Deadhead Ed's Dead

There are little things that happen to you here and there now and then. They define your future and refine your personality through experience. Momentous in retrospect, they linger then rise to loom like mountain peaks in the ridge of memory, defining your line of sight, brought forward through the prism of a personal seismic semifictional alignment. Where is this going? I’ll tell you where. You never know. And that’s the point here. These are all big philosophical ways of saying you never know what things or which people will shape the paths in your life. Because little things point to bigger ways.

This is one of those moments that happened way before the Zapple Records Grateful Dead vinyl conversations. Before the late night calls of “NARR! EPPIE CAH!” meaning drives to West Sacramento over the Foggy Yoyo Causeway for a Cup of Joe. Before the legendary pickup slow motion rolling crash in a Winters farmer’s field. Before the first 80 degree day of the Davis spring where all who knew arrived unspoken for six packs of Tecate. Before the Beer and Loafing story of rafting in the long river afternoon. Before the ball playing quacking antics of the Ducks tossing and whacking softballs. Before the all-night parties hosted by the Flying Andersons. Previous to the obvious.

To quote the Great Gelfond: “This is my theory, which is mine.” So let’s get on with it. Let’s start with another complicated yet simple definition of a way. Let’s get tribal. Back in the day when the Grateful Dead were a band, there were people who followed them to attend concerts. Even though the band made records, it was the feeling that many people got at their live concert shows that set the stage for a lifetime appreciation. This feeling was a collective experience, a vibe that connected the audience to the performers and back again, where everyone became a part of a bigger thing in the moment. Some pictured this effect as a flying dragon biting its tail to form a circle.

[Here I digress into symbolism. That topic is better covered in a turn of the century French Literature class at Sproul Hall at UC Davis. Let’s not do it here. My apologies.]

Those who went to the shows regularly to participate in this tribal ceremony were called Deadheads. Because of his apparent tribal affiliation expressed in dress and music, some people affectionately labeled Young Eddy Weber as Deadhead Ed. Like other nicknames bestowed on other luminaries such as Johnny Mike, Hippie, and Woo Woo Woo, the name stuck. I think we all have enough information at this point to proceed with the story. No more butt cheese. We have no time for that now.

Ever notice how some important events tend to coincide? Ever wonder why when it rains, cows don’t go inside? Outside the Barns of Tercero in late spring or early summer, a number of us decided to honor the three night annual appearance of the Grateful Dead at Winterland with a commitment to drive back and forth seeing all the shows during Academic Finals Week. Various sacred roots and chemicals were consumed.

In this state, I entered Winterland, an ice rink converted to a celebrated concert venue. This was our temple for all things Grateful Dead. On this night, Bill Graham provided pre-show entertainment in the form of a volleyball court in the middle of the floor. The winning team would play the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic for a donation money prize from the concert promoter if the health provider’s team won the championship. Rival teams were formed randomly on the spot and announced under banners of geography: East Bay, Marin, Peninsula, SF…and DAVIS!

From my seat in the balcony, I ran down to the floor heavily blazing in my mind to find most of the people representing Davis already on the court. Organizing the team was Deadhead Ed. As my wild-eyed self ran up, he was already staring into my wobbly eyes with their unreliably dilated pupils. His trademark wide smile invited me onto the space of the court anyway. Play began against Marin.

The first ball I touched went flying into the crowd. The announcer said, “We’ve got some toasted flakes here tonight.” I was a little nervous out there on the big stage. Ed looked at me with that look where his head tilted to the side, eyebrows raised, and mouth corner smirked. I took that as a friendly reminder to get my shit together. The rest of the game, we played in tune with synchronized setting, spiking, and serving. High fives all around. Ed’s big smile shined liked a quarter moon even in defeat. Fighting hard, we lost 19–17 to Marin who went on to beat the Haight Ashbury Free Clinic.

This should be the end of the story. But the vibe was wrong. The songs went slow and low. The crowd was bumming. Concern was in the air. The band and the crowd sensed that the Free Clinic should get the money anyway. So after the first set, Bill Graham came out and said they would get the donation. The second set took off and blew the roof off the house. And out on the floor, a girl popped and dropped her contact lens in the middle of a song. Standing there with a smiling Ed, I saw the flickering path of the spinning lens tracing down to the floor. Reaching down, I picked it up and handed it back to the girl. Ed smiled and we all danced the night away even though I don’t dance.

