Good Family

The tapes take me back; if a picture is worth a thousand words, how many pictures could I fit on a 90-minute Maxell? Every time I listen to a tape I remember who we'd seen that morning in the campground or that afternoon on Shakedown Street. A strange network, disconnected in every way but that solid rope of common understanding: common love for Grateful music, Grateful atmosphere, Grateful acceptance.

At every show we would seem to find a few smiling faces from the past, fleeting sketches of memory streaking past among tie-dyed nameless crowds. It was -- we were -- good family.

Joanna, from Lexington, Kentucky, always gave us fresh water for Bongo, our puppy (not a puppy anymore). We seemed to see her every summer we toured, always a sweaty hug and Kentucky drawl dripping greetings.

There was Paul, too. We met at a rest stop after a show and struck friendship paydirt right away. We smoked together when passing through and traded tapes for almost two years. His hand-drawn j-cards are the favorites of my collection.

The most endearing miracle was a baby taking her first steps on a blanket laid across concrete in the lot at Soldier Field. Those of us passing by couldn't help but cheer with the whooping elation of her parents, who picked her up and twirled and hugged each other while "Three Birds" drifted from the battery boom box holding down the blanket. Later that afternoon, the sky broke open and we huddled beneath a stranger's tarp.

So many kindnesses, so many little human dramas all swirled in smoke and sunshine. Those glorious transitory relationships, all held close in the daydreams and memories I keep like the rows of tapes that hold the music that surrounded them. Good family.