Al Kyte's Life Take-Aways

    The Woman’s Touch 

It’s hard for me to think of home and family without also thinking about a woman’s touch.  During the first half of my life, four women in our family helped shape the man I was becoming, each from a different perspective—mother, sister, wife, and daughter.     

As a small boy I was shy.  When strangers came to call, I sought safety by burying my face in the folds of my mother’s dress.   She was there with us during the frightening blackouts of World War II, when we had to turn off all our lights and sit under the dining room table for several hours, never knowing whether it was a drill or whether bombs might actually fall.  At that age I saw my mother primarily as a loving refuge from the strange world into which I had been born.  I did not yet appreciate the independent adventurous woman she was. When only 16 years old, she had traveled alone by train across California and much of Nevada to teach children in the ranch country north of Ely, Nevada.

My mother was an excellent cook having learned at the side of her mother who brought many wonderful recipes over from Sweden.  Sometimes at dinner we were enjoying the meal so much we would forget to let her know how much we appreciated her preparing it.  More than a few times I heard her say, “This is pretty good if I do say so myself”.

Loving sweets as I did, I particularly looked forward to her desserts.  After many years, the Swedish sugar cookies she baked when I was a boy are still my favorite cookie, and I remember the sour cream/cinnamon coffee cake she made that was always available for anyone who dropped by to pay her a visit.  What I remember most was the time our big apricot tree had a bumper crop, and my mother baked pies as long as that tree kept giving us apricots.  As a teenager I ate as much pie as the rest of the family put together.  My mother kept track and had baked forty pies that month.  What a great time to be a teenager.

My sister, Barbara, was almost three years older than I.  We had different interests, the normal number of brother-and-sister squabbles, and to a large extent went our own ways.  By the  time I reached high school, however, I had begun to appreciate her advice and sense the love behind her words. 

One interest we shared was a love of art, and when I was entering “Cal” as a freshman she recommended several art classes she knew I would enjoy taking.  Unfortunately those classes were only offered in the late afternoons when I was already committed to either baseball or basketball team practices.  However I did appreciate that she cared enough to want me to experience some of the classes she loved the most.

Her favorite professor was a highly regarded Japanese American artist named Chiura Obata, whose many accomplishments included beautiful paintings of Yosemite and other national parks.  At one point he announced to his class that he and his wife would be hosting an open house for his art students.  He must have also let them know that he loved fishing, because Barbara asked him if she could bring along her younger brother who also loved fishing.  When we arrived at his home, the famous artist took me aside and led me to a  room where he had many sheets of rolled up paper.  When unrolled, each paper revealed an ink print of an impressively large fish, most often a huge trout, that he had caught.  He explained how he could cover one side of a fish with a specific ink to get an imprint, then wash the ink off, and still be able to eat the fish.  We had started to exchange fish stories when his wife came in and reminded him he needed to be out with his art students.  He could become so engrossed in his passions that, at that moment, his love of fishing made him forget his love for art and his purpose for that evening.      

In my early thirties after dating a variety of women, I married a young woman also named Barbara.  She had been a student in a tennis class I taught and struck me as unusually mature for her age and fun to be around.  Before long we were spending time together almost every day.  As our relationship became more serious, one of my friends cautioned me that it could never last because of our age difference of almost 14 years.  Yet we have now been happily married for almost 60 years, so I think we might yet make it work.  

Our age difference did pop up in interesting ways, however, starting on our first date.  That night I took her out for dinner at a nice restaurant by a lake in Oakland.  I ordered wine with my dinner.  She ordered milk.  On another evening at her request we went to see a rock group named Paul Revere and the Raiders.  When I looked around, I realized I must have been the only person even close to thirty in the entire audience.

There was no way I could have known then what a special person she would be throughout our lives, how strong she would be in both mind and spirit, or how often she would help solve the various problems that occur in a long marriage.  She became the glue to our family, a person we all have depended on for wisdom, strength and love.  

