And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars: see that ye be not troubled: for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. Matthew 24:6-8

THE FIRST TIME I HEARD OF THE DEAD was reading how the Diggers burned “Hippie” in effigy in Life magazine in the summer of 1967. We had just moved from Decatur, Illinois to suburban Westchester County outside New York. And I had to get used to the heat, understanding New York and the difference between a “soda” (New York) and “pop” (Illinois) — there is none. Also, what was an “egg-cream”?

I read to escape in those days and I read everything about the Hippies and how they were likened to the early Christians. And since I was a good Catholic boy I got interested and read everything in the newspapers, magazines and the some of the books mentioned in the Times. While my classmates were getting stoned and going to shows I drank beer, read, failed at school, played ball and worked summers moving furniture in Yonkers. But while they partied, something in the “straight” media captured my heart and held it, and it still does to this day: I believe that what happened in the Haight from ’65 to ’67 was revolutionary, spiritual and profound. I proceeded to tell this to anybody and everybody who would listen — and there were a few strange, misguided, delusional kids and one or two adults who would listen. The more I spoke, the more I believed.

I began to read Rolling Stone and of course ran smack into the great stoned marksman of American journalism, the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson. I had read his “Hell’s Angel’s” book so when I saw “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” on the shelf I picked it up and read it fast and laughed until I stopped cold with my heart still and breath held when I read,

“Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era — the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . .

“My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights — or very early mornings — when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder’s jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . .

“There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

“And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting — on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

“So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark — that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.”

When I read that I knew then that my instinct was not wrong and I was alive and present during a miracle — much more than Wavy’s “Breakfast in Bed” — it was a time when we were just a “kiss away,” as Uncle Mick was fond of saying. We held a time to change humankind forever. It was the second Children’s Crusade to take back the Holy Land and create a place that we all knew it could be. But we didn’t have the courage or strength to see through.

Many years later I heard of Jerry Garcia’s death in my father-in-law’s family cabin somewhere across from Burlington, Vt. In the land of second growth it was moist and warm at 9 a.m. and we were packing up the car to go meet my in laws when we heard the news. Somehow a video camera was turned on and we all commented about our vacation. My sister-in-law, her then-husband and the X made silly vapid comments about the time spent on the vacation. I got on and commented about Jerry and how his work with the Dead helped form a magical thing, perhaps more.

My X and her sister were hushed and then erupted in jokes about hippies and their youth. All the way to Vermont I was silent while the other three and kids sang songs about dogs, poop and ponytails.

Somehow we ended up at the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream plant in Vermont. They had taken the day of Jerry’s death off. They were playing tapes of Dead shows through the PA and giving out free samples of Cherry Garcia. Toward the end of the tour I went over the wall and began to weep when I heard “Touch of Grey,” and the X just looked at me and got the kids away. A young female worker gathered me her arms and we cried together during the song while the X, my kids, my sister- and brother-in-law and their children stood silent, mouths agape.

In preparing for this piece I ran across a quote from Jerry that explains what I went through in Vermont. “We’re like licorice. Not everybody likes licorice, but the people who like licorice really like licorice.” I just couldn’t pick anybody who liked licorice like I did. Still haven’t.

There is another quote from the Captain himself, Ken Kesey, that I thought aptly describes Jerry’s guitar playing:

“But what really stood out — stands out — is the thundering silence, the lack, the absence of that golden Garcia lead line, of that familiar slick lick with the up-twist at the end, that merry snake twining through the woodpile, flickering in and out of the loosely stacked chords . . . a wriggling mystery, bright and slick as fire . . . suddenly gone.

“It was the false notes you didn’t play that kept that lead line so golden pure. It was the words you didn’t sing. So this is what we are left with, Jerry: this golden silence. It rings on and on without any hint of letup. And I expect it will still be ringing years from now.”

So here we are 20 years after Jerry’s death and The Dead are finally pulling the plug. It took the rest of the Dead this long to process Jerry’s death and to accept that the “snake twining through the woodpile” was gone. They are old men, they have health problems, they are tired of the road and need to tend to their wives and their children and grandchildren. Maybe tidy up the archives and spend the rest of their days working on special projects and answering writers’ questions — what was it all about? As if they really knew.

To The Dead living and passed: Thank you for the music, the example, the love, the grace, and for keeping the high-water mark there. We will survive.

M.R. Merris is a Benicia resident, writer and poet.