled but jovial fellow of around 60 with a thick eastern European accent. A weathered Padres cap is perched at a jaunty angle atop his head. His Prius is still chugging along at 425 thousand miles. Mitch, Andy and I slip into our routine, playing ping pong with quips, jokes and good natured abuse. The driver slides right in there with us, his joyous cackle of a laugh fills the air inside his little rattletrap of a car. 

After a short ride, we wash up in Ocean Beach (OB). This funky little beachside community is like a Berkeley by-the-sea without the darkness and anger. The main  drag is peppered with thrift stores, curio shops, dive bars and locally owned eateries. A “freak freely” vibe permeates the air. Our first stop is a surf shop where we pick up two new cast members. Lizzie and Michaela are sweet, funny and full of life. We get into this absurd routine with them about Mike’s Taco Club. Mike’s is a taqueria down the block that we had tried on a previous trip. It’s a mediocre eatery and the epitome of “gringo” Mexican cuisine. We couldn’t figure out why it was so crowded. Mike’s has been the butt of our jokes ever since. But Lizzie and Michaela love it, especially the “Cali burrito” with french  fries inside. None of us could figure out why  Mike’s is called a “club”. The girls know all of their lines and so do we, it’s all so hilarious. Older gents like us rarely get to interact in any meaningful way with twenty-somethings like these two girls. Their goofy energy and willingness to go along with our silliness pushes us forward.

The pale green neon sign of Pacific Shores has just been lit, signaling that it’s finally noon and opening time for one of OBs oldest dive bars. Inside it’s dark and deserted. We’re the first customers and are greeted  from behind the bar by busty and bouncy redhead Anna. We settle onto our stools, order a round of Bloody Mary’s and the banter begins. Anna is funny and sharp witted and slips right into our routine. She knows how to handle goofy drunk guys like us. No celery? No problem. Mitch heads to the store to buy a stalk while Anna fixes our drinks; her saucy attitude, crimson hair and low cut, bright red tank top fuels our imaginations. Next up is Joe. Into the bar he strolls looking dapper in a rumpled grey suit with a wide, pale blue tie and a matching triangle of  handkerchief peeking out from his breast pocket. His sandy colored hair spills out from under a natty straw fedora and reaches to the middle of his back. His electric blue eyes are alive with mischief. Joe is an attorney celebrating a successful morning in court with a glass of white wine. He’s a regular at Pacific Shores, he and Anna chat amiably. Joe lives most of the year in Argentina and was once a stand up comic. He’s a raconteur supreme and keeps the stories and one-liners flowing. If I were in trouble, I’d definitely want this guy beside me in court. I just take it all in happy to be a supporting player. We stay for another round of bloody’s, blinking in the bright, early afternoon light as we exit the bar.

The flow that we’re in right now is simply incredible. Neither of us want to say anything about it for fear of breaking the spell. We’re in love with everyone and everyone is in love with us has become our mantra for the day. Over the course of our more than three decades friendship, Mitch, Andy and I have built up quite a repertoire. Being out in public and roping strangers into our movie is what we do best. People pick up on our camaraderie and love for one another and are all too happy to join in on the fun. We cast a wide net and shine a light on everyone who falls within it. Today everything feels effortless. We’re good vibe merchants, our mission is to spread the joy.

By now we’re really floating and decide it’s time for a cannabis booster so we stroll the three blocks to the beach and light up. The ocean is slate grey  and calm, a derelict pier juts out from where we sit. The surf is mellow, a handful of surfers swish back and forth across the face of small waves. On this overcast day, usually sunny San Diego is subdued and the perfect fit for our stoned state of mind.

With the booze and the weed comes the munchies so to a highly recommended sandwich shop we go next. Pomo is old school OB, an unassuming little box of a building. This no frills eatery serves up scrumptious sammies that we would soon devour. Mitch never looked up from his meatball sub while Andy and I were digging on authentic Italian “hoagies”. While waiting for our order we strike up a conversation with sweet young Chula. She’s all dreadlocks, olive skin and 100 watt smile with a personality to go with it. She’s got two guys in tow, Andy makes a connection with one of them who it turns out has spent some time in Bend, Oregon where Andy lives. This comes as no surprise considering the charmed and serendipitous nature of our day so far. We banter back and forth with Chula and her boys, they slip effortlessly into our movie. We are magnets for happy people and loving vibes and continue on, high on the symbiosis of it all.

