The Good Old Grateful Dead-Four Experiences *

 

As I type this Dead & Company, the final offshoot of the Grateful Dead, are about to begin their last tour’s final three-night run. Bob Weir and the boys will make their stand back where it all began: San Francisco. In numerous posts over the years, I have used references to the Grateful Dead’s music as a background element of whatever events I have described. Often, I have quoted a lyric from one of their more iconic songs like Ripple or Box of Rain. I don’t think I have ever written just about the Grateful Dead in my life and how they have been a thread that weaves in and out of everything I have ever done and experienced since I was 12 or 13 years of age.

 

I first heard the Grateful Dead late at night on my plastic crème and blue Philco Radio when I was 12.  A DJ on a local AM top forty station had a Sunday night underground radio show. In the hushed deep tones of an underground DJ of the era he announced he would play only the Grateful Dead on the upcoming Sunday night. The DJ described them as a band at the forefront of the underground scene from San Francisco. At 10 pm on a Sunday night in 1968 while listening to WIBG in all of its static filled AM glory I heard St. Stephen and The Eleven for the first time. It was like nothing I had heard before. The music was captivating. I was hooked and followed the Grateful Dead with growing intensity for the next five decades.

 

As to what I heard that night well wow.  Just Wow.  I was blown away.  The music, the lyrics they boggled my little mind.

 

Did he doubt or did he try?

Answers aplenty in the bye and bye,

Talk about your plenty, talk about your ills,

One man gathers what another man spills.

 

St. Stephen-Hunter/Lesh/Garcia

 

I would not be listening to Wibbage AM 99, home of Jerry Blavat, the Geator with the Heater for much longer.  I shifted the small plastic switch on my radio from AM to FM first to WDAS and then to WMMR. And suddenly it was 1970 and these stations were playing the Rolling Stones, Argent, the Incredible String Band, Muddy Waters, Bob Dylan, Al Kooper, Fairport Convention, Love, Jimi Hendrix, Mississippi John Hurt and on and on. Music washed over me. I was drowning in blues, rock, psychedelia and folk.

 

Two thirteen-point lightning bolts struck that year. First, in June “Workingman’s Dead” dropped. It was the Grateful Dead’s sidewise return to guitarist Jerry Garcia’s and lyricist Robert Hunter’s bluegrass roots. If you listen to Cumberland Blues you get that hill mentality mixed with the hippie ethos. The album was filled with songs of what would come to be called Americana. American Beauty was an innovative direction for the counterculture musicians. The screaming guitars and feedback of Garcia and company were replaced with acoustic sounds, even mandolins. Workingman's Dead was an enigmatic album but it seemed hopeful. Workingman's Dead was a defining moment of change for the Grateful Dead.

 

Almost instantly Casey Jones became a staple of late night underground shows. Vice President Spiro Agnew noticed. He raged about its drug-loving message and tried to order radio stations to stop playing it. Agnew’s attempt at censorship went over like a fart in an elevator. FM DJs would simply slip the song into a marathon 10 song set and never announce the song's name or the artist. In the politically charged Vietnam War/Nixon White House/Generation Gap era, nothing gave an artist greater credibility than being on the receiving end of a Nixon/Agnew enemies list.

 

Who really cares about Casey Jones? Yes, it rocked. It still rocks. Yes, it got tons and tons of airplay. But I mean if you heard the opening strains of side one, song one you knew a seismic shift in the Grateful Dead’s sound had occurred. Uncle John's Band was something far beyond what the Dead ever created before. It was sweetly sung, had a delicate melody and lyrics that you could ponder for hours if you had smoked a bowl or two. Uncle John's Band was the pylon on the Camino whose arrow said make a sharp turn pilgrim.

 

Well, it wasn't just the Dead. A seismic shift had taken place changing the whole musical world of west coast rock. Workingman's Dead taken together with CSN&Y’s Déjà Vu released a month and a half earlier, made it clear that thoughtful lyrics, shorter songs and vocal harmonies had become really significant.  The Dead's sound on Workingman’s Dead was clean, crisp and awesome. 

 

So, when American Beauty dropped in November of that year, I had to have it. I couldn't afford it but fate intervened. My cousin Pat had obtained a copy that he was willing to sell to me for one dollar. This was a bargain at half the price of what it would cost in a record store. I was in on it at once, wholeheartedly and without reservation. A dollar price implied the LP's provenance was sketchy but I didn’t care. I was on the road to becoming a Deadhead and I had to have that record. From Box of Rain to Ripple to Brokedown Palace to the Attics of My Life to Truckin’, I was mesmerized. Hunter’s cryptic lyrics combined with Garcia’s intricate lead guitar and Phil Lesh’s bass took me to places I needed to explore mentally and emotionally.

 

So, this is what led me to the door that opened my path to becoming a Deadhead. However, it was that first live show I saw in Philadelphia’s Tower Theatre that pushed me into the Dead Zone for real and for good. This was the first of my top four Dead experiences. On June 24, 1976 I ventured to Upper Darby to see my first Dead show. I worked at that time in Ocean City on the Boardwalk. One of the guys I worked with had somehow gotten a ticket to this show which had only been sold only by mail order to Deadheads. I bought the ticket at a premium, got another friend to drive me up there and let me stay with him. I went to the show. When I got to the show, I was offered five times what I had paid for the ticket but I would not sell, not for the world.

 

This leads me to peak Dead experience #1. During the first set at the Tower, they performed five songs that were everything I had expected of a Dead performance and much more. The five songs began with Friend of the Devil and moved into Cassidy. The band followed up with It Must Have Been the Roses finishing with Lazy Lightning'/Supplication. The voices were clear and strong, the guitar work was impeccable and whatever was in that guy's wine sack I drank from was choice. The second set was also very, very nice with a stunning version of Wharf Rat, just incredible.

