Happy

A new season of life

I awake to the orange waning gibbous moon setting in the west, reflected on a framed picture on the wall. The last light of the night is the first light of the day. I lay in bed with Annie and the dogs, as Dozer climbs up on my chest. We watch the rising sun brush streaks of gold and pink across the sky. A bald eagle soars over the river. I’m happy.

As the snow flies, birds gather at the feeders. Cardinal, Northern flicker, house finch, black-capped chickadee, hairy woodpecker, downy woodpecker, American goldfinch, European starling, white-breasted nuthatch, and mourning dove. I sit at the morning table with coffee, binoculars, and my journal. I’m happy.

I step out into the first big snowstorm of the year. I have 45lbs in my rucksack and head into the woods to put the first human tracks down in the fresh snow. I count eighteen bald eagles along the frozen river, many of them juveniles. I come across a beaver’s handiwork, and I have a close encounter with a white-tailed deer. I loop the five miles through the trees as the snow continues to fall. On the way back, my footprints from an hour earlier are completely covered as I trudge through ankle-deep snow. I’m happy.

I get up early, armed with just a shovel, while the rest of the neighborhood pushes fuel-burning machines. I dig out the driveway, the apron, the gutter, the walks, our porch, and patio. Although it’s only 2°, I sweat through my clothes. I clear the concrete completely while the machines leave a thin layer of snow and ice. Back in the house, I look out and admire my good work. I’m happy.

I play my guitar and watch the bird feeders. Three white-tailed deer arrive, joining the squirrels and starlings. I sit motionless and watch every cautious sniff of the air and snap of the head. After long, nervous minutes, the deer flee into the trees and brush, their white flags waving goodbye. I’m happy.

The temperature drops below zero. Three tom turkeys waddle into the backyard for their turn under the feeders. I watch them from our gallery of picture windows. Later, a coyote struts through the yard, along the side of the house, down our driveway and up the middle of the street as if on official business. I run from window to window to watch his progress. I’m happy.

Our yard has become a regular stop for deer and turkey as they make their daily circuits. The afternoon sun touches down on the snow, and the toms reappear, their feathers iridescent in the bright light. They forage in the backyard for over an hour, and are joined by blue jays, cardinals, European starlings, and fox squirrels. I’m happy.

I write Lucy a letter on my typewriter. I fold it, put it in an envelope, address and stamp it. I bundle up and get on my Fat Bike. I ride through the woods on the snow-covered trails to the post office. White-tailed deer watch me pass. I’m wearing two pairs of gloves, but my hands still go numb. My mustache and beard turn to ice. I’m happy.

We meet Wade and Jenny at Lachele’s in Highland Park for the soft opening of the new location. We catch up over burgers, we talk about everything; we talk about nothing. Annie goes big and orders a root beer. I steal a sip. I’m happy.

My eyes open in my daughter Emily and son-in-law Brandon’s home in Long Beach, California. I step outside into familiar smells and sounds. I walk through parking lots to a coffee shop, and then back to their dining room table. I pick up my pen and start to write. The cats slink around me as I sketch ideas in my workbook. I’m happy.

I step on my skateboard; it’s been a while, but it feels completely natural and right. I skate around San Pedro with Tommy, Jameson, and Ryan—their cameras follow me around. I take a fall rounding a corner at speed and tumble hard onto the asphalt. I get up and shake it off. I go back to the starting point—I’m in my element. I’m happy.

Dad’s taxi service is back in business for the day. I drive Emily to Los Angeles to run errands for her work. It reminds me of when she was a teenager, just starting out working in LA. Before she drove, I would drive her wherever she needed to go, spend my day working on my laptop nearby, and then drive her home in the evening. This morning, we navigate the traffic of the 605, 5, 110, and 91 freeways. We drive around for hours talking and laughing. I’m happy.

I’m back on my board in a parking lot in Long Beach. Tommy, Jameson, Ryan, and their cameras are with me again. I skate a cement pad; I sing my songs. I open my vocal cords just a bit and feel their range. There’s a lot of music in there still. Seagulls pass overhead. I’m happy.

I’m on The Islander—a ferry rolling through the swell in the Santa Barbara Channel. Squadrons of Brown Pelicans skim the ocean all around us. We dock at Scorpion Anchorage on Santa Cruz Island National Park. I walk quickly past my fellow visitors as we disembark, and for the next four hours, I never see or cross paths with another person. I hike ten miles out to Smuggler’s Cove and Yellow Banks and back. I see the island scrub jay and Santa Cruz Island fox. Back on the mainland in Ventura, I stand on the beach and watch the sun sink into the Pacific. I’m happy.