It’s been like 20 minutes since our last cocktail so our next destination is the North Shore Tavern, a watering hole recommended by Chula. In contrast to the dark dive bars we usually frequent on our trips, North Shore is airy and modern with large doors that open to the outside. My canine loving companions spy a booth of thirty-somethings enjoying drinks with their dog in tow and head over to introduce themselves. Instead of playing pool (we only manage one drunken game) we spend the better part of the next hour and a half drinking and laughing with this merry crew half our age and become fast friends. California native Jordan, a chill and smiling young man with a scruffy beard and an unkempt head of hair is flanked by sisters Natalie and Erica who are transplants from Kentucky. Erica’s riveting, dark-rimmed blue eyes and angular face are reminiscent of Meryl Streep. As it turns out, Jordan was once a student at a middle school where Andy was once assistant principal. The rapport flows and so do the drinks. All three of these young folks are bright and witty,  the conversation never lags. Their pal Lilly shows up later, her goofy persona and ready smile adds an extra dose of silliness to the proceedings. After numerous selfies are dutifully taken we say our goodbyes and let the wind take us where it will.

By now it’s late afternoon and I’m feeling ready to dial up the Uber and head back to our rental. However Mitch has other ideas and suggests we take one last walk down to the beach. We get there and voila, there’s Jamm, a quartet of young guys putting on an impromptu concert from the back of their pick up truck. So we get stoned again (why not?). These kids are really playing their hearts out. The three of us exchange stoned smiles and get into the groove with the band. We hear a familiar riff and just like that the band is into the Grateful Dead gem Help On The Way. No one is singing so I jump up there. The guys in the band give me nods of approval, I grab the mic and sing a couple of verses before they noodle off into another jam. Can this day possibly get any better?

Our penultimate Uber of the day takes us away from OB and to a nondescript Ethiopian restaurant near downtown. The dining room is a completely unadorned box of white cinderblock walls. A huge tv sits in one corner playing Ethiopian music videos. It’s a surreal scene. After a short wait,  a delicious platter of vegetarian entrees and injera bread (injera is to Ethiopian cuisine what tortillas are to Mexican) is placed before us which we hungrily devour. After dinner we head home, happy, sated and elated.

Have you ever had a day like this? If so, then you know how very rare and precious they are. Every decision we made today was the right one. Actually, it was more like the decisions were being made for us and we were just along for the ride. All of the people we interacted with today seemed to sense that they were part of something special. They picked up on our happiness and added their own positivity and good vibes to the mix until we were all part of one big feedback loop of joy. Hopefully, dear reader, you’ve gotten some sense of how effortlessly special this day was for me and my two brothers from other mothers. But in the end, you really just had to be there.

By Louie Ferrera

In a world thoroughly trampled on by humans, “secret” places are hard to come by. A couple of months ago I found one such spot just off the trail here at Riverfront Park

Riverfront is one of the more popular of the regional parks in Sonoma County. The location of my secret spot is just a short distance off of a heavily traveled trail. This trail is wide, 15-20ft, and circles picturesque and oval shaped Lake Benoist. The lake is ringed by willows, bay laurel and small oak trees which provide excellent habitat for a variety of songbirds. The lake’s surface is typically placid and glass-like, broken only by a handful of ducks or the occasional angler in a self propelled boat.

I was strolling this trail on a cool and overcast afternoon last February when I heard the distinctive squawk of a Great Blue Heron. I looked up and watched it disappear into the forest to the left of the trail. Then I saw another, and another. After watching four or five of these majestic birds fly into the forest I decided to do a little bushwhacking and investigate. The further I walked, the more birds  I saw and heard. I soon found myself in a small grove of second growth redwood trees, each one 100 feet tall or more and each one topped with one or more huge osprey-like nests, only these weren’t osprey nests, they were heron nests. I had stumbled upon an extensive Great Blue Heron rookery! I tried to do a count and came up with at least a dozen nests, all of them large enough to fit a human infant. This spot was the center of frenzied activity. Birds were everywhere above me, coming, going, making a racquet and building their nests. I had the feeling that no one but myself knew of the existence of this magical place. I was truly in awe and felt blessed by my discovery. Some of the nests were occupied by what I assumed to be female herons. Were they getting ready to lay their eggs? Had they already done so? When do heron eggs hatch anyway? I’d get my answer a couple of months later.

Fast forward to today, April 6 . It’s a glorious blue sky day, cool and clear. The willows and oaks are all leafing out, the signs of spring are everywhere. There are no birds or anglers on the lake. Its coffee colored surface is smooth and glass-like, marred only by ripples from the occasional breeze. I’ve got my binoculars in hand, doing a slow crawl down the trail and observing birds. I breathe deeply of this clean, crisp air, reveling in the beauty of a fine spring morning. When I arrive at the spot off the trail where I found the rookery, I decide to head into the forest for a look. The bird activity wasn’t as frenzied as it was back in February but I did see several herons flying above me and activity in the nests too. But what really catches my eye isn’t above me, but at my feet. Young thimbleberry, poison oak and ferns dot the forest floor and are covered in white splotches of bird poop. Everywhere I look there are partial shells, pale blue and the size of chicken eggs. My guess is that after the young herons hatched the moms did a little housecleaning and tossed the empty shells out of the nest. The air is alive with the duck-like honking of young herons. I could feel the energy of all the new life that surrounded me. It was pretty spectacular! I realized that I was witnessing something that not very many people ever get to. I take a few minutes to explore, collecting a nearly intact empty shell as a souvenir. I’m not sure if the herons perceived me as a threat but I didn’t want to take a chance on stressing them out so I hightailed it out of there and continue my walk around the lake.