 

When I left the Tower, I knew there was nothing like a Grateful Dead show. Nothing, period full stop. Here is a link to that show if you want to hear what I heard. https://youtu.be/g7dLrnCKC6g

 

The next of my four peak Dead experiences was Labor Day weekend in 1977. 1977 was the year I attended college all summer. I took a full quarter of classes and four pointed every single damned one of them. As a result, I did not get to my beloved beach until Labor Day. When I got there I looked for one of my favorite cousins, La De Da Dot. She was not at the family compound but I found out she was probably hanging out with some friends at 32nd and Asbury. I walked down that perfect summer day two blocks to the general area where she was supposed to be. Nobody knew exact addresses back then. We didn't have tricorders to guide us like we do today. In the end I found her by smelling weed on the wind and hearing the sound of the Dead playing live at Englishtown Raceway over the radio, WMMR I think.

 

In a one-story beach bungalow, we sat. My memory makes the house's interior almost white or some soft pastel creme shade of color. It was totally beachy. I believe we both wore whites of some kind or another. I mean what else do you wear on a warm late summer day a block and a half from the beach? I am really sure had on my Mexican wedding blouse with roses embroidered on it. We drank beer and listened to the band as they took the music home that night. We talked about our dreams and laughed. We watched the sunlight fade outside the windows. Yeah, there were those thin white curtains blowing in and out as the wind changed with the coming of night. I am pretty sure we stumbled down to the beach at some point, although that might just have been me. This was an idyllic moment, with my cousin, a dear friend. This was a sunny day flowing into a warm night. It had the Grateful Dead singing and playing and, on the ball, and the warm Atlantic waters in late summer.

 

The third of my peak Grateful Dead experiences involves one who was lost and then found.  I doubt that anyone in my high school class thought I would escape the inexorable pull of the very large DuPont chemical plant ten miles from our homes. This is where all our fathers worked. Pretty much everyone was pulled towards Chamber's Works on the Delaware River. This was a city of metal orbs and large tanks filled with chemicals and it paid well.

 

I didn't want anything to do with it, though.  I wanted something new, so I moved 600+ miles away to attend university. Then, I stayed for law school. Then I stayed for my first job. I moved back to Delaware for a couple of years, but it didn't work out for me. So, since 1974 (with that couple years excepted) if I wanted to see someone or perform a family obligation I have had to travel from Michigan to New Jersey. 

 

On one of those occasions, I hustled off to see my dear friend Don who lived in Sea Isle City. Again, this was before mobile phones and electronic maps.  And I kind of sort of had his address written down in and unintelligible scrawl. And it was a long trip from Michigan to New Jersey. And we were tired. And honest to God the closest I could narrow it down was that he lived on the bay and the street started with a 3, I think. 

 

So, we drove around block after block and I could not say I recognized his house. The streets were parked up to the brim and each lap was tedious and miserable. Finally, pulling over to the curb we rolled up the windows and got out of the car. It was at that moment that I heard from the balcony of the house next door the opening lyrics to China Cat Sunflower. I looked up and saw people laughing and drinking and I knew. I hollered out, “Hey Don, is that you?” And I got back a, “Jaaaaaay, my man.” And the Dead kept singing. In that moment the Dead led me home.

 

We were so relieved to find it that we almost ran to the door. We knocked and were greeted by my friend's smiling face beers in hand.

 

I have often told the tale of my second son’s birth, the harrowing nightmare it was. Suffice it to say I had that conversation no husband wants with the doctor. Yeah, the one where the man in the white coat says, “Within half an hour you will have to make a choice, the baby or your wife.” But the lad was born and the wife survived.

 

But the first son’s birth was not without its moments. Preeclampsia motivated an induced delivery. We were frightened. And it was really nerve-wracking, but we had support present. Friends and neighbors kept us company and encouraged us. We also had a boom box in the room playing a mix tape (or CD). When the nurse came in and gave a look and said, “Don’t push, the doctor is already delivering one baby,” we knew the time had come and it was going to be okay. The fourth moment of the Grateful Dead major life events took place then.

 

When the doctor got into the room and began the whole process of getting the gelatinous garden slug out for us, the boom box segued into a Grateful Dead song that was appropriate to the moment, Unbroken Chain. Our elder lad was born healthy and strong. But was it  synchronicity that this continuation of my wife and I came into the world just as a hippie band sang a song called Unbroken Chain? I mean that is what a birth is, isn’t it? A link in our humanity's continuous chain.

 

Yeah, the last few lyrics.

 

Unbroken Chain of sorrow and pearls

Unbroken Chain of sky and sea

Unbroken Chain of the western wind

Unbroken Chain of you and me.

 

Unbroken Chain-Petersen/Weir

 

As I look back, the years have flown by faster than I could have imagined. My journey with the Dead began with my ear to the radio in my bedroom in 1972 when I sought refuge in their music from a confused world of war, riots and generational strife. It continues now as the remaining Dead remnants finish up their last tour as Dead & Company. Not so surprisingly as they play these three last nights the world is mired in war, environmental strife and economic strife. Back then the music soothed me, intrigued me, moved me and made me sing along. Today the songs of the Grateful Dead are a nostalgic escape valve from what my brain reads as a world gone mad.

 

If I had been born of something other than the boomer generation maybe music wouldn’t have been so meaningful.  But I am a boomer and the world has shifted, changed and moved again. From LP to cassette to CD to lossless streaming services, how music was delivered to me evolved. The world has shifted too. My globe from fourth grade is so out of date with its borders and boundaries and country names. Simple issues of life have changed, I mean we moved from rented black handset party line phones to me having a cell phone with two different numbers from two different countries (both mine) integrated with a tiny powerful computer where I can do just about everything. My days in the sun are ending. The Dead have been my musical friends and provided the soundtrack to my life for almost 55 years. Their day is ending.

 

 I guess the Grateful Dead described our relationship with this lyric from Ripple.