The fourth woman who had a strong influence on my life was our daughter, Tami.  At every stage in her life, she has taught me how wonderful a daddy-daughter relationship can be. 

When she was a baby, I often carried her in a backpack as we hiked through the woods.  As a toddler, she liked walking with me holding hands.  One day she looked up at me and asked, “Hand for me”?  Those words touched me so deeply I never forgot them and started asking her that question as well.  Whenever that question came  up, we would smile at each other and reach for the other’s hand.   

Within a few years I was holding her hand when helping her across the difficult currents of trout streams and when climbing up or down steep hills.  She later wrote that just as I had held her hand in the scary parts of a stream, Jesus was holding her hand in the scary waters of life.  Beyond that, she also felt that God was prompting her to help guide other people through their tough times.      

Tami brought her enthusiasm, creativity and caring personality to the teaching of young children in a nearby school.  People walking by our home were starting to greet me by a new identity, as “Tami’s Dad”, and letting me know how much they appreciated having her as a teacher for their children.

So these four women have all touched me with their steadfast love, strength and character, providing me with protection, direction, and wisdom as needed.  At times during the years that followed, other special women have entered our lives and blessed us with their caring ways.

I thank God for His gift of a woman’s touch.

 

“Who was the first baseball and basketball coach at Oakland’s Skyline High School?”  That’s the sports trivia question I like to ask when meeting former Skyline students, because I was that coach and few of them would know that.  I was there for only two years in the early 1960s before being recruited away to teach and coach at the University of California.  During that first year at Skyline, only one boy who had made the “All-League Team” at his former school transferred to ours.  He was a great kid but unfortunately experienced a disappointing senior year in baseball with us.  My team had a decent season, but I felt I had failed that boy in not bringing out the best in his abilities.  So at the season’s end I was surprised to receive a letter from his father expressing how much their whole family appreciated all I had done for their son, including motivating him to go on to college.  That father, by taking the time to thoughtfully write down those words under such circumstances, lifted my spirits in a way no spoken compliment could have.  Written compliments add impact by leaving a person with something encouraging to look at, think about, and perhaps build on.

Some situations are not conducive to writing down our compliments, yet we can still add a personal touch.  There is nothing more personal than taking the time to learn someone’s name.  I did this when teaching at the University of California, learning more than 300 first and last names of students each semester and chatting with students between classes.  It always surprised me how many would later ask me to write a letter of recommendation for them even though I could offer little more than a character reference.  Sadly, many of them had no relationship with any professor in their major field whose recommendation would carry more weight in job placement. 

I found that taking the time and effort to learn names of people we met through our homeless outreach meant even more as many of them were living in shame.  Being able to greet them by name let them know they were remembered and valued as individuals.  Often we were able to follow this up by listening to their stories, encouraging them, praying over their specific concerns, and sharing hugs and laughter.  

Some people associate personalizing with having a name imprinted on a garment, but I use that term for trying to imprint a caring personality into my speech and actions.  Too often I have been preoccupied with tasks to be done with little regard for the other people involved.  In the Bible we read, “Let no one seek his own, but each one the other’s well being.”                                      

Personalizing during hard times, such as many people have recently been going through, carries an additional opportunity to step up and be there with our encouragement.  We do well to focus on communicating topics that are uplifting and even put a smile on the faces of people who may hold a different world view than our own.  This was our country’s emphasis during the scariest times I have known, the World War II years when the armies of both Japan and Germany were advancing throughout the world.  Our mood was typified in songs such as one written then and popularized by the Mills Brothers that reminded us to “Accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, and don’t mess with mister in-between.”  

Whatever situation we are going through, there often exists a choice of taking time to care for other people’s needs in one way or another.  I have been known for my knowledge in several areas of interest, but I would prefer to be remembered more for how I care about people than what I know about things.  I have found the old saying so often true that “people don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.”

 

Our choices sometimes bring unexpected benefits.  The benefit I foresaw in choosing to landscape with California native plants was to be surrounded with plants I have enjoyed out in nature.  What I did not expect was how much those plants would mean to me when I could no longer climb mountains nor scramble down into trout streams, nor that they would grow into such a special area of refuge for animals, discovery for children, or peace for busy adults.

