Thanks to my mother (who was a long time friend of Pigpen) I would even be able to tune up with them, but that wasn't the best part. Not one other living soul knew it, but my life long dream was to write songs for my idols Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia.

Ever since I was little, I was told that I was named after Robert Hunter's song "Ramble on Rose." Where most children were put to sleep with "Mary had a little lamb" and "Hickory dickory doc," I was put to bed with "Terrapin Station," "Dark Star" and the like. I even had a gift from the band, I had Jerry Garcia's first acoustic guitar. Tonight I would finally have my chance. "Psychedelic Roses" was the song and the sky was the limit!

Slipping off into a daydream, Rose recalled her thirteenth birthday. Until then, she had been playing on a broken down "driftwood" guitar in her Uncle John's Band. She remembered the flowers that she had braided into her hair that day. When the band gave her the guitar, she nearly died of ecstasy. Since that day, she never let her guitar out of sight for more than a few days. That beautiful folk guitar, still as beautiful as it was that day . . .

"Hey now! Where ya been my Sugar Magnolia? I need help with these burritos! Here, taste this."

"Mm, tastes great, needs pepper, but now I must away."

"Hey, you promised to help me. Sesh me some of that basil will ya?"

" Here, I'll be back in a couple of hours. Besides, you don't need me to tell you that you're the greatest cook in the world."

"But . . . "

"You're forgetting what today is. My destiny awaits, I must jam with the Dead."

"Then ramble on Rose, and drop by my place later I have something for you."

Phil kissed my cheek and wished me well.

After a few more greetings and three samples of great herbal cooking, I made it to the tumbledown shack that currently housed the Grateful Dead. Clutching my guitar case (music safely tucked inside) I knocked on the door.

Robert Hunter answered the door. I threw myself into his arms, he hugged me mechanically. Stepping back, I noticed that he looked pale, drained.

"What's wrong Rob? You look like somebody died."

"He's gone Rose . . . "

"Hey wait, calm down. Now, who's gone, what are you talking about?"

"He's gone, dead. Jerry's dead." Then the great Robert Hunter collapsed on me and cried.

Eventually, Robert lead me inside. Bobby Weir explained as best he could that it was a heart attack. I was in shock, I needed to play my guitar, release, escape, music. They must be lying, a joke, a big joke, but I knew they wouldn't do that to me.

I opened my guitar case and took out my guitar, in the process, my song fell out. Bob picked it up and skimmed it, I didn't notice.

"Hey, what's this?", he asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Just words, ink on paper, it doesn't matter anymore."

"This is good, really good. Jerry will love this . . . I mean, Jerry would have loved this. You wrote it."

I tried to speak, to say something, somehow I thought if I could just talk to them, my friends, it could get better. But the words wouldn't come. There was nothin' to say anymore. Burying my face in the soft brown fabric of an old couch, I cried softly. No one went to comfort me, and this was good. They all knew as well as I did that there was nothin' anyone could do, so we sat in silence. The dust from the cushions clouded my senses. No, there was nothing anyone could do anymore.

Rose would have been crying now had she any tears left. There was so much to cry about really, more than there should have been in one lifetime. Here, on this park bench, a strange empty feeling came over her. A few months ago, this feeling would have been strange, alien. Now, it was almost a second nature to her. Strange, she thought that this feeling suddenly felt alien again. But when Rose was sure that her soul would implode from the empty core that burned inside her, something else happened. It was an old almost ancient sensation, as if a giant hand had been laid on her back. It reminded her of what a baby feels when it is first held by its mother, protected, warm. But when she looked up there was nothing around but the staggered scenery of a San Francisco side street.

It broke her heart to look around and not see a single familiar face. And then out of the corner of her eye, Rose thought she saw a familiar shadow. Passing it off as another pigeon her other thoughts quickly reoccupied her mind. There was nothing left for her to do, but keep going.