 

 

There is a road, no simple highway

Between the dawn and the dark of night

And if you go, no one may follow

That path is for your steps alone

 

Ripple in still water

When there is no pebble tossed

Nor wind to blow

 

You who choose to lead must follow

But if you fall you fall alone

If you should stand then who's to guide you?

If I knew the way I would take you home

 

Ripple-Hunter/Garcia

 

I think my relationship with the Grateful Dead will end when they play Ripple at my wake.

It's my Life

 

There is something that my children will never know that I knew all too well. It was a portent of ill fortune. It was sign of waiting turmoil. It was the sighting of a lighthouse at a place where you were already on the shoals. It was the red glow of the old man’s cigarette as he sat on the back steps waiting for me to sneak into the house. 

  

My brothers, my sister and finally me, we all had boundaries and curfews. There were places we should not go. There were times when we had to be in. Beyond this we had a lot of freedom. But those limits, they were not negotiable things with permeable boundaries. Rules were rules. We were allowed out, we weren’t followed, we weren’t told exactly where we had to be or who we had to be with like the current generation. We just had to be back by a set time and we were not to be seen in certain places. 

 

Do kids these days understand the concept of freedom? I am not sure because their lives are so penciled in and booked and arranged. I just don’t know if they understand the concept of freedom to screw around.

 

I digress, as always. If you missed the curfew time by a few minutes there would be a short conversation. If you missed the mark by a lot Mom would go to bed but Dad would wait. This was especially true if the car you were driving was seen in a place you were not supposed to be. This was also true if he heard from a friend (and the old man had lots of friends) that you might have been up to something less than acceptable.

 

You would try to avoid confrontation by sneaking into the house. I know one of my brothers would climb up the roof and come in through a second story window. I was not that agile.

 

For me to get into my backyard, I had to pass through a gate. Our yard gates had their own nuances. You had to lift that horseshoe-shaped latch just right so it wouldn’t scrape or screech metal on metal. You then had to inch in so as not to make any other noise and then replace the latch quietly, really quietly. It was also essential to have your key out because jangling keys by the side door would alert someone that you were sneaking in. You had to get your night vision acclimated because mom would have pulled out different chairs around the dining room table and you dare not flip on the light switch. They would be awakened by that simple click. The chair thing was really a sobriety test. Nothing quite like whacking your shin and causing the chair to screech across the floor alerting everyone in the house to the exact hour you were returning.

 

But hell, you didn’t get this far if trouble was in the wind. Coming around the back of the house you knew you had better have your story straight if you smelled even a hint of tobacco in the air. Sometimes the wind brought that warning to you before you saw the red glowing end of the cigarette. It gave you a chance to bolster your story with details to make whatever lie you spun more plausible. But you should have worked on that before you got to the steps. When you saw that cigarette's glowing red light you knew judgment was come to be visited upon you.

 

I don’t remember screaming or yelling. However, I remember a commanding bass voice that would start out with a question “Boy, where have…what have…” you get the gist of the questions that would follow. His cigarette was held down now so he could smell for the scent of alcohol. He would be gauging your reaction time too. I don’t think he yelled because he wasn’t supposed to smoke and if Mom came down, he would have to explain that. But you knew there would be consequences.

 

I always thought I was alone in facing this situation until one night in 1975 or 76 I got to see Bruce Springsteen at the MSU Auditorium. He did a cover of “It’s My Life” that began with a long rap about meeting his old man in the darkened kitchen with the glow of a cigarette. Yeah, my kids will never know that.

Camping, Espresso and the Revenge of the Hands *

As I indicated in a previous post living in Michigan got camping into my blood. The more we were out camping the more I wanted to explore new and different places. Living in Michigan puts you close to the great white north. From Lansing to the nearest point in Canada is 83 miles.

 

We often camped near Grayling, Michigan. However, from Grayling to the Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario was just two hours farther and one border crossing away. Why? Reasons. For example, northern Ontario has green forests that stretch for miles. There are trails that take you past seven waterfalls in half a day’s walk. Also, there are “M-m-moose,” as one of my cousins exclaimed upon seeing a huge specimen of this ruminant standing in the middle of the Trans Canadian Highway Route 17 one summer.

 

Over the years a core group of us traveled north to the Sault many times. Normally it occurred during the July holidays. Because of the holidays involved Canada (formerly Dominion) Day and the Fourth of July we decided to try and wrap five or so days into the jaunt. 

 

The place I picked out to go the first time, and to which we kept returning, was Agawa Bay Campground in Lake Superior Provincial Park. The park itself was magnificent. It had cliffs, beaches, river valleys, waterfalls, and inland lakes. It was far enough north that sunlight still glimmered at 10:30 pm. The Agawa Bay campground had a pebble beach and a sunset view to die for. Also, the northern lights occasionally kick up and put on a show.

 

So many memories of this place. The m-m-moose incident, the dead moose in the waterfall, and the bears sniffing about the tents in the middle of the night (more than once). Then there were the blackfly bites, drinking cold Canadian beer, together with road trips to Wawa and the giant goose. 

 

Back then there was no cell phone service at Agawa Bay. No phone service was actually a selling point, because the office could not reach us. But there were also no smart phone apps that gave you a 10-day weather forecast and showed you radar of when the rain might move in.

 

The weather was wildly unpredictable up there. One year it would be in the 60s and 70s. Another year on the 4th of July it would be 37 degrees when you woke up. I mean you could see your freakin’ breath. When you traveled north you always packed t-shirts, long sleeve shirts, shorts, jeans, leather jackets, and rain ponchos. You also always added a 3-mil drop cloth. More on that below. One needed to be prepared for anything.

 

At the best of times the breeze blew in from the west on these five-day excursions. The sun burned the morning fog away by 10 am. During the prime years the spring leading up to this five-day retreat was warm and dry.

