By Louie Ferrera

The word of Phil Lesh’s passing at the age of 84 came via a text message last Friday from an old Deadhead friend of mine in New Jersey. It was a bit of a shock as I wasn’t aware that Phil had been sick. Most of the musical heroes of my generation are in their late 70s to early 80s, when one of them dies it’s a stark reminder of my own mortality. I received numerous texts from friends and family that day offering their condolences on Phil’s passing, as if an actual member of my family had died. In a way, Phil Lesh was family.

I first became aware of the Grateful Dead sometime in 1973 when I was a high school senior. I had borrowed their double live album Grateful Dead ( also known as Skull and Roses or Skullfuck) from a friend of my older brother’s. The first thing that grabbed me about The Dead’s music wasn’t, surprisingly, Jerry Garcia’s guitar playing but rather the melodic, thundering, unbridled playing of bassist Phil Lesh. The bass player in a rock and roll band had traditionally been relegated to the roll of timekeeper, lub-dubbing alongside the drummer while the rest of the band shined out front. Innovators like Paul McCartney, John Entwistle and Jack Cassidy helped to change the concept of what a bass player could be and Phil was right up there with them. Lesh’s sound was like nothing I had heard before. As is the case with all true musical innovators his tone and approach were unique. Phil’s bass wove seamlessly between Garcia’s  interstellar improvisations and the one-of-a-kind rhythm guitar of Bob Weir to help create what’s now known as psychedelic music. Oftentimes it was Phil and not Jerry who was the lead player in the band. Jerry once famously stated, “When Phil’s happening, the band is happening.”I can personally attest to that statement. Having attended a couple hundred Dead shows, the times when the band was most locked in, when the music approached true transcendence, were when Phil was leading the charge. Some of the happiest moments of my life were spent in the company of Phil Lesh and the Grateful Dead.

It’s hard to overstate the importance of the Grateful Dead in my life. I can’t imagine what my life would be like today had The Dead not been a part of it. So many of the people who are near and dear to me can somehow be traced back to the Grateful Dead. At a Dead show in Oakland in the early 90s I met a wild, whirling dervish of a woman named Dannielle. We became fast friends. Several years later Dann introduced me to Carol, the love of my life and the mother of our children. How did Dann and Carol meet? Waiting in line for tickets to see…The Grateful Dead! In 1985 I was taking photos of the crowd inside a show at Red Rocks Amphitheater in Colorado. One of those photos was of a lovely, smiling woman named Michelle. The cycle of my relationship with Michelle went from friend to lover, back to friend and we’re still going strong nearly 40 years later. Through Michelle I met a like-minded group of merry pranksters, one of whom is Mitch, a brother of mine in every sense of the word. Mitch introduced me to Andy, another dear brother. Talk to any Deadhead and you’ll hear similar stories, how chance encounters facilitated by their love of the band altered the course of their lives. The thread of the Grateful Dead runs through us all.

Maybe you’ll find direction around some corner where it’s been waiting to meet you. (From Box of Rain)

Phil didn’t write many of the Dead’s songs but one of his compositions really struck gold. Box of Rain’s beautiful melody, odd chord changes and enigmatic lyrics by Robert Hunter in many ways encapsulates the entire experience of what the Grateful Dead are all about. Box of Rain was Phil’s signature tune and one of the most beloved songs in the Grateful Dead’s canon. If you were lucky enough to be at a show when the band performed it, well that was just about as good as it could get. Box of Rain was often played as an encore, the perfect grace note to a sublime musical experience. The Dead’s stage set-up remained consistent throughout the 80s and 90s. From left to right it was Phil, Bob, Jerry and Brent Mydland. If you wanted to get the full frontal force of Phil’s bass, you stood on the left side, which came to be known as The Phil Zone.

The Grateful Dead were so much more than just a rock and roll band. They were a lifestyle, a life force, a philosophy and to some, even a religion. Like the mycelium that spreads beneath a forest floor, the Dead’s influence was far reaching and touched millions of people in deeply profound ways, myself being one of them. While listening to that borrowed album 50 years ago I had no way of knowing how the Dead would come to enrich my life, what an important role they’d play in helping me to become the person I am today. So… fare thee well Phil. Happy trails wherever in the time/space continuum your beautiful soul is currently traveling. I love you brother.