That came to me one day as I was sitting quietly in our garden.  Turning my head in response to a faint sound, I saw two quail emerge from cover, walk to a sand castle my grandchildren had built, jump up onto the castle walls, look around, then drop inside to survey the scene as if to say, “What do we have here?”  My time of peace, the quails’ curiosity, and the children’s recent fun had all contributed to that special moment.

I recalled that the sandy mound was also used to bury “hidden treasure”, fulfill certain landscaping needs, and serve as an egg-laying area for lizards.  I wondered how many of my other landscape features also benefitted all three groups—animals, children and adults.

Our water feature consists of a small stream with falls, plunge pools, riffles and a pond.  Children delight in water play activities, birds bathe, animals come to drink, and fish and turtles swim in the pond.  Both the sight and sound of the water add to an adult’s sense of tranquility.

The nearby areas of open woodland include rocky ground, low plants, shrubs, and small trees that offer various feeding, perching and nesting options for a wide variety of birds.  Children use the trails there for running, chasing, and playing catch.  And whether strolling the pathways or sitting quietly, adults welcome the open views between the small trees to taller ones beyond.

Elsewhere in the yard is an area dominated by shrubs.  The tall manzanitas there give children a “jungle experience” where they can walk, crawl or hide under an overhead canopy.  With some pruning help, they are able to climb through several bushes without their feet touching the ground in a native plant “jungle gym”.  Together we pick the berries and prepare a manzanita cider as people have done for hundreds of years.  Adults appreciate the manzanita’s year-around beauty of fresh-green foliage and gnarled reddish bark.   Also birds and small mammals enjoy being able to feed leisurely under the overhead protection on seeds, berries and insects.

Stacked wood, rock outcroppings, and artifacts all add interest between the plants for birds and animals to perch and hunt.  The wood provides fuel for burning and a wall behind which to conceal extra gravel and other gardening materials that children dip into for their imaginative play.  Children also jump from rock to rock and use the outcroppings as a backdrop for action-figure or doll play.  Adults appreciate the textural contrast that rocks provide to nearby plants.  Artifacts such as an old pump, a wagon wheel, and mining and ranch items give children props for role playing and offer adults occasions to reflect on the way things were done in the past.

Almost every day I see animals, children or adults enjoying this natural-looking landscape, and I no longer need to travel to feel I am getting back to nature.  Although this garden has been likened to a park, it is merely the size of a typical suburban lot.  Adding to, rather than removing, natural habitat offers wonderful, important benefits to life around me, such as providing much needed help to butterflies and other pollinators in their current uphill battle for survival.  

 

She opened the book and out fell a piece of paper that looked to be quite old.  She picked it up and read the words written back who knows when.  I told her of the old pirate who had apparently once lived in this area and was rumored to have buried treasure nearby.  People had long looked for, but never found, a clue to that treasure’s location.  Was this his writing? 

Apparently something in those words registered with the girl because she rushed outside.  I tried to follow as best I could.  That note seemed to be leading her somewhere.  Finally I found her digging in a sandy area just as her shovel struck something hard.  Within a few moments she had uncovered a small, old-fashioned wooden chest.  She opened it to find treasure—jewelry and gold coins.  Her eyes were filled with wonder and excitement.

I witnessed such treasure hunts with both of our children and each of our grandchildren for I was the culprit who had engineered each hunt.  To give the note an ancient look I had cut a section from a brown-paper grocery bag and burned its edges.  The box was filled with cheap costume jewelry and gold coins with chocolate inside.  The excitement, however, was real.  Even after finding that their first hunt had been contrived, each of those children pleaded with me for subsequent treasure hunts.  That is how much fun they are.

I did those treasure hunts because as a child I had always wanted to experience one myself, but never had.  Even our Easter egg hunts had been indoors.  I just had to make things right for the children who came along after me.

