Bringing it All Back Home

There used to be a big tree outside my window the home of squirrels and birds that Max the Cat could watch. Although the tree was physically unreachable to Max, he still ruled it with stern authority because it was part of his outdoor domain (who rules his indoor domain has never been in question).

This spring and summer, the tree never budded, never sprouted, never leafed, and even on the hottest days, the barren branches gave the illusion of one of the grayest days in winter. Last week, a truck of men came by and chopped off the branches, sawed down the trunk, dug up the roots, and spewed swirling sawdust into the air. Max didn't know what to make of all the commotion. He cried out the meekest of meows, crying out for his tree, crying in fear of all the noise, and crying out not knowing what to make of the situation.

I tried to comfort the little fellow, but the confusion in his eyes didn't go away. Max has a set routine, and any movement outside of what he is familiar, takes a while to assimilate and deal with. But he got over it. He has never been one who firmly understands the difference between reality and fiction. The disappearance of his tree is no more real than the imaginary dust bunny he has to dart after in the spur of the moment. Max still gazes out of the same window, his view now treeless, looking in curiosity at things that were previously blocked from his view, while at the same time unsure of what is missing or why the change was made.

Life for Max isn't so much something new and full of wonder, it's more of a continuation, of trying to make sense out of the random surprises that occasionally pop up. Still, he can get excited about his breaks from the norm, a cob of corn, an early morning bowl of milk, a dab of his hairball medicine. His life is calm, simple, mostly predictable, and a nap in the sun.

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Back in my formative years at that last bastion of quality higher learning, Macalester College, my roommate Spunky and I used to have conversations about the world around us. We noted there was an air of hypocrisy floating around the campus, with a bunch of middle to upper class students trying to revive the '60's activism they read about in their history books. It was a kind of sheepish guilt, of trying to take social responsibility, to carry on the mantel of political changes that meant so much to the people that came before, namely their parents. It was almost as if many of our peers were feeling guilty that their parents had abandoned their activism and settled into corporate jobs that paid enough money for them to send their kids to an expensive Midwestern liberal arts college. Thus many of the staged activities in protest of current concerns, Apartheid, Reaganism, flag burning, the concern dujour, had to be taken with a grain of salt. It was as if many of the students were involved not because they believed in the cause, but because they felt guilty if they weren't there.

All this comes back to mind with the news of Jerry Garcia's death. There was a period of my life when the Grateful Dead were my least favorite group in the world, not because of their music, but because of the culture that surrounds their music. The whole "Deadhead" movement of worshipping the communal lifestyle of tie died T-shirts, living in vans, the drugs, and the rituals of concert going- what did any of it really have to do with the music? Was there any value in yet another live fifty minute version of Truckin? The Dead seemed to exist merely to carry on the culture of the '60's without any true concern about the substance of the causes. They existed only for another excuse to drop responsibility and party.

My views have softened over the years. Yes, the lack of sincerity or maturity in many of their followers bothers me. But there aren't any other bands who get so much loyalty and devotion from their fans. The notion of being out on the road, of playing another concert, of adapting a song to fit the mood of the evening, seems in retrospect, a great goal to strive for. The corporate culture that surrounds the band, and the pseudo-cultural atmosphere that follows their every move, in the end isn't really the point. It's an extended family, a belief in the art, and a live for today attitude that sets the Dead apart from other rock bands. There is a comfort and sensibility in settling into a 9-5 routine. Yet like my cat, my eyes are torn between what's on the horizon, and the light in my microwave oven. Inventorying paper clips really is no more grown up than living out of a van. I may never be a Deadhead, but I think we should all mourn the passing of yet another of the few individuals in an increasingly homogenized culture.