Ramble on rose

The man, mid to late 50's, three piece suit, glasses, executive hairstyle, walked into the darkened auditorium.   He squinted at the ticket in his hand, illuminated for brief bursts by the red and purple light jumping off the stage, and scanned the dancing revelers.  Strains of "Mama Tried" wafted through the air.

One and only rebel child, from a family meek and mild. 

Glancing up, he locked eyes with another man, similar in description, and grinned.  His stride increased as he traversed the floor, walking, shuffling, and finally, galloping the last few feet into a bear hug.  He loosened his tie, removed his jacket, and by the time the strains of "Ramble on Rose" were sashaying through the crowd, he had unbottoned a few buttons, and I swear his hair had grown an inch in its shagginess.

I like to think the man was reliving his youth.  That sometime, long before a nine to five job, paying for his kids' education, and that job-required tie, he was a Dead-Head, waving his arms, spinning in circles, and showering on an as-needed basis.  Throughout the show, I would sneak glances at his row, and watch him swaying with his eyes closed, hopefully picturing some open field concert of his youth and a girl (maybe the one he married) wearing flowers in her hair and giggling.

Such is the transformation at a Dark Star Orchestra show on a Tuesday night in December.

When I was 15, my parents took my little sister to a Grateful Dead show (the final tour before Jerry Garcia's death), and it changed her life trajectery.  She would say later that the freely dancing, smiling, chanting folks around her made her feel a sense of community that was impossible to replicate.   That said, she sure as hell tried, following the band Phish around for the majority of her 20's, selling homemade skirts and dresses, dreadlocking her hair, and sleeping in tents for summer night after summer night.  She now runs an artists' retreat and sustainability farm upstate, something I'm sure the former hippies she met that night would approve of.

Before my kids, I had my own experiences of twirling around, being that girl with the flowers and the long hair.  Woodstock '99, Phish shows, festivals.  I even saw Phil Lesh and Bob Dylan the summer after my dad died, and smiled through my tears as he encored with dad's favorite song, Blowin' In The Wind.

All my choices derived from a desire to experience the 60's and 70's era of music my parents lived through, and introduced me to through their vinyl albums.   Peter Paul and Mary, Dylan, The Dead, Joplin, Hendrix.  Lyrics that said something, melodies you could dissolve into.

Listening to Dark Star, in a college auditorium filled with the faithful apostles of the original Dead, and seeing this  man transform from a middle aged working bee into the carefree butterfly of his youth, I smiled.  The beat goes on, and with your eyes closed, you can enter any era, relive any moment, journey through any song.  There's a beauty to settling down but continuing to ramble.  You just have to know where to look.

Settle down easy, ramble on rose.