I believe our life journey may be viewed as a treasure hunt as well in which people seem to be looking in different directions.  Some seek their treasure through possessions.  Others put their energies into big events or trips to distant places.  Still others seek expertise in some activity or hobby.  I have been fortunate to find pleasure in each of these ways, realizing that each has added dimension to my life.  But they all have fallen short in being the treasure I have sought.  I have been drawn more to changes that are going on within me, something not dependent on possessions, events or expertise but through which I can find contentment and peace whatever I might be going through.

When taking time to examine my beliefs, one question I have asked is “What does God expect of me?”  Then I read in the Proverbs that we are to seek Him as we would seek hidden treasure, and that if we do, He will find us.  That spoke of something more than casual pursuit.

Farther along in the scriptures I read that the kingdom of heaven is likened to a treasure hidden in a field that a man finds and sells all that he has to obtain.  I recall that the famous British missionary to China, Jackie Pullinger, when teaching this parable, would ask her students “Who is that treasure so worth obtaining?”  Assuming they would have answered “Jesus”, I was surprised that most of those Chinese youths had replied, “I am that treasure”.  “How can you be that treasure?” she would ask.  “It is because Jesus suffered so much and gave up His very life out of love for me”.  They were not seeing the love relationship from our point of view but from the perspective that came first, God’s love for us.  For me this treasure includes, not only receiving His love, but also sharing it with people He has placed in my path, even if it be nothing more than offering a smile or encouraging word.   A sign in our garden reads, “The grace we have been given becomes our gift to the world.”  

 

The sport is called fishing, not catching, but one day I was catching more than fishing.  This was Alaska before hordes of anglers were streaming to the most remote rivers there.  That day there were only six of us on our favorite river, and the salmon were everywhere.  I hooked over 100 fish, landed two-thirds of them, and had fish on my line most of the time.  Since that day, counting fish has meant little to me and valuing each fish has meant much more.                                                                                                      

Although catching many fish generally makes for a good day, catching unusually large fish often requires more skill.  One of my favorite ‘big fish’ days occurred while casting into the surf at Christmas Island, south of the Hawaiians, in ocean water so clear you could see fish below the wave action.  As we walked along the shore, we caught a variety of fish, mostly bonefish.  Then my guide pointed to deeper water where a large fish, a trevally of about 70 pounds, glistened a brilliant blue in the sun as it cruised along slowly beyond casting range.  I switched to my other, much stiffer fly rod onto which I had already tied a 4-inch-long streamer fly.  I made a few practice casts to get line out and retrieved it into several coils in my hand.  With my line ready, I continued along the shoreline 10 to 20 feet ahead of that big fish.  I was remembering another time watching a trevally suddenly speed up in a dash toward shore to catch a small fish. I was hoping this trevally would do just that—and before long it did

I placed a cast in front of that approaching fish, and when it was only about 40 feet from me, made my fly dart once.  In a flash that huge fish had it, was hooked, and bolted for deeper water.  I tightened up my reel’s drag as much as I dared, but nothing slowed that fish.  I moved high on the beach, and my guide went into the water with my line held high in joint efforts to keep it from breaking on the coral.   I had 300 yards of backing line on that reel, but when that fish stopped moving only a few feet remained.  I worked hard for the next few minutes but only gained back a few more feet before the fish succeeded in breaking me off.  I think the only way I could have landed that fish would have been to be able to follow it in a boat.  By breaking me off, it saved me several hours of hard work.  All I really lost was a photo that would have meant little to anyone but me.  I gained far more—a vivid memory of a well placed cast, an eye-filling view of an enormous fish attacking my fly, and the feel of its immense power.

Some best fishing days were about sharing the experience with special people—fishing buddies, family members, even a few famous guides and fishing personalities with whom to share ideas.  If given the opportunity to relive one fishing day, it would be a day back in the 1950s with my dad and uncle, men who I loved being around and tried to model myself after.   

