Sing in the stars

RIP Bob Weir

You didn’t know it when it happened, but at some point, the last time you carried your child became the last time you ever carried your child. They grow up, they grow big, they grow independent and all of a sudden you realize that you simply don’t pick them up anymore. It is an ending that sneaks up on you, even though you understood the inevitability of it happening. Someday.

There will be a last time you walk your dog; sip morning coffee in a cozy room with the light just right; throw a party with a friend group that feels like home. Nothing stays the same forever, and when we even let ourselves think about it, we hope that change is still far away. We hope that someday is far away.

This weekend, my community experienced an inevitable someday that we knew would come, but had hoped was still far away.

Bob Weir died. Bobby. Cheesy kind beloved Bobby, the heart of the Grateful Dead if Jerry Garcia was the soul. And with Bob Weir’s passing, all iterations of the Grateful Dead end.

To those who didn’t care for, or maybe just kind of knew their music a bit — those who think Truckin’ or Casey Jones or Touch of Grey are fine, not much in life will change. But to Deadheads, it’s a paradigm shift.

We are mourning Bob Weir. And we are mourning the end of a collective experience that can’t be contained in words, any more than the Dead’s music can be contained in a neatly packaged three-minute track or a stadium arena or a hallway full of spinning dancers or a parking lot full of kids or a stickered-up van going down the road.

I’ve lost track of how many Dead shows I’ve seen. My daughter’s name is Cassidy. I wrote a novel about it all. This doesn’t make me special. This makes the community special. It gets in your veins and envelops you and the envelope is made of a love of the music yes, but it is the shared experience and the shared understanding that makes you want to stay enfolded.

Aside from Cassidy, my favourite songs are not even Bobby songs. I like being sad so I like Jerry’s warbly, soul-shattering laments the best. Jerry reminds us that love hurts but it is worth the pain. But then here comes Bobby, with his positivity and vocal inflections and a reminder that there is happiness as well, and we’ve got to find it and allow ourselves the sunshine daydreams and to dance. And in those moments Bobby songs are my favourite songs, and I dare you to listen to Sugar Magnolia and not feel like everything might just be alright.

When Jerry died, it was such a shock. It knocked us down. Nothing would ever be the same again, but there was more music, more community, more dancing and sunshine to be had. Bobby, Phil, Mickey and Bill continued on in different ways and different iterations, and I loved them all. I love Dead & Co. and think John Mayer is amazing. The music never stopped.

I saw my first show when I was sixteen years old. My older sister basically let me tag along, let me get on the bus with her, figuratively and literally. We were together for so many more through the years, and 33 years later, we were together for a last show that we didn’t know would be our last show. We went to Vegas, to the Sphere and although Bobby’s tempo had slowed down considerably, the sunshine was still there. He said he’d never stop, so neither would we.

Fare thee well to Bobby and to this part of the Grateful Dead. Thank you for the beautiful beginning and also for the beautiful end. We were given more than we deserved and more than I could have ever hoped for.

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The Dead encouraged music sharing, and allowed tapers at every show. The only caveat was that the music they recorded had be shared, traded, or given away. It had to be free. It was for everyone. Canadian readers: in honour of Bob Weir and the Grateful Dead, I’m giving away two signed copies of my novel, YELLOW BIRDS, over on Instagram. Visit me at @karengreen_author and enter there.