 

Rain on any camping trip is a bummer. Rain on a cold five-day stretch in Canada’s near north can be miserable. Even if you did everything right from spraying waterproofing on your Eureka dome tent, putting that three mil drop cloth under the floor of your tent and digging a little trench around your tent which had been placed on the slightest of grades to divert the water away you still would get clammy. 

 

And yeah, you may have covered the firewood the night before but it gets wet and instead of a warming blaze you end up with a smoldering mess. After a couple of days in the grey isolation of that dome you just have to get away. You pull the tent down, and stuff it willy nilly in the back of the car (because you will have to set up the tent up back home to let it dry) and head down the road…to a hotel.

 

If the spring was cool and wet there is something else you have to contend with, the dreaded blackflies. If the spring was dry and warm the blackflies were usually mostly gone by the 4th of July. However, it has been cool and wet... Well did you ever see the movie “The In-Laws” where Peter Falk talks about the tsetse flies? He gets to a point in the story where he describes the tsetse flies carrying off small children. Blackflies in northern Ontario are like that.

 

Oh, you can try and drive the blackflies away. 100% DEET slathered all over your body is about the best you can do. Invariably you will leave an exposed spot and they will zero in on it. Blackflies bite, draw blood and fly away. After a bite you will have an egg size lump at the site of the wound; depending on your body’s defense mechanisms it might resemble half a quail egg or half an ostrich egg.

 

Mix these two together and you get that phrase, “That’s it I am done and out of here”.

 

Back in the day, we are talking very late 1980s to early 1990s there wasn’t much in the way of refuge when you drove back down to the Sault. There was a strip of motels of the run-down mom & pop variety, think musty smell and magic fingers. There was a Ramada with an indoor water slide for the kids. Think running feet and noise at all hours of the night. There was one fancy and expensive place near where the Algoma Railroad trips began.  And finally, out on the northwest edge of town was the Water Tower Inn.

 

The Water Tower Inn was the luxe choice in the Sault.  It had an outdoor hot tub. There was an indoor pool with a faux rocky waterfall. The restaurant had a cappuccino machine. This was back before Starbucks and all the other coffee chains permeated North American culture with Americanos and Mochas.

 

Additionally, the hotel was also walking distance to Giovanni’s, home to some of the most delicious Italian food you can find in Ontario. So, smelling of woodsmoke, lumpy with blackfly bites and with wrinkled waterlogged fingers from the cold rain we would check in and pay whatever the Water Tower deemed fit. (I think I got on their special discount list for a time and we didn’t pay rack rate or anything close to it). 

 

Checked in we would walk over to Giovanni’s and settle down. We would have antipasto and tortellini with portabella and cheese. We would stuff ourselves with bread, salad, pasta and wine. From there we would waddle back to the hotel, throw on our suits and relax outside in the drizzle. The drizzle was made far less bothersome by the hot tub's warming waters. One hour in a hot tub can erase the memories of three days sitting around in Gore-Tex waiting for the clouds to disappear. Sitting around the hot tub the smell of the Northwoods no longer adhered to every fiber of clothing and cell of your epidermis.

 

Okay so now you have the background of why the Water Tower was about as close to the garden of earthly delights for some soggy wounded campers. So, remember this was a vacation, and at this point in our business careers you didn’t get much of that. Having been cooped up in a wet tent for days, the food, the hot tub and the fall waterfall were not enough. In the early 1990s a cappuccino machine was still exotic in downstate Michigan. However, for there to be one in the Sault made it a true rare bird. 

 

One night at the Water Tower on a trip with just two couples this writer was beaten and tired. The combination of a Labatt Blue and a heavy Italian meal mixed with a few minutes in the hot tub and all I wanted to do was sleep. Now two couples shared a room. Three of the four people desired dessert at 9:30 pm. Me, I just wanted to sleep but hey I am always craving ice cream. So I threw in with the explore downstairs. Down we went.

 

We were quickly seated in the restaurant. Back then cheesecake covered in fruit was the apex of guilty pleasure desserts. I am pretty sure we had two slices and each slice was shared by the respective couples. The ice cream would wait for another day. 

And then came that innocuous question from our server, “Would you like some espresso or cappuccino?” A wave of immediate responses, “Yes, Yes, Yes…” I was the sole holdout, the only nay in the group. The steaming beverages were quickly delivered and consumed. And then our waitress had the audacity to come over look at the empty cups and ask, “Would you like another?" A small conversation ensued, with things said implying they were really delicious and then again, “Yes, Yes, Yes.”

 

The dessert was gone, the cups emptied and the tab was settled so we headed back to the room. Barely dragging myself to the elevator and then to the room my only desire, one deeply seated in my heart of hearts, was to lie on a bed and not sleep in a humid L.L.Bean sleeping bag atop a Thermarest pad in a rain chilled tent. Entering the room, I could just feel the deep dark regions of the night world waving to me and whispering, “Come on, come on. Come slide into a deep and dreamless darkness with us.” This was what I wanted as I settled down in bed and felt the world start to slip away. Until…

 

 

“John…John can you sleep?”

 

“No Colleen, I am wide awake.”

 

“Francie, Francie can you sleep?”

 

“Nope, I am wide awake.”

 

“Jay…”

 

“Leave me the fuck alone. I was almost asleep."

 

 

 

“Anyone want to play euchre? I have a deck in my purse."

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Leave me the fuck alone, I want to sleep.”

 

“Oh, come on! Where is your fun spirit?"

 

And with that the lights came on and the deck was prepared and shuffled. Euchre is a game played between two teams. Every participant needs to calculate the points in their hand and how many points they think they can make by taking tricks. They then bid to see who calls trump. People who are hyped up and who turn the amp to 11 by drinking shots of espresso in the middle of the freakin’ night love this stuff. One whose only goal is deep dark dreamless slumber not so much. 

 

We played. I guess. My memory is fuzzy.  My hands were actually filled with cards as I fell asleep.  I was throwing off suit.  I probably never bid. The game dragged on but it finally ended.  Bed, yes, sleep now, I thought. And then they wanted to play the best out of three. As God is my witness, they tried to kill me. I suggested they play three handed but that was poo-pooed. So, on it went. 

 

Eventually we all crawled back into bed. They kept talking. They talked about their jobs, about the drive back, about … well I don’t know it all just turned into word soup for me and I floated away to a dark and dreamless and long desired sleep.

 

But on a subsequent trip I would get my revenge. Sort of.

 

In the early days of our marriage Francie and I lived in Wilmington, Delaware. She worked for Blue Cross and I worked for AIG. We were corporate drones. We had no children. We planned on having no children. Our plan would be to spend our money on experiences, travel, film, concerts and food. Not all of our experiences would have to be high-end. Some would be totally mundane.

 

In Wilmington there was a small chain of restaurants called the Charcoal Pit. Their specialty was grilled steaks and ice cream desserts. Today they serve crab cakes sandwiches and cheesesteaks. They also have a Delmonico.  Back then they had a cheap strip steaks. After shopping up on Concord Pike we would stop at the Pit for a couple of these cheap steaks.

 

My seemingly primal scream began one night after my wife and I ventured out to eat. Of course, where we ended up was the Charcoal Pit, the original location. We shared a couple of those famous/infamous Charcoal Pit sizzler steaks. Later that night, as I slept, I had a nightmare. I dreamt someone reached under a door had grabbed my ankles and tried to pull me under.

 

As my wife described it, my screams curdled blood. I would not stop screaming until she shook me awake. The horrible dream ended, my eyes closed and I fell back to sleep immediately, and she stayed awake for several hours. We joked about it blaming the night of terror on gristly meat from the Pit. She and I called it the gristle snake attack.

 

Over the years the pattern has repeated almost like clockwork. Once every three months I have a horrible dream about a creature trying to grab, abduct or otherwise steal me away for torment. My long-suffering wife wakes me up from these dreams. She tells me she will lay there awake for hours, her heart racing, and I immediately fall back asleep.

 

Clockwork I tell you, like clockwork.

 

So, there we were camping in the Northwoods. Another holiday weekend on the northeast shore of Lake Superior. The weather had been fine for the first couple of days but it was going to turn.  We had an excellent spot right on the water’s edge. We hiked, drank Velvet Cream Porter, watched the flames of the evening's fires grow large and then dwindle to nothing. But foul weather was clearly coming in from the west.

 

We packed up quickly. The tents were dry so we stowed them away. The sleeping bags were rolled tight and stuffed in their carrying bags. The Coleman stove was emptied of fuel and placed back in its box. Cooking implements were washed and packed. Coleman lanterns were stowed away. We dropped our paper tag for our site into the steel tube showing we were done with the site. We headed down to the Water Tower.

 

Things proceeded as they usually do.  We grabbed a room. We shower. We headed to Giovanni’s. This time everyone agreed there would be no espresso, no rocket fuel to keep people awake.  The comfort for our tired bones awaited on queen mattresses. Within minutes, I was swept into the realms of night. With nary a flip or a pillow scrunch or shoulder shift the world of the day faded. 

 

As the minutes of the night ticked away those hands reached out for me from under a garage door in the old and dirty alleyway. With incredible strength they held my ankles and pulled me down. The hands clearly planned to drag me under that door and do something horrible, something painful to me. There was nobody in the alley. If I wanted to be saved, I would have to call for help. I mustered up all the air and energy I could gather and wailed my scream out.

 

And then I was awake and staring at the wall of the hotel room in Sault Ste. Marie. No one shook me awake. I couldn’t hear anybody moving. Relief was the feeling I got when I assured myself that this was one of those times when I dreamed of the scream but woke up before I actually physically verbalized it.

 

I shifted and looked toward the window. Three people were sitting upright on the beds staring at me with faces that conveyed fear, shock and concern. Uh, I hadn’t just dreamed of the scream. Apparently, I had just let one monster howl waking everyone up. I will never forget the look in my wife's, John's, and Colleen's eyes.  They won’t remember the look but they will remember the scream.

 

I sat up and took a few moments. With Francie adding color commentary on all she had endured over the years, I explained the scream. Fielding one or two questions I quickly put my head back on the pillow. And just like that night disappeared for me and became morning.

 

Don’t know if Francie, John or Colleen had trouble getting back to sleep.  But hey, Karma baby. I’ll see your espressos and raise you one hellatious nighttime howl.

Camping and Memory

 

Ever tried to return to a particular place and time in your memory? Some events you can't forget. Whether for good or for ill, they stay in your mind forever. Other occasions ‘not so much’ as the phrase is used today.  

 

Today I tried to remember a specific camping trip but couldn't.  There were so many outings to “the wild” that they all blend together. Thinking about life on a grand scale, having that many experiences in the woods with good friends (and these trips were always communal), was not really a bad thing.

 

Most of the camping trips I remember were trips Up North. Up North for people who don’t live in Michigan is any place at least 5 miles north of your home and preferably on water be it a pond, creek, lake or one of the inland seas that touch northern Michigan (Huron, Superior or Michigan). For me Up North meant you had to pass Grayling before putting tent stakes into the dirt. Up North was either an old CCC camp site or a state forest campground. Up North was synonymous with a strong pine smell and the sound of moving water. Up North meant tents, camp fires and canoeing. Up North was a place to make life-long memories.

 

I did not camp as a kid. As a result a trip camping was initially foreign. Regular camping trips for me began immediately after I moved back to Lansing after law school in Detroit. On any given weekend in the summer, we could jump into a car and head up north. It was a ritual that truly belonged to Michigan. New Jersey has its day trip to the shore. But Michigan is so big a trip to get out of the house  requires a weekend to do it right. Camping was and is an ideal way to relax and escape real life. 

 

Our camping tools evolved. Initially we slept inside a pup tent just big enough for two sleeping bags. It was only a couple feet tall and you couldn’t sit inside. The tent was a leftover from our across America trip in 1978 in a car named Thunder Road. We went to Oregon to find America. We still have that tan non-breathing nylon fire trap stashed in the garage rafters. Bought it at Woolco, remember Woolco? 

 

We also had padded cotton batting sleeping bags. After one too many chilly nights, those were replaced with LL Bean sleeping bags. Just because something like a road trip is a spur of the moment decision does not mean it has to be uncomfortable. When you have the right equipment and the right attitude the outdoors can be wonderful.

 

From the pup tent we migrated to a Eureka dome tent for our accommodation. The dome claimed to comfortably sleep five. Three was more honest. The claim of five was only true if your idea of comfort is that everyone has someone else’s body parts stuffed up near their face. I would draw a diagram but this is being created on Word and I don’t know how to do that. Instead I will describe the situation.  

 

Imagine a circle. Place four bodies in it, the shortest on the outside and the tallest on the inside. Running atop these four bodies curved to conform to the top edge of the circle is body five. Routinely body five would be at everyone’s heads. If this camper were at the foot of everyone they would get kicked repeatedly during the night.

 

Configured like this for sleeping the short people on the outside get zephyrs of halitosis or foot funk odors respectively. On camping trips personal hygiene standards are lax and generate these kinds of smells. People forget tooth brushes. Meh. Feet get wet because it always rains during camping trips. Let me repeat that, it invariably rains on a camping trip in Michigan. One of the two middle sleepers gets a strong intermittent methane breeze.  Camping trip cuisine such as BEER, and BEANS elevates the chances of GI distress and gas production. Only one or maybe two campers (depending on how drunk the smelly person sleeping on that curved right angle from everyone else is) achieve a decent night’s sleep.

 

Finally we bought a tent that was huge with poles that created a big rectangle. I don’t think we have used it more than a handful of times. But the mega-tent fits four cots.  This refugee from a revival will also allow for a greater distance between all campers. This concept of personal space is a much diminished one when you are out on a weekend in the wild. On a camping trip you take what you can get. 

 

There are common elements to all camping trips.  Beer. Rain. Mud. Campfires. Boom boxes (first cassettes, then CD, now streaming). Also there was usually a purpose tied to the trip most often a canoe excursion down one of the many rivers in Michigan. Every so often we slept out at the end of a small spit of land and make our goal a winery tour on the Leelanau Peninsula. These events were limited because they always ended in a prolonged state of stupor. Wine and cheese and a long and winding road back to the tent didn't mix well.

 

Before any trip we had planned more than an hour in advance and we did some prep work. On Thursday night the car got packed. A large Coleman cooler, a small Coleman stove, Coleman lanterns and some Coleman fuel would get smushed into the trunk. In addition, sleeping bags, pillows, shorts, t-shirts, jeans and leather jackets got stuffed in there too.  

 

If there was time we made a quick trip to Meijer and bought some food. Initially it was hotdogs and bags of chips we would grab as food. Later it became chicken breasts, greens for a salad and dried cherries to pair with each. On Friday as soon as work was done we would jump into the snaking line of cars heading north on the only freeway from here to there, U.S.-127. We would stop about 20 miles up the road and grab a burger, fries and a pop and we would boogie on heading north.

 

Depending on where you were heading, you passed a number of landmarks. My favorite was Woodhenge. It was just a stone’s throw from the trip start. This was a barn that somebody started (I have been told) and never finished. A number of warped and twisted but tall poles stood to the right of the highway. There was a marker for the 45th parallel indicating you were halfway between the equator and the North Pole. There was the Big Buck brewery which was one of the first microbreweries to make a splash in Michigan. If you head off to Lake Michigan you could pass the gas station where the guy had the bear chained out back as a tourist attraction.

 

In early summer it doesn’t get dark Up North until 10 or later.  If you got off right when work was over you set up your tent in the fading light. If you got there slightly late someone else was already making the fire. Hopefully this time they wouldn’t burn their eyebrows off when the white gas that soaked on the firewood caused a fireball.

 

You swept the ground where you pitched the tent with your feet to ensure stones and sticks wouldn’t poke you all night. The tent was put up easily when the magically connected tent poles snapped together. They slid through the little nylon flaps on the outside of the tent. You unrolled your Thermarest mats and let them inflate. You slung the mats and your sleeping bags in. Next you grabbed a beer and pulled up a stool and sat around the fire.

 

Ah the conversations that would build around the fire. As the boom box played Joe Cocker, Tom Waits or something a little more esoteric like the English Beat the talk on the first night was of the chance of rain, which canoe livery to use and where might there be a party store that had some ice, meat and some tasty beers. (For non-Michiganders a party store is a beer and wine selling convenience store carrying basic food stuffs, i.e., Pringles, hot dogs buns and pop. Good as we applied the term to beer back then was a relative term. Labatt Blue was an early favorite and then we moved to Harp and Guinness. Eventually everyone had their own microbrew of preference. Sometimes if we ventured far enough we would go to the Beer Store in Ontario and grab some of their exotic brands. Labatt’s Velvet Cream Porter stands out as a preference.

 

Labor on these outings divided easily.  Some walked and got firewood or brewed coffee. Some tended the campfire while others cooked. Everybody helped with cleanup by pumping water into pots to make hot water on the Coleman stove to wash the cooking and eating utensils.  

 

Some trips took us back to the same campground repeatedly. Other trips were one off and long, such as the time we circled Lake Huron. Truly I once spent a Sudbury Saturday night. Another year we drove across the top of Lake Superior to Thunder Bay and the Valhalla Inn. It was there that I learned you shouldn't drink a beer in a hot tub when tired. It was also there where we visited the birthplace of the real Winnie the Pooh.

 

Some trips endings were pushed to the last hour of sun on Sunday ‘cause you were having so much damn fun. Some forays were scuttled by rain early on Saturday. Michigan tent campers all have clear olfactory memories, one in particular. It is one of pulling a damp hoodie out of a black garbage bag that served as your dirty clothes hamper for the weekend. The odor is stale and going on mildew. There are equal parts soggy wood smoke and Harp beer scents rising from the hoodie. Yup rain was the enemy.

 

Some trips were cosmic. Ain’t nothing quite like watching the northern lights kick up as you stand on a lake shore looking out through the blackness at a now growing into surreal green light. The dancing green/green blue curtains sweep across and keep you staring upwards for hours.  

 

A camping trip made you drop the phone. A camping trip makes you step away from the computer. A camping trip puts you in touch with real people. Sitting down on those small aluminum stools around the fire on the second night of the weekend you talked about jobs, life, love, hopes and aspirations. Connections were restored by the dancing firelight and the clinking of beer bottles.

 

Honestly, I was trying to remember one camping trip. In the end I remember a lifetime filled with fun and joy.

Jesus Christ Superstar, 50 Years On

 

(Mark Chatterly's Sculpture Outside 

the Theater)

This is how I know many years have passed.  Last night I saw Jesus Christ Superstar’s 50^th Anniversary tour.  The production was modern, nary a tunic or toga in sight.  A rock band was onstage stuck in cubes stacked atop each other on the boards. A very large cross served as a runway for the singers and a table for the last supper.

 

I had never seen a stage production of the show before. However,  I had heard the album many, many, and dare I say many again, times.  Also, I had seen the first movie version when it came out. Went with one of my cousins, both of us inebriated, to the now gone Village movie theater down around 6^th or 7^th Street in Ocean City, NJ.  The entrance to the cinema screamed faux “Ye Olde…”. 

 

Back then Jesus Christ Superstar was a lightning rod between the faithful and the godless.  I mean of course there was the huge hullabaloo over there being no resurrection scene. And using rock and roll in relation to Christ, blasphemy. I mean rock and rock itself was a blasphemy simply by existing.  And then there was the whole Mary Magdalene and Jesus narrative in the play.  Yeah, back when the album was released in 1971 it was promoted as a rock opera. Webber and Rice released it this way because nobody would finance their stage production of this “challenging” story). Jesus Christ Superstar was an LP you didn’t play around your parents and how the single was a top 40 hit (three times on the charts over two years topping out at #14) is mind boggling.

 

After attending the play with my son, we walked part of the way home afterwards.  In my mind I was reviewing not just the production against the album and the first movie (I didn’t even know there was a second movie until my son showed me the wiki) but the crowd at the show.  I mean a solid proportion of the attendees were just like me, people who had been 14 or 15 when the star-studded album came out. But the proportion of the “faithful” there last night surprised me.  Lots of people wearing crosses on the outside of their garments.  A couple of groups that had obviously bought tickets with their congregations.  Jesus Christ Superstar has clearly passed from revolutionary to something quaint. I can almost hear the pastors making the speech in the post viewing discussions that starts, “The play didn’t show the resurrection but we know in our hearts what really happened…” 

 

In my conversation with my son, I talked about the zeitgeist when the music first hit the scene and the changes I saw in the crowd, in America, in the majority faith in America.  The music hit us in the midst of the antiwar antiestablishment movements and revolution never seemed far off. Riots were everywhere it seemed. But that particular fervor passed. Church’s seemed to have little relevance except as voices to stay with the status quo.

 

My son focused on the staging being contradictory to the weight of the show’s history/legacy.  The actors wore hoodies and other nondescript garb.  Herod was played by a woman dressed roughly akin to the ringmaster at a circus. My boy’s opinion was that it would have been better staged as a concert like one of the Les Mis anniversary shows rather than trying to mash up a historic tale, and a production with significant staging history, with the “youth” look.  With so much of the past of this musical being period tied, just imposing a flashy set and faux hip hop garb took away from the overall impact of the production.

 

His comments were not made flippantly.  He knew every song, every lyric by heart.  We both agreed one major failing of the production was the lack of a fifth strong voice.  Pilate, Caiaphas, Judas and Mary Magdalene were are very strong.  I particularly liked Pilate’s voice in his dream piece.  But the actor playing Jesus seemed lost in the vocal mix. Maybe it was on purpose, making him quieter thus showing him to be a pawn in God’s game or something along those lines.  But I think it was simply a casting choice of less that optimal quality.

 

From Jesus Freaks to prim and proper attendees at musical theatre my how my generation has changed.  We have gone from wannabe revolutionaries to willing participants in the bread and circuses, ah so it goes.  

 

Five decades have slipped by and now I spend most of my time on the east side of the Atlantic.  But the play triggered memories of my youth on the west side of the Atlantic.  Ocean City faithful ( you know who you are), right now, I am wanting a Taylor pork roll sandwich and some birch beer.  I would settle for a cheesesteak, fries and a coke from Del’s. Personally, I would like to be wearing a medium size t-shirt showing the face of that guy on the King Crimson album and size 32 cut off blue jean shorts watching the waves and smelling the creosote of the boardwalk.  50^th anniversary, geez. Funny how time slips away.

Lisboa on Monday: Thoughts on a Brownie from the Pastelaria

 

As he was digging deep into his pocket, the cashier quizzically examined him.  From the cut of the clothing and the size of the man there was no way he could be a local.

His glasses weren’t a current style, his clothing was both too large and two loose. If any question remained as to his place of origin his braces nailed his foreignness. Nobody in Portugal wears suspenders but a waiter. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to suss out this man was no waiter.

 

“Um brownie, take away, por favor“, he said as he tapped on the display case window pointing to the brownie he wanted to order. Smiling at him, “Ah, sim, sim,” rolled off her tongue. Leaning in with her plastic gloved hand, she grabbed the brownie and dropped it into a brown paper saco.  At what seemed like a speed of sound to his ear, with a blurring of vocal sounds only the Portuguese can accomplish, the garçonete (waitress-was that the right term?) was asking for payment.  “Dois euros vinte,” or two euros twenty, was her request. The digital readout of 2.20 on the cash register saved him from another moment of awkwardness.

 

Continuing to search the depths of his trouser pockets and his fingers extending and contracting within, he came up with a credit card for payment.  Always the air miles card. Trips back and forth across the Atlantic just keep getting more expensive and every air mile counts. Pulling out the card, he tapped the portable card reader. Four green dots blinked showing the transaction was processed, He was handed a small white receipt which had choggled out from the machine.  The receipt went in one trouser pocket  the credit card in the other.  Accepting the brown bag with his guaranteed sugar buzz within, the ‘Murican said “Obrigado,” twisted his shoulders, stretched a little-almost imperceptibly, and headed out to the street. As he had been warned by his elders long ago his body had become many years older than his spirit.

 

Out the door he turned left heading down the cream colored calçadas toward the corner of 5 Outubro and Rua Pedro Nunes and his apartmento.  Thinking about the pastry in the bag brought him guilt.  A brownie was not really a Portuguese treat.  That chocolate goo was as invasive as all the expats flooding this city and the country. By buying it he took a step away from assimilation. So many other local choices existed many drenched or stuffed with chocolate. Still, every now and then a taste of home softened the jangly edges of the man’s soul. Having uprooted his life to move to a different continent, with a different language, with different concepts of how life should be lived wasn’t proving to be completely easy. Objectively emigration wasn’t hard but it wasn’t easy either.

 

He reached his final turn toward home. Late May and the jacarandas with lovely little pale purple blossoms made 5 Outubro’s center look like the living incarnation of the promise of spring. Stopping and scanning the street both ways he took the beauty of those trees in.  Watching the cars speeding by, all so tiny by American standards, the realization that had come to him time and time again washed over him.  For him this smaller life was a better life.  From the leather repair shop to the fresh fruit stand to the flower stand and to each and every café and kebab place, life here was conducted on a much smaller but much more personal basis. Relationships mattered here.  Quality of life mattered here.  Time does not matter here.

 

Reaching his door his plan was in place.  In five minute’s, time he would be on his balcony with a cup of decaf and the brownie.  He would be watching the world pass by.  For now, that was just about perfection.

Gordon Lightfoot, A Note of Mine from 2014

When I posted last week I knew I had written about Gordon Lightfoot before.  Thing was I just wasn't sure where it was. Turned out it was in a blog that FB will not let me post links to. Here is and edited version of that older post. The photo is the cover shot from Gord's Gold II.

One must reflect at times about what really matters. What do I keep? What don’t I need? In thinking about life and its pleasures I am drawn to think about what would it is I would miss if I were to be shunted off to a cosmic waiting room filled with only a leather couch and lined with faded 1960s basement rec-room paneling.   Sitting there in a space devoid of magazines or piped in Muzak what would I ache for. One thing I would truly miss is the music of Gordon Lightfoot.

Before I came to Michigan in the 1970s all I knew of the man’s work could be found in the contents of one album. Well, there were two additional songs of this Canadian minstrel I heard on the radio. The first radio song was “If You Could Read My Mind” and the second was “Black Day in July”. The album was called “The Summer Side of Life.”

I knew the first song because well it was all over the radio every day each day in June 1971. It had been a spring hit but it just wouldn’t go away that summer. When aired it was often coupled with the Moody Blues “Question”. While “Question” was deep and agitating “If You Could Read My Mind” was the song for the loser, the loner, and the wistful. It worked for my 15 year old self on so many levels. Thinks zits, glasses and no self-confidence. "If You. Could Read My Mind,"  was a song of love lost I could relate to even though I had never had a real love.

“Black Day in July” was a topical song about the Detroit Riots in the summer of 1967. Gene Shay played it every so often on his folk program on WMMR in Philadelphia, a show I tuned in to hear religiously. In the early 1970s I listened to a great deal of protest music. “Black Day in July” was a protest song and it seemed to have a connection to an older tradition of folk protest songs. “Black Day in July was much like “Joe Hill” and “Wreck at Los Gatos”. I love the Buffalo Springfield’s “For What It’s Worth” but “Black Day in July” seemed more intent on getting the feeling right as opposed to the facts. I think that sense of feel is often what makes great folk songs.

My brother Jerry was drifting in and out of my life as he went to college, as he went to Vietnam, as he drifted between jobs.  One day he brought a copy of “The Summer Side of Life” home with him. I played it to death. The track listening on the first side is just stellar: 1. 10 Degrees of Getting Colder 2. Miguel 3. Go My Way 4. Summer Side of Life 5. Cotton Jenny 6. Talking In Your Sleep

Nary a weak tune in this batch. I loved all six songs and pretty much had the lyrics memorized in a short time, two weeks maximum. From the heartbroken bar musician to the outlaw to the cuckold every song on "The Summer Side of Life" had a beautiful melody and a strong lyric. While it is not so much my default tune to hum now “10 Degrees and Getting Colder” held that spot for several years. "He was standing by the highway, with a sign that just read 'Mother' when he heard the truck a coming half a mile away.  He held the sign up higher so no decent should could miss it. It was ten degrees and getting colder down by Boulder Dam that day."

There is a warmth to Gordon Lightfoot’s voice that spreads as you listen to it almost through your entire being. Hazily I can remember sitting in dorm room snuggling with a young lass with long hair her face illuminated by those odd blue lights of Pioneer Stereo receivers. On that winter night we were drinking some cheap red wine. Ah, on a night like that Gordon Lightfoot provided a warm atmosphere to fill my cold room in Mayo Hall where the windows never quite closed. Hell no, I will never give up Gordon Lightfoot. 

Here is one of those great songs from Gord that you may not have heard.  Christian Island is a small rocky dot in Georgian Bay.  I camped there one night. The melody is quite hummable.