One of my best fishing days was with our daughter, Tami, whom I had taught to cast and catch trout in small Sierra streams.  She wanted to catch a bigger fish in Yellowstone Park but, once there, kept busy in other activities.  Before leaving, we made a last stop at Grant’s Village.  I quickly glanced at the indoor exhibits and went out the back door and down to a boardwalk I remembered that extended a ways into Yellowstone Lake.  There I discovered some trout cruising within casting range, sipping mayflies off the surface.  I grabbed my vest and fly rod out of the car, tied on a fly that matched the one the fish were taking, and quickly caught one.  Then I hurried back into the building, found Tami, and told her to come catch her big trout.  “Tami, you don’t have to put on waders or anything, just come.”  

She was wearing a stylish outfit—not something to wear fishing.  On that boardwalk I handed her my fly rod and started spotting fish for her.   With polarized sunglasses, I could see the trouts’ movements and direct her casts.  Tami caught and deftly released several of the largest Yellowstone Cutthroat trout I had seen.  My pleasure included watching the reactions of passers-by seeing an attractive, well-dressed young girl battling those big fish.

I love calling up such moments from the memory playlist in my mind.

   

Teaching has been my way of life, whether mentoring individuals, teaching in classrooms, coaching on athletic fields, guiding on trout streams, or speaking before large audiences.  Wherever my interests have taken root, I have soon found myself teaching.  The more I have done that, the more I have been drawn to using questions.

The least-inspiring classes and meetings I have attended have aways been lectures—someone telling me something.  Although that may be an efficient use of time, teachers have the additional obligation to help students learn to think.  Socrates taught that the most we can do to stimulate thinking is to ask a series of questions, causing a person to learn for himself.  I have used that approach in a method called “guided discovery” in which the teacher, the one with the answers, is not allowed to give an answer.  I found it frustrating not to be able to blurt out the answer.  Instead, my preparation included anticipating incorrect answers and coming up with increasingly easy questions to guide the students toward discovering each correct answer.  When a student came up with the right answer, I could move forward to the next general question.  This teaching may appear to be easy, but preparing such questions is not.

The teacher’s role is also about creating interest—motivating students.  By their very nature, questions do this by opening up a conversation to various possibilities whereas lectures often shut down any dialogue.  Even the simplest question, “I wonder why…?” can invoke a sense of mystery and excite the imagination, inviting people to look at a thing in a new way.  I love it when I see that happening.

Questions can also help afterward in evaluating the learning experience.  When teaching sport skills, for example, I have often seen when the learning occurred, the “breakthrough” moment in a performance.  Wanting to know what triggered that learning, my first inclination was to give credit to my teaching approach as most teachers would.  But eventually I realized I learned more by simply asking students, “What were you thinking when making that movement?”  One time a student answered that he had blocked out what I was saying to focus on something else.  That was humbling, but at least I found out what had worked.  I suspect that students learn by trying different things more than we realize.

More than ever I am now using questions in my everyday conversations as well.  My first intentional use of conversational questions occurred when as a shy teenager in uncomfortable social settings I learned to ask questions of the person I was meeting.  I had found that most people liked talking about themselves, which took pressure off of my having to speak.  

Sometimes when I ask questions, people act as if I don’t know much (sometimes true) and welcome the opportunity to impress me with what they know.  While this is often helpful, the people who impress me even more are those who are also asking questions, forcing me to answer at times.  The questions I love most draw out stories from another person’s life, wonderful stories I would miss if I hadn’t asked those questions.  Most people have stories, and I believe my most interesting conversations are often sitting there next to me waiting for the right question to bring them forth.  I wish over the years I had spent more time asking questions and learning to ask better questions. 

     

I began to think he could do that all day, hit one line drive after another.  That was my reaction to watching Curt Flood taking batting practice.  No matter where that pitch was in the strike zone, he was able to get the sweet spot of the bat on it.  It was beautiful.  Curt was just one of the many highly-skilled athletes my dad coached.  Well-liked, Curt was an exceptional role model for young players.  He had a great junior year on my dad’s team and was projected to  receive a $30,000 bonus to play professional baseball, big money then.  Unfortunately Curt did not grow during his senior year, so was offered only the $4,000 minimum instead.  Although considered too short, his skills were so impressive and consistent that he advanced through the minor leagues quickly to become an all-star center fielder for the St. Louis Cardinals.