The campground was in disarray. Everyone was crying, holding each other, failing to bring anyone any hope. We had all lost something, our father, our brother. Signs were being posted all over saying,"Jerry Was God," they were right.

Choking back another sob, I bunched up yet another one of my beautiful hand dyed shirts and threw it in a garbage can. I had already given my best ones away to smiling faces that passed by. With the trip to come, I could only take what I could carry. My mind began to wander; yesterday was the worst day of my life. After finally leaving the safety of Bobby's couch, I was taken by the band to see Jerry.

Jerome Garcia was sleeping when I entered the room. At least, he looked like he was sleeping- but he wasn't going to wake up any time soon. He was cold, I had always remembered him as being so warm. But I knew that it wasn't Jerry lying on that bed, Jerry was far away, bound for parts unknown. Only his body was left behind. There was nothing for me there, no way to find what I was looking for. So I kissed his forehead, and walked out.

There was nothing left for any of the family where we were now. We were all going to leave, make our pilgrimage to Haight Ashbury, the birthplace of the Dead. Packed and ready to go, I decided to go see Phil.

Phil had taken the news worse than anyone I knew. I was worried, he wouldn't get out of bed. It was as if he were dead and not Jerry. The phrase "But he can't be dead, I just saw him yesterday" crossed my mind. Everyone had heard that one a lot lately. As I entered Phil's tent, I knew something was wrong. A familiar voice was singing "If I Had the World to Give," the voice was unmistakable, Phil.

"Phil!" "Hey Phil what's going on?"

No answer but the faint sound of his voice, "I may not have the world to give to you . . . "

I found Phil semiconscious in a pool of blood. "Phil, oh no . . . "

"Rose, you look like an angel."

I cradled his head in my lap. "But, why?"

"All my life I've been let down by one person after another. The only people that stayed with me were you and Jerry. Now with him gone, the magic in my life has disappeared."

"You still have me, you always will."

"My angel, but you don't need me. I would weigh you down."

"What's lighter than I cannot weigh me down, let me help you, please." He coughed, I realized that he must be almost dead.

"There's nothin' you can do now."

"Please, let me sing your blues away."

"Sure Rose, your gift is on the table."

I kissed his forehead and began to sing. Starting with "A Box of Rain," my voice was clear and cool, but soon my song changed into the warm chords of my song "Psychedelic Roses." When I was finished, I looked down to see that Phil had died. Unable to hold back the tears, I laid down beside my friend and cried all the tears left in me.

Sometime later, a minute or an hour it didn't matter anymore, I sat up and picked up the gift. It was wrapped in an old tie-dyed T-shirt that Phil had worn until it was full of holes and had begun to disintegrate. Giving into a small laugh, I opened the gift. Inside was a card that said, "Open my watch" I did so and a small piece of paper fell out. Unfolded it read,

That night I went to bed early. Not because I was tired, because I wanted to be alone. I had been depending on Phil for as long as I could remember. He was my support, my crutch. Without him, I was nothing. And now, I could no longer depend on him. Tomorrow I would begin my journey and leave Phil behind, along with a piece of myself.

Rose held Phil's watch tight in her palm. It's steady ticking soothed her. She had not taken it off since that day. Looking back on it all, she realized how selfish she had been, all those times that she had gone to him with her problems, giving nothing in return. The long hours in the kitchen they spent when he had tried to teach her to cook. He had been so patient with her. Time, once again she had been defeated by it. After stopping to look back, time left her in the dust. She knew it would never look back, and she could never catch it.

On a good night, people sat around and sang, got stoned and ate burritos. Even I, who was a "wharf rat", a group of sober dead heads that held meetings at set breaks and passed out yellow balloons, had taken to smoking some pot, dropping some LSD. I knew what it could do, but I was beyond caring. Sometimes, when I was high, I thought I saw Phil reaching out to me. But the high would always let me down before I could reach him. In addition, there were rumors of some bad stuff going around. People were having bad trips more often.

