I Know You Rider Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone

I've had some of the most intensely pleasureable moments of my life listening to Jerry Garcia sing and play. Like many people, I saw and heard in Garcia an intense intelligence, by turns wry, gleeful, mournful, and cryptic. Some of my impressions were no doubt projections, and some were chemically enhanced, but these feelings were strong enough - and have lasted long enough - that they've taken on a life of their own.

So it may seem strange that at the time of his death, I did not grieve. But please understand: by that point, I hadn't seen him perfom live for more than fifteen years, and I was mostly unengaged with most his more recent recorded work. Plus, his overall deterioration from decades of massive substance abuse and generally hard living was not a secret.

Thus my lack of suprise or intense sorrow when he was found dead, in August of 1995. Like many people, I had seen it coming, and it was just a matter of when. The opposite of a suprise.

With the passing of more time, though, I began to experience some moments of sadness and loss when I thought about him. But still, just moments, and mostly while watching or listening to performances from his last couple of years, when he was obviously ill and often struggling to form the sounds he wanted to make.

Today, though, on the way to work, I tuned into the middle of a performance of I Know You Rider, from around 1977, and it was astonishing, particularly Jerry's guitar playing - uninhibited, loud; leads that were more clusters of rapidly executed chords. The opposite of tentative. Then he began to sing,

"I wish I was a headlight,
on a northbound train,"

and he was bellowing, insanely joyful, like a warrior roaring into battle.

And I started to cry. He had been this force, this beauty in the world, and his time is gone.

 

Cocoa: Surprise.

So get this. As some of you know, we have had - and still have - quite a few cats. Some we got from the pound, but more than a few have just come to us: wandered in, then stuck around. And a couple were ferals that we helped rescue. Anyway, once we acknowledge that a cat is "ours", we take him/her to our vet and get them vaccinated and, when old enough, fixed.

The exception was Cocoa. He got his shots OK, but before he was old enough to get fixed, he just disappeared. We felt awful but eventually moved on. THEN, after about three months, he strolled back in one morning like he had just woken up from a short nap. But during his mysterious travels, he had gotten as husky as a small badger, lost a piece of one ear, and now had a big ol' set of balls on him. Not too domestic anymore, shall we say.

After having a meal or two, he made himself scarce - we'd only see him a couple times a month for a while there.

Then, recently, after a couple of years of now you see me now you don't, Cocoa began spending more time around the backyard, and coming into the pantry more often for meals (which freaked out the other cats big-time, except for Elvis).

Soon he was being very affectionate, mostly to me, even coming all the way into the living room in the evenings, to sit on my lap (or, balance on my lap - again, big cat). We were of mixed feelings about his redomestication, though, because he really does freak most of the others out. We also didn't understand what had prompted his new lovey-doveyness.

Then, this morning, Teri calls me at work; I answer, and ask what's up. Silence. Then, "Cocoa's balls are gone."

My turn to pause. Then, "What do you mean his balls are gone?"

Well, far as we can tell, seems like one of our neighbors did what we thought was impossible - they caught him, took him to be fixed, then released him.

Ain't that the damnedest thing. But the guy himself seems utterly unfazed.