8.10.2013

Jerome John "Jerry" Garcia (August 1, 1942 – August 9, 1995)


Thursday August 10 - there was open casket viewing of Jerry at the St. 
Stephan's Episcopal church in Belvedere CA.  Jerry was reportedly 
dressed in a black t-shirt and sweatpants.

Friday August 11 - funeral service at the St. Stephan church in Belvedere
starting at about 4pm.  The officiant Matthew Fox was the pastor who 
married Deborah and Jerry last year.  The church is small only holding 
200 to 250 people.   Many people gave eulogies including Bob Weir, Steve 
Parrish, Robert Hunter, John Barlow, Ken Kesey and Anabelle Garcia 
(one of Jerry's daughters).  Hunter recited a poem he just wrote (see 
below).   Musicians in attendance included band members, Bruce Hornsby 
and Bob Dylan.  A very small grave site service was held, it was 
primarily for family and the band.

Sunday August 13 9am - a memorial gathering is scheduled for Golden
Gate Park.  No musical acts (though they are rumors :-) have been 
announced at this time.

It is suggested that memorial donations be directed to:

Rex Foundation
PO Box 2204
San Anselimo CA 94979

An Elegy for Jerry (by Robert Hunter)

Jerry, my friend,
you've done it again,
even in your silence 
the familiar pressure
comes to bear, demanding
I pull words from the air
with only this morning
and part of the afternoon
to compose an ode worthy
of one so particular
about every turn of phrase,
demanding it hit home 
in a thousand ways
before making it his own,
and this I can't do alone.
Now that the singer is gone,
where shall I go for the song?

Without your melody and tase
to lend an attitude of grace
a lyric is an orphan thing,
a hive with neither honey's taste
nor power to truly sting.

What choice have I but to dare and
call your muse who thought to rest
out of the thin blue air
that out of the field of shared time,
a line or two might chance to shine --

As ever when we called,
in hope if not in words,
the muse descends.

How should she desert us now?
Scars of battle on her brow,
bedraggled feathers on her wings,
and yet she sings, she sings!

May she bear thee to thy rest,
the ancient bower of flowers
beyond the solitude of days,
the tyranny of hours--
the wreath of shining laurel lie
upon your shaggy head
bestowing power to play the lyre
to legions of the dead

If some part of that music
is heard in deepest dream,
or on some breeze of Summer
a snatch of golden theme,
we'll know you live inside us
with love that never parts
our good old Jack O'Diamonds
become the King of Hearts.

I feel your silent laughter
at sentiments so bold
that dare to step across the line
to tell what must be told,
so I'll just say I love you,
which I never said before
and let it go at that old friend
the rest you may ignore.