During the day it was even worse. Because, if you were smart, you traveled alone. Most people don't pick up hitch hikers, let alone ten or twenty. I grimaced involuntarily every time I thought of the rides I had taken. Sitting up all night in the bitter wind, going 75 on the back of a flatbed truck. The dirty, sweaty men that had tried to hit on me. Last night I was robbed of fifty dollars and my last joint.

I was dying to write something, anything. My songs, I hadn't worked on them forever, and I didn't even know where "Psychedelic Roses" was. A truck driver probably stole it. Completely lost in thought, I hardly noticed when a truck stopped in front of her. Sighing, I hopped inside.

I awoke with a start. Echoes of the previous night's events danced around me in a deadly waltz. It shouldn't have happened to me. On top of everything else, I shouldn't have had a bad trip:

It had started wonderfully, I was walking hand in hand with Phil in a beautiful garden. We talked about old times as a haunting tune echoed through the field. Gradually, things began to change. We began to argue. It seemed Phil blamed me for his death, (or was it the other way around?) I was so shocked, I was in tears. Phil reached out to comfort me and it seemed that everything was going to be okay. But then, quite suddenly, Phil's watch flew off my neck and raised over our heads. From somewhere, a clock struck 13 o'clock and all the flowers started to grow. They grew brighter and sweeter until they were about to explode. Flowers everywhere started to become distorted, changing into miles of brambles. Frightened, I began to run frantically. Phil reached out to help me, but he was a moment too late. I tripped on a rock and fell to a thorny death. No, I wouldn't sleep tonight, maybe not ever again.

"Did you say your name was, Ramblin' Rose?" Sarah smiled at their old game. I knew she had been crying. "Do you have my bootleg of the '64 acid test?"

"Sure, A grade as always." Handing over the tape she began to sob. Sitting on a couple of pillows, I awaited the depressing story I knew was to come.

"It's my parents." "After Jerry died, they wouldn't talk about it. I knew they were heartbroken, but they wouldn't show any emotion. I think they felt they needed to be strong for me. We made it this far on the trip only because I wanted to go. But today, they came into my tent dressed really weirdly. Dad had a suit and tie on that he hasn't worn for years, and mom was in a really formal silk dress. They stormed into my room and announced that they were staying in Oregon. A house with a white picket fence, you know the drill. When I asked about the journey, they told me to get over it. Can I travel with you, I have no other place to go."

Nodding, I left the tent. Soon I saw another friend, Hobbit. Hobbit was something of a town crier. Any and any and all news traveled through him. Too much Cherry Garcia ice cream made him portly and loveable. He was loud and obnoxious and I love him to death.

"Hobbit, tell me news!" Rushing over to him, I received a big bear hug and a wet kiss on the cheek.

"Rosie, play me a song!"

After playing "Truckin'," "Casey Jones," and "Ship of Fools" I sat and waited for some good news, any good news. None was to come.

After walking around the camp ground, I realized something I had never known before. All these people Sarah, Hobbit, Phil, Alice, Siren and even me myself were puppets. I had always seen myself as so free, living the music. But those notes had been pulling our strings all along. As long as Jerry was there, we were fine. They were right Jerry was god, our god and without him we were all lost.

Spaceman was first. Like me, he hadn't been able to make it to the floating camp grounds every night. Since he was alone, he had to fend for himself. Sleeping in places like phone booths and bushes was risky, but he had to do whatever it took to reach his girl Alice. Everything was going okay until he tried to sleep in the darkest alley of a tough neighborhood. Some guys tried to mug him and he got shot. Little did the Spaceman know, he was less than a mile from the grounds. Needless to say, Alice (along with half of their camp) followed the shot. By the time we got there, he was dead. Alice freaked, she was pregnant with the Spaceman's child. Without any home or family, she had no place to go, so she slit her wrists on the floor of her worn out tent.