I get a coffee and stroll along Main Street in Ventura. I make my way over to the one-hundred-and fifty-year-old Moreton Bay Fig tree as the soft morning light filters through its canopy. I walk down to the beach and watch the beach squirrels and the surfers. I’m happy.

I meet Ari and Micaiah at Skate One. I tour the wheel and board manufacturing facilities. I see old friends and make a few new ones. Being on the ground, here where the products are being made, talking to the people who bring them to life, makes me want to do more, fight harder—something. I sign boards and tell stories to the sons of the very people I lived some of those stories with. I’m happy.

I head over to DW Drums just down the freeway. I meet Chris, Angel, and Britt, and I get my second manufacturing tour of the day. I watch as plies of wood become a drum. The tour ends standing in front of the last kit Neil Peart of Rush played on the R40 Tour. The kit is lovingly preserved in a private showroom at DW. Chris, who worked with Neil, gifts me a pair of sticks that The Professor used in his rehearsals at DW before the tour. I text photos of me standing in front of the kit to Annie, Wade, Paul, Eli, Charles, Lucy, and Brandon. I feel blessed to have people in my life who will appreciate this as much as I do. I’m happy.

The plane leaves the ground as the last slivers of light withdraw from the darkening sky. I see the headlights of bicycles riding along the Back Bay in Newport Beach. We turn out over the Pacific, and I look down into the blackness of Laguna Canyon, then up along the coastline to Palos Verdes and beyond. I think of all the places and all the times of my life down there. As I look out over the sprawling lights of the towns, freeways, neighborhoods, rivers, and cities, none of it feels abstract or far away. It all feels open and present—a part of me. I’m happy.

I sing into the microphone in the studio in Jay’s basement. Wade meets me there, and we work on our songs. Wade and Jay add back-up vocals, Jay overdubs guitar and keys—the songs begin to come to life. Jay turns up the playback in the speakers, Wade and I listen on the couch—shit-eating grins on our faces. I’m happy.

A blizzard blows in, freezing rain followed by snow and howling winds. I get up early the next morning before the sun and walk out into the biting cold; the frozen snow squeaking under my feet. I look up—always look up—into the still star-studded heavens. My calendar is as wide-open as the sky. The interstate groans in the distance—I’m not on it. I’m happy.

I put on my running shoes and take to the morning trail—into the rising sun—the song of the cardinal my soundtrack. The bald eagles are gone except for the year-round nesting pair. The red-winged blackbird and American white pelican are here. I jog close past white-tailed deer; they don’t seem concerned. I wave good morning—they just look at me. I walk back along the muddy shore of the Des Moines River. I face east to feel the climbing sun’s warmth on my face. I see the first of the neighborhood robins. I step into the house, and Annie has breakfast burritos waiting. I’m happy.

A red fox gallops ahead of me on the bike trail. It stops and looks back to see if I am still pedaling behind it. The game continues to my exhilaration until the fox darts out into and across the street. I stop and watch it as cars pass. It looks back to see if I’ll continue to follow—I won’t. It bounds off into the brush, and I watch it run down an embankment, then reemerge on the open field. I’m happy.

The wind blows in from the south, and the sky grows ominous. The woodchuck and deer make for cover—the birds still brave the unstable air. Blackbirds bunch up on bare branches—I see the blue head of the common grackle. This is the first grackle sighting I’ve made in our yard—you’d think I was eight years old, and it was Christmas morning. Double-crested cormorants hightail it from the river over the house, and I see the first turkey vultures of the season soaring in the updrafts. Spider lightning crawls across the sky. I’m happy.

It’s 70°—Emily visits from California. We walk the dogs around the block, then Emily, Annie, and I walk down to and along the river. I point out the eagle nest to Emily—one of the eagles is perched nearby in a tall cottonwood. We stroll down to the pond and feel the sun’s caress. The wind blows gently but the mind is still. I’m happy.

It's the first day of spring. The grass around the neighborhood is starting to green up. The robins let me get close enough that I feel compelled to say hello. Just as I begin to speak, they flutter off every time. I walk the dogs three times. I get on my bike for a rip through the woods just before dinner. I come across a guy, Josh, rucking his dogs on the Owl Trail. I stop and talk to him for a bit. He says he’s planning an overnight ruck and camping trip in the Loess Hills. I tell him I’m jealous.

I take the dogs out for the last time before bed, and they almost catch a fat cottontail in the backyard. I get into bed with Annie and the dogs. I have nine books, two notebooks, and a dictionary on my nightstand. Bentley snores away as Dozer chews on a nylon bone. Annie and I sip tea. I am home—off the road. In the last six weeks, I have put some time and distance between what was and what is. I feel good. Pen in hand, I begin this new season of my life. I’m happy.

Thanks for reading!