Coaching gifted athletes can have its own set of challenges, such as educating a player’s family member as to what a coach expects of that player.  John Brodie comes to mind.  I played football against John in grade school and had never seen a kid our age throw the football so far.  He and I both excelled in basketball, and in high school he decided to try baseball as well.  Hitting curve balls usually takes time to learn, but John was doing it almost immediately.  He was gaining valuable experience on our junior varsity until his dad pulled him from the team in mid-season to keep his grades up for Stanford.

That summer John and I played on the same baseball team, and he was our leading hitter.  At one point his dad approached mine and said, “I’ll bet you are glad John will be playing for your team this year.”  My dad’s reply surprised us. “John won’t be playing for me.  I can’t build a team around a player who might quit in the middle of the season.”  Quick to understand, John’s dad offered, “What if I guarantee that he will be there all season?”  That is the commitment my dad had to hear.  John went on to play a key role in helping my dad’s team get to the championship game.  Later John became best known as an all-pro quarterback with the 49ers.

My dad taught me that the best coaches care about the athletes on other teams as well as their own.  George Powles was another widely-respected baseball coach in Oakland but at McClymonds High was assigned to coach basketball as well, a game in which he had little experience.  One day he called my dad for advice about a tall 10th grader whose coordination was so bad that balls he was rebounding were slipping through his hands prompting laughter from his teammates.  George asked my dad if he thought he should cut that boy from the team to protect him from further humiliation.  My dad advised against that because he knew that the coordination of a tall, quick-growing boy often comes slowly.  He had almost made that mistake years before with a boy named Don Lofgren who eventually made the All-City team before going on to U.S.F..  At that time, the N.I.T. tournament was the most prestigious event in college basketball.  Only the top 12 teams the country were invited. That U.S.F. team coached by Pete Newell was the only team invited from the west.  Seeded 12th and last in that tournament, U.S.F. won it all—shocking the eastern pundits.  Don Lofgren was the center on that team.

Two years after my dad’s advice, I played against that boy whose coordination had been improving.  And after two additional years at the college level, that coordination, once so bad, had  become exquisite, so good that he seemed to be blocking every shot taken.  His skill even forced a rule change that disallowed blocking shots on their downward flight.  That boy was Bill Russell who became one of the most dominant centers in the history of basketball.

My dad varied his approach to help each player reach his potential.  However, he expected them all, no matter how gifted, to abide by rules that placed team above self.  He lost championships benching “star” players unwilling to do that.  It was always about more than the game.

  Sharing Good Times

The stillness of the warm afternoon was suddenly interrupted by a wild whooping from the cabin where my uncle and dad were playing cribbage.  It was our dad’s voice as my sister and I had never heard it.  Not knowing what to expect, we ran to the sound and learned that he had just drawn a “29 hand”, the highest-scoring hand in cribbage that apparently occurs only once in 216,580 times.  As my dad relished his once-in-a-lifetime moment, my uncle was just smiling and shaking his head.  My dad loved playing cards with several men but spent far more of his leisure time with us.  His approach to discipline wasn’t always pleasant for me, so sharing good times added that all-important loving dimension to our relationship.  

One thing he and I shared was an interest in sports.  The old timers said my dad could have played major-league baseball, so I appreciated that he never put pressure on my performing well.  He simply provided opportunities to play and offered occasional suggestions.  He supplemented his income by working as the summer playground director at our local high school.  The summer I was 14, I tagged along.  My favorite game there was “Army Ball”, a modified version of baseball adapted to competition between two-player teams.  In a 9-inning game, each player batted at least 15 times and had frequent opportunities at fielding batted balls—much more action and fun than regular baseball.  The field of play was restricted to a narrow area of about 20 feet wide so that most balls might be caught by one of two players—the pitcher or the outfielder playing somewhere behind him.  Any ball swung at was an “out” if not falling within that narrow area.  If a ground ball got past the pitcher or was mishandled by him, it was a “single”.  If the hit landed in certain designated areas it was a “double” or a “triple”.  If it hit the window screens of the building beyond our field, it was a “home run” unless caught off the screen by the outfielder for an “out”.  If the batted ball went even farther onto the roof, it was “three outs”, because we had to stop our game to retrieve the ball.  With extra players challenging the winning team, we played all day, changing teams if one was winning too much.  This game was always fun for me, but most fun when my dad and I were on the same team.