By Louie Ferrera

It’s ok to just sit here, right? It’s ok to watch the green fingers of the apple tree sway in tandem with the singing of the wind chimes, right? It’s ok to watch the sky-blue scrub jay hop from tree branch to lawn to fountain. It’s ok to marvel at the stillness and the golden glow of the light on this October afternoon. The breeze is just enough of a whisper to move the bird feeders, solar lights, wind chimes and sun spinners that have managed to bring some life back into our dead plum tree. I’m just watching them all as they dangle from the thin, lichen-covered branches, turning what could be a sad sight into a celebration of rebirth and repurpose. I give myself permission to simply sit here and observe, I have no other agenda. There’s a blue plastic hummingbird up there too. It has a tiny five-blade fan attached to each of its sides instead of wings and hangs from a swivel hook. When the wind blows, the bird spins one way while the fans spin another way. Sometimes it appears as if it’s about to break free, become animated and join its fellow hummingbirds as they zip and buzz around the yard.

If I look just right at the three Van Gogh cypress trees before me, the light on them takes on a hallucinatory and dream-like quality. I once had a dream with just this very type of light illuminating it. I don’t have words to describe this dream but I know the feeling and I’m having it now. You may see me sitting here and wonder what I’m doing. I’m not doing , I’m just being. When  I’m in this state, I find that I notice the little things: how the same hummingbird always sits at the end of the same skinny branch tip on the plum tree, how the magnificent Orb Weaver spider that’s called our backyard home since the summer comes out of hiding after dark every night and mends its tattered web, the fleeting alpenglow that lights up the Japanese maple tree at sunset, the departure of summer birds, the arrival of fall species.

It’s ok to not feel like the other shoe is about to drop, it’s ok to take a break from the feverish madness of Trump and the election, it’s ok to not think about the insane orgy of violence in the Mideast and Ukraine. My window on the world this afternoon is peaceful and green. Our cat is curled up like a question mark inside the last small pool of sunlight on our deck. She’s not worried about anything. Oh to be a cat. When Ella falls asleep in my lap her purring is food for my soul.

A folk singer-sage-poet that I used to listen to once said, “Life is short…but it’s WIDE!” There’s so much to see and experience in the brief time that we’re here. I try and wring every bit of living out of every precious moment but each day manages to slip by no matter how tightly I hold on. So today it’s ok to not do but to just be, hoping to slow the wheel down just a little and allow this golden afternoon to wash over me.

By Louie Ferrera

Q: When are 50 year old jokes the funniest?

A: When they’re told among the same three friends 50 years later

Of all the blessings in my life, and there are many, I count my friendship with Tim and Benji as one of the most blessed. And those 50 year old jokes? They’re just the tip of the iceberg.

Tim, Benji and I met in 1974 when we were teenage freshmen at William Paterson College, a small state school in New Jersey. We were part of a ragtag band of budding disc jockeys at WPSC, the campus radio station. WPSC was like a fraternity minus all of the nonsense of Greek life. It was an everyone is welcome, freak freely kind of scene where for the first time in my life I was being accepted for who I was. The friendships I began to make at the radio station were deep, I was part of a fun-loving and accepting family. It was here that the friendship between me, Tim and Benji flourished. I have vague memories of our first encounters: Tim walking into the radio station carrying a guitar case, Benji sitting next to me in our philosophy class. Tim, the tall and lanky dude with a ready smile, the most positive person I’ve ever known. Tim  has always been there for me, solid ground in unsettled times. Benji, the kind, lovable, teddy bear of a guy who’s more fun than a box of Slinkys. He squints and flashes a big, white-toothed smile when he laughs. Benji has made me laugh harder than any human ever has. Some of the happiest times of my life have been spent in the company of these two gentlemen. Our backgrounds are similar, middle class kids raised by hard working parents in suburban New Jersey. I had friends in high school but these two were different. Our energies complimented each other, our world views and sense of humor similar. Simply stated, we just GOT each other. 

I had alway wanted to learn to play the guitar. I had one as a kid but never stuck with it. The radio station was chock full of creative people…and guitar players! Both Tim and Benji played. Well, that sealed the deal, I just had to hang with these guys. Soon after befriending them I bought my first guitar, a $90 Yamaha. A couple of really talented guitar players named Denise and Carol also worked at the radio station. Along with Tim and Benji, these four tolerated a know-nothing beginning hacker like myself. They welcomed me into their circle and basically taught me how to play. My appetite for music was voracious. I played my new guitar until my fingers ached and was driven to succeed.

