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!"