Our lunch break included a walk to a nearby market where my dad would buy a cantaloupe and pint of ice cream.  With the melon cut in half and ice cream replacing the scooped out seeds, it made a special treat for us to share.  

He and I sat together some evenings, listening to programs on the radio, a few years before T.V.. Saturday mornings were my favorite time as my dad and I always got up early while my mom and sister were enjoying sleeping in.  He would make our breakfasts, and there was no hurry.  A quiet man, this was a time he would tell me stories from his past.  It was like he was opening a book to the adventures of a different world in which he had lived.  It was wonderful.  I felt so privileged to be invited into that.  I now realize how important such times were in providing opportunities to unwind, something even more needed in today’s stress-filled world.

I’ve learned that some of the best moments in life are those sharing activities we love with people we love, starting with family members.  People talk about getting to the causes of our cities’ problems, but I know from years of mentoring addicts and ministering to homeless people that the absence of good fathering has to rank high among those causes.  I have the utmost respect for any man who has survived the pain of cruel or negligent fathering to become a caring, nurturing father himself.  In Malachi, God says He will turn the hearts of the fathers to the children and the hearts of the children to their fathers.  I pray for that now more than ever.

                                 

California is not known for dramatic seasonal weather swings.  Such changes here are most apparent in the mountains where I have particularly enjoyed the onset of Fall.  Even on the sunny days, I could feel that Winter was not far away.  The air was cooler; summer crowds, departed; skiers, not yet arrived; animals, more in evidence; and fish, still hungry.  Perfect. 

Our garden also takes on a different look and feel in the Fall.  Not only are the sunny days cooler but the the air is fresher as well.  Our deciduous trees and shrubs start dropping their leaves to reopen views I haven’t seen since early Spring.  

In this season I enjoy spending time adjusting the number and placement of rocks in my various outcroppings in an unending effort to further enhance the natural look of the landscape throughout a garden not intended to resemble a typical garden.  I am as interested in the beauty between the plants as in the plants themselves.

There are fewer blooms than in the Spring and Summer, but color nonetheless.  The cooler nights have helped paint my Vine Maple leaves in reds, oranges and yellows bringing an attractive contrast to the year-around, fresh-green foliage of nearby manzanitas.  And the red berries of the Toyon add their own Fall color—until the robins and cedar waxwings begin their annual feeding frenzy, marking for me the arrival of Winter.  When I see that happening, I try to drop whatever I am doing to sit out among those Toyons where I’ve seen upward to 30 birds intently rushing back and forth past me in the air, some within arms reach.  It’s exciting in the middle of a feeding frenzy, even as an observer.

Among the other colorful leaves of Fall are the red leaves of my Mountain Dogwood.  This plant blesses us twice a year with beautiful color.  In the Spring I look forward to its lovely white flower heads.  This showy beauty reminds me of the exuberant outward beauty of a young person in the Spring of life.  Yet such beauty in flowers and people typically fades with time.  But in the Autumn of life when many plants have become brown and withered, that dogwood’s entire foliage can turn a brilliant red.  This reminds me of the deeper beauty of an older person who, in spite of trials and difficulties endured, has chosen to remain positive in outlook, even giving off a joy that lifts the spirit of everyone around. This is the beauty that gives me the example to follow in the years still before me. 

I am thankful for such people, the mountain dogwood, and the Fall season itself and regard them as beautiful gifts from a personal God.