Luckily, Sadie Hawkins went to her tent to borrow a copy of "Live Dead" and saved her. And poor Siren, at the age of ten, she got turned the LSD route by some guy with his own lab. While stoned one night, the bastard raped her. Everyone had some sort of hang up. The Dead were dead and the old gang shouldn't be the same again.

I sat down by the center of the fire. I was surrounded by zombies who'd had their dreams crushed. Phil's watch was ticking so loud that it sounded as if the watch itself was inside my brain. I knew that I had to do something, anything, but what could I do? The watch ticked louder. I struggled to think, if Phil were here he would do something funny, crazy, but I wasn't funny at all, so what was left for me to do? The only thing I knew how.

I opened my guitar case and tuned up. Then I started to play, softly at first, then louder. I began to sing "Friend of the Devil." In the beginning, there was no reaction, just blank faces. But then a voice joined me. It was Sarah, coming out of her tent for the first time that night. Alice and Siren joined in. Very soon the whole camp was singing. We hadn't done this for so long. A hundred voices singing with one voice. When the song was over, we sang another, and another. Yes, Jerry was gone but his music was still alive. That was all any of us needed, something to believe in. I knew I must remember, something to believe in.

Just as I was beginning to pack up and find a tree in which to see the concert I was approached by a man. To this day, I can't remember what he looked like. All I know was that he had kind eyes and a warm aura about him. Maybe he was stoned, it wouldn't have surprised me a bit.

He hugged me and said, "Hey brother, have a nice concert." Of course, I tried to tell him that I wasn't going to the concert, that I had no ticket. But I wasn't able to get a word out before the stranger put a ticket, a miracle in my hand. Somehow, the band had sounded that much sweeter that night.

The realization took its full toll on me then. Up until that moment, it seemed that the band had canceled a concert and we were moving to a new location. But he really was gone. How could the band survive without its leader, the soul of the group? Jerry had always said that the real leader was Pigpen, but he died in the 70's. The band was dead.

"I set out runnin' but I take my time . . ." We even had a drum circle going on. The sun was almost down. I hadn't realized before how beautiful California sunsets were. All this time I had been rushing my fate. Now that I finally stopped to look around, I realized that the whole sky looked like a tie-dyed T-shirt. The greatest shirt of all time, nature's shirt.

The chill in the air dried the warm dripping colors until it was black, all black in every direction. The only light to see by was the hundreds of candles, like so many prayers giving hope to our lost souls. It was cold. Someone threw a blanket over my shoulders.

"So the kids they dance and shake their bones . . ." My guitar was covered in wax. Not that I minded, it gave it personality, but briefly I wondered what Jerry would have thought about it. All the candles in fact, looked already like they had seen better days. As if they were all crying, mourning. It seemed appropriate.

"Ripple in still water . . ." People were starting to leave. Nothing lasts forever, but all I wanted to do was keep playing. It was easy to play, it required no thinking. It was all ending too soon.

"Cosmic Charlie how do you do? . . ." If I stopped, then I would have to start thinking, planning what to do next. Our Jerry deserved better than this. He deserved a memorial that lasted forever. Something that would not fade away.

"Everybody's dancin' in a ring around the sun . . ." All of the candles were going out; we had played all night. A few scattered souls stayed on and sang, but most had gone.

I began to wave my hand quickly through the flame of one of the remaining candles. I no longer worried about burning myself. This was an old game of mine. Slowing my hand just slightly, I allowed myself to be burned. I winced, not because my finger hurt. The hurt was deeper than that. Life was wearing me down. My throat was sore and had I not been so upset, I would probably have been hungry. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It's fiery glow spread rays of warmth over the rainbow colored remains of the night's events. ". . . Such a long, long time to be gone and a short time to be here."

"Hello Jerry," she said calmly. "Long time no see."

Finishing the cigarette, he picked up her guitar and played a few bars of "A Touch of Grey."

Last updated: 1\8\99

you are listening to "ramble on rose" by the Grateful Dead