But since then, when I feel something strongly in the moment, I do know how to smile while I look someone in the eye. I also know that when I focus on anything in any condition, I can create the confidence to get it done. Thanks, Deadhead Ed. Thanks for teaching me to feel the joyous grace of the moment. Even though you're gone, you'll not be forgotten. The night we met to celebrate your life, there was a huge quarter moon smile in the sky. They say your heart was too big for this world. "NARR!"

Classmates [dot] Com

As someone who is awkwardly bent toward nostalgia, I often delve into the Twilight Zone-ish idea that my 12-year-old self still delivers papers after school. Okay, that's not simply bending, and it certainly isn't simple nostalgia--it might be a problem. But, since I can't afford a shrink, you'll have to ask yours what he or she thinks.

Wait--I've digressed somewhat. Consider this: Have you ever wondered if people you think about occasionally think of you? For example, think of someone from high school, someone you spent a lot of time with and thought of as a good friend. Imagine you still think fondly of this person, though you have not heard from him or her in a long time, and then weigh the odds that this person is sitting in front a computer right now and thinking of you. Or, maybe not thinking of you, maybe thinking of a good recipe for salmon, one that can be used for next Saturday's gourmet club.

Which, naturally, leads me to Classmates.com, a website devoted to nostalgia if ever one existed. You can do some things for free on this website. For example, you can set up a profile that someone, maybe that old friend who isn't thinking of a good recipe for salmon, can read. When you log into this website, you can see how many people have viewed your profile, and how many have left you messages.

Now for the sad part. I set up a profile several years ago, but seldom do I actually log in. Recently, however, I did, and I found this: 16 people have viewed my profile, and 2 have signed my guestbook, whatever that is. Yeah, that's it: 16 + 2.... The 16 viewers are anonymous, and I am not interested in them. I am, though, somewhat interested in who signed my guestbook, for these people made an effort to let me know they're out there somewhere. One signed in the summer of 2007, and one signed just a couple of months ago. The thing is, the only way I can learn who these people are is by giving Classmates.com some money, which I've almost done a few times but, those same few times, have balked just short of entering my credit card number. (And if you're thinking that maybe it's not 2 people but the same person, I've admitted that as well. Just let me have my fantasy, okay?)

I would like to ask those 2 people some questions: who? what? where? why? when?

Being a cheapskate is not always such a good thing.

Where I'm Calling From

Kominski introduced me to Raymond Carver's writing sometime around 1985 or 1986 when we worked together on micro-documents to support a major banking institution's software products. Kominski would later become my boss, but that's not part of this story. We had a co-worker named Jim, an old guy who liked to drink his lunch more often than not. Jim's not part of this story, either, though I think I'll write about him at some point. Some other people, writers we worked with but who are not part of this story, are Ken, who was my boss before Kominski; Richard, who had a great sense of humor; Steve, who was an obnoxious twit with some bad habits; Suzie, who is probably instrumental in that banking institution's success; and Cliff, who must have attended the same Twit School that Steve did. Ken and Jim and Richard are dead, and I'm sad about that. There was a Deirdre, too, an Englishwoman who is now probably married to a Baron.

Raymond Carver, who also is dead, wrote wonderfully polished short stories and, to a lesser extent, poems. In fact, I sometimes use his poems when I teach a literature class, something we can't discuss because I'm really not supposed to use those poems in that class. I read pretty much every Carver story I could find, and then I read them again and again. When I was a college undergraduate, one of the professors who taught poetry writing classes I took had been great friends with Carver when Carver was in Sacramento, but I would not learn this until graduate school where I took poetry writing classes from that same professor. I don't know where I learned this.

Some of Carver's stories are the basis for the movie Short Cuts, which is one of my favorite movies. Some of Carver's life is allegedly documented in the book The Honeymooners, which is one of my favorite books.

I left that banking institution much too soon; it was the best job I've ever quit. I left for various reasons, all of which seemed sound at the time. One of the reasons was to go "home," though I've never really felt at home here. I did go to graduate school, which was a good reason, and if I had not come back, I would not have met some wonderful people. The job I left that banking institution for was the worst job (okay, only) job I've ever been fired from. I had left my wife and sons behind while we waited for our little tract home to be built, and I ended up working at a place that made me miserable.