I may or may not really be the only person who knows the whereabouts of this rookery but what I do know is, while I was there today listening to the young birds and wandering among their discarded shells, it felt special and like a place out of time. For now, it’s my secret place and I’m going to keep it that way.  

By Louie Ferrera

Our plum tree is almost completely dead, but instead of mourning its loss, we’ve reimagined what a tree could be.

Somehow a small cluster of branches at the center of the tree have managed to bloom this spring. Tiny white blossoms have given way to slender green leaves. Who knows, with a bit of luck we may even get an actual plum or two this year. In its heyday this tree cast a wide shadow beneath it and in peak years produced more succulent Santa Rosa plums than we could handle. Our family had their fill, as did the squirrels and the birds. A sweet, warm plum enjoyed on a hot summer day is an experience that everyone should have at least once in their lifetime. Cracking open a jar of Carol’s homemade plum jam in the midst of a cold, wet winter is to manifest summer itself. You can taste the sunshine and the feel of a lazy July afternoon in each bite.

To everything there is a season and so it goes for our plum tree. At some point, sooner than later, this tree will bloom no more. Nothing lasts forever. We celebrate our dear old tree and feel deep gratitude for the bounty of fruit that it has given us over the years. Now our tree has transitioned from fruit bearer to ornament bearer. Rather than morn its dead, moss covered boughs, Carol and I have chosen to adorn them. From its branches now hang bird feeders, sun spinners, solar lights and wind chimes. What could easily be a sad and forlorn sight has been transformed into a celebration of sound, motion, color and light. A variety of seed eating birds find sustenance  at the feeders. The tree comes alive whenever the wind blows. The spinners dance in the sunshine and at night the lights glow with energy gathered from the sun. When our kids were fledgling rock climbers, they used this tree as their first climbing gym. A few of their makeshift  handholds still hang from its branches. So you see, our dear old plum  tree lives on; a microcosm of birth, death and renewal.

Four mugs hang like silent sentries, standing guard over the coffee maker. They are led by my long time morning companion Blue Mug. Blue, sturdy and thick walled, is the leader of the pack. Its handle spans the entire length of the mug from lip to base. This mug is glazed a bright royal blue, the design on the front a stylized sunburst that resembles a sunflower. An asymmetrical array of petals radiate out from a dark brown center where a simple face is etched in fine lines. On the other side is a similarly stylized crescent moon, pale yellow with a face etched in profile. Irregular orange flame-like shapes radiate from the back side of the crescent. It looks like the moon is on fire. Numerous four-pointed yellow stars adorn the entire surface of the mug. I’m right handed so when I hold it I only see the sunburst, almost forgetting about the moon around the corner.

Last year I dropped Blue onto the granite countertop in our kitchen. I was dismayed when I noticed a thin crack had appeared. When I filled it with coffee and set it down, a tiny brown puddle spread out from the bottom. Was this the end of a long and fulfilling relationship? When ceramic objects like this crack or break, repair is often futile. But I felt I owed it to Blue to at least attempt a fix. I applied a thin bead of all purpose glue along the crack on the outside surface and waited. The next morning I poured my coffee…no puddle! From that day on, every day with Blue has been a gift.

I can’t recall how long I’ve had this mug. Ten years? Fifteen? But I do know that a thousand mornings have begun with this mug in my hands, it’s been the vessel for a thousand steaming cups of coffee. Blue is quite heavy as mugs go. The smoothness of its surface and its heft feel good in my hands. When filled with coffee, the heat from the liquid enhances the grounding effect I feel while holding it. Blue Mug has such presence! As inanimate objects go, it’s quite commanding. Blue stands out and begs to be noticed. That’s probably what happened when I purchased it. Perhaps in some subliminal sort of way Blue was saying to me; “Buy me! Take me home with you! If you give me a chance I know I can become an integral part of your life.” Well, I did and it has.

If you’re a hot morning beverage drinker you understand the importance of the delivery system for your drink of choice. The mug is an essential part of the ritual. I take my morning coffee seriously, not just any mug will do. For as long as I can remember, it’s been me and you Blue. Together we can rise to any challenge, face any adversary. With you in my hands even the most daunting task will seem like a walk in the park…just as long as you’re filled to the brim with coffee.