Breakfast for Three

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#13: Breakfast for Three

In chatting with Annabel recently, she informed me she stopped going to ROTR many years ago because of rip-offs. “I got tired of lugging my backpack and all my personal stuff, every time I went to the facilities.”

Dude, are you off your nut? Of all the things I may-or may not-have worried about, slicky-boys was not even on the list.

Simply put, I was flummoxed. My experience was just the opposite, but then I must admit that being housed along Rasta Road, the avenue of the volunteers, was not the same as being out in the “jungle,” where the majority of the attendees were camped.

I left Terra Jean, my long-serving computer, in my tent the whole time I was there, along with all of my gear. I carried only my wallet and truck key with me at all times, buried deeply in my front left, lower cargo-pants pocket of my shorts.

This, moreover, was one of the big selling points to me, the fact that putting in a total of three days of volunteer labor bought me the peace of mind of being grouped with a whole slew of like-volunