The summer Jerry Garcia died, I was working at a daycamp in a conservation area outside Stouffville. Once each session some of the kids slept over at camp. I was in charge of organizing and supervising these little adventures, which was a blast but also exhausting since — as it was a daycamp — the kids weren’t used to it. Many had never slept outside before. The level of wildness was pretty high and actual sleeping was pretty minimal, particularly for the staff. We spent much of the evening running the kids around trying to get them good and tired. This never worked, so we then spent much of night making sure the kids didn’t get into TOO much trouble.
One session we had so many kids sign up for the sleepover that we did it on two successive nights. In retrospect, not the greatest idea, since there was no chance to nap during the days. On the second morning I was feeling very fuzzy and pretty spaced out, so after I unlocked the trailer that served as the camp office I flicked on the radio to keep me awake while I checked the messages and did other morning-camp stuff. And then the news came on, and I had the sad task of making my way over to the next field to break the bad news gently to a similarly-sleep-deprived and very sweet Deadhead staffer named Neal before some arriving kid ran off a bus and threw it at him. And so we stood there in the painfully early morning, the news of Jerry’s fatal heart attack soaking slowly through our befuzzed heads, and the kids ran around like wild things. It was …odd.
RIP, Jerry.
(Photo credit: Niffty)
Ripple
Words by Robert Hunter; music by Jerry Garcia.
If my words did glow with the gold of sunshine
And my tunes were played on the harp unstrung,
Would you hear my voice come thru the music,
Would you hold it near as it were your own?It’s a hand-me-down, the thoughts are broken,
Perhaps they’re better left unsung.
I don’t know, don’t really care
Let there be songs to fill the air.Ripple in still water,
When there is no pebble tossed,
Nor wind to blow.Reach out your hand if your cup be empty,
If your cup is full may it be again,
Let it be known there is a fountain,
That was not made by the hands of men.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.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.La dee da da da, La da da da da, Da da da, Da da, Da da da da da
La da da da, La da da, Da da, La da da da, La da, Da da.
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An annotated version of these lyrics is here, for Deadheads of a particularly academic bent.