Date: Sat, 12 Aug 1995 12:37:27 -0700 From: firstname.lastname@example.org (mark kraitchman) To: email@example.com Subject: announce [Goodbye to Jerry] Sender: dead-heads-dist@nemesis.Berkeley.EDU 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.
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