Playing guitar together quickly became the basis of the friendship between Tim, Benji and myself, the bedrock upon which everything since has grown from. Making music with another person is a unique form of intimacy, musical expression is deep and very personal and not something that I share with just anyone. The deeper the three of us went musically, the stronger our friendship became. We played guitar together every chance we had and soon became a fixture at parties and around campus. We were never a “band” per say but nonetheless christened ourselves BLT. Our musical styles complimented one another: Benji the hot shot lead player, Tim solid and steady on rhythm. I played rhythm too but also took the lion’s share of the lead vocals, not necessarily because I was the best singer, but by virtue of the fact that I always knew all of the words. The longer we played together, the more our repertoire grew. We were deep into the country/folk rock scene. We worshiped at the altar of the Eagles, Neil Young was our God. We’d get stoned and play and I’d lose myself in the ecstasy of it all. Our favorite place to play was on the second floor landing inside the stairwell of the student center. It was like playing in a cathedral. Our $200 guitars rang out like Martins and for that brief and beautiful time we were Crosby, Stills and Nash.

We graduated in 1978. A year later I decided to strike out for the west coast and seek my fortune in California where I still live today. Through periodic visits, letters and phone calls, texts, Face Time and Facebook, Tim, Benji and  I have managed to maintain our friendship. The fact that we’re still going strong half a century later speaks volumes to the depth and resiliency  of our bond.

My most recent trip found all three of us together for the first time in over a decade. From the moment of the reunion it felt as if no time had passed, we simply picked up right where we left off. The jokes were still funny, the love still strong and the music flowed through us like a river; effortlessly, timelessly.

By Louie Ferrera

The hike I went on today was all about feathers. It seemed like everywhere I looked, there they were: A 12 inch long, steel-grey wing feather from a Great Blue heron, a tail feather from a crow; coal-black and broadly rounded at the end in two heart-shaped humps. I saw a turkey feather and one from a jay, bits of down from who knows what and a jumble of feathers from all parts of a quail’s body marking the spot where this bird met its end.

I’m not sure if there just happened to be a lot of feathers lying around or if I was just tuned into them, probably a little of both. Either way once I began noticing feathers they seemed to be everywhere. I wore the crow feather in the back of my Giants cap which elicited smiles from folks I passed along the trail. My favorite finds of the day were the trio that accompanies this story. The black one with spots is from a hairy (or downy, I can never tell the two apart) woodpecker. The multi-hued one was found along the rocky shore of a river so I think it belonged to a spotted sandpiper, a small shorebird that I had seen before at that spot. I’d have to consult an ornithologist to ID the solid grey feather.

The perfect, beautiful symmetry of a bird feather is a true wonder of nature. I love the way the individual parts of a feather radiate out from the central rib and sweep upwards to a taper at the end. When I hold a feather in my hand I can feel the energy of the bird it was once attached to. If there are gaps in a feather it can be restored to its previously unbroken state simply by running your fingers along its length, I think that is just so cool!

Throughout human history bird feathers have been prized and in some cultures thought to bestow magical powers on those who wore them. In Native American culture, eagle feathers represent courage, strength and healing. Colorful feathers have been particularly sought after, leading to extinctions or near extinctions of many birds as they’ve literally been hunted to death. One such bird is the quetzal, the national bird of Guatemala. Quetzals are extremely rare and confined to isolated pockets of undisturbed jungle in Central America. On our family trip to Costa Rica in 2018 we were fortunate enough to see a Resplendent Quetzal while on a guided hike through the Monteverde Forest Preserve. It was a brief but memorable glimpse, the quetzal’s ruby red breast flashing in the sun, its nearly one meter-long emerald green tail feathers trailing behind it as it flew from the tree tops. My favorite bird feathers can be seen a little closer to home: the dazzling, iridescence of the hummingbird. With the right combination of sun and light our year-round resident, the Anna’s Hummingbird, lights up like a jewel in a yuletide display of crimson and emerald.

For me, finding and identifying feathers is one way to deepen the nature experience. Seeing a bird through my binoculars is one thing, finding its feather is to hold a little piece of that bird in my hand. Today I was a collector, other days I’ll just observe and leave them for someone else to find. It’s a good policy to spread the wonder around.