So, I spent a lot of time alone. I went to class at night, and I drove home on weekends. One night when I was not in school, I wandered into Tower Books, picked up a copy of The North American Review, and saw inside that magazine a small note that Raymond Carver had died. I put the magazine back on the rack, left the store, and thought, "well, that sucks." I didn't have many literary heroes, and one of them had died. This was in 1988, and he had died, apparently, on my wedding anniversary.

Raymond Carver is buried in a scenic cemetery in Port Angeles, Washington, where you can catch a ferry to Victoria, Canada. From the grave you can look out over the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which just so happens is mentioned in the book I'm reading, Passage to Juneau: A Sea and its Meanings. Several years ago our family went to Port Angeles as part of a vacation, and we took that ferry to Victoria, which is a nice city I'd like to visit again. We also went bowling, and that was fun too. One morning when everyone was sleeping, I started the rented van and drove to the cemetery; I then walked around until I found Carver's grave, which is marked by an impressive piece of granite. Tess Gallagher, Carver's wife when he died, has a grave ready for herself, too. There's a small bench next to the graves, and there was a metal box that contained a notebook for people to record their thoughts.

I felt a bit odd standing there, as though visiting graves was not a normal thing to do. (And maybe it isn't--I mean, it's not like I really knew the guy.) One of his poems, and one of my favorites, is etched onto his gravestone. It is entitled "Gravy," and I think you should look it up.

When the Muse is Recalcitrant

I actually wanted to use an adjective a bit more harsh than "recalcitrant," but I'm trying to pretend that I am cultured and have reached a point in my life where I can be forgiving, diplomatic, and kind.

None of those adjectives is accurate, certainly, but if I'm being kind to the Muse, I might as well be kind to myself.

I tried last night to draw the Muse cloak-like around me, conjuring the best I could with a bottle of Liquid Sunshine Blond Ale brewed by the Hoppy Brewing Company. The Muse, though, was happy to let me drink alone. And, having spent about 4 hours back-country skiing yesterday, I was sound asleep not long after the bottle was empty. I was, frankly, exhausted, which I gladly enjoyed if only because exhaustion for once trumped insomnia.

Early this morning, then, after an invigorating (if brief) bike ride, I sat on the sofa with a cup of tea, perused the Sunday paper, and began leafing through various volumes of poetry. I am reading Passage to Juneau and Ansel Adam's autobiography now, neither of which inspires much creativity. I was hopeful that my thin books of poems would hold something for me, for in addition to needing something creative to work on for personal reasons, I am also supposed to present a poem at next week's meeting of my writers group.

Hope, though, doesn't always float. I found some wonderful works from my favorite poets: Raymond Carver; Phil Levine; Stanley Kunitz. These guys!

And then I found this, a poem I first read (and memorized) maybe 25 years ago, written by William Stafford. [Note: you'll find much better discussion of poetry at "The Great American Pinup," which is linked from this site.]

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt--ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

I am not exactly sure of why I settled on Stafford's work, but I think it might be because I keep thinking about people--some who have "come in their slow way into my life"--I have known for a long time. Recently, for example, I made contact with someone I knew in high school. The contact was actually accidental, but I then bungled a reciprocal connection. I also recently dreamed of a friend, also from high school, who was the best man in my wedding, a man I have not spoken to in many (too many) years. And, finally, I have been thinking about another visit to my hometown in the Midwest, which I know is something I should not either consider or do.

As I read, as I looked for something to write about for this blog, I discovered a couple of things that might serve as material for the next couple of posts. We'll see.

Yosemite

What's a smart thing to do when you've got a nasty head cold, a day of vacation, and persistent friends? Spend a couple of winter nights in Yosemite Valley, where you can trudge through the snow in your Sorels or on your skis and take some photographs.

Fuzziness in this picture is actually snow. Hard to see here are traces of green pine boughs to the left and right. Green is also reflected in the water.



I considered cropping out the top portion of this one, but I like the hint of granite in the background.



The final photograph is of our campsite after we'd shoveled out from a night's worth of snow--as in, all night. Each of us had to periodically push against the inside of our respective tents (mine's in the foreground) to keep the snow from accumulating and collapsing the tent walls. And all night we could hear minor avalanches of snow dropping from the nearby mountains. (If you're reading, Shawn, this is about 75 yards in from the parking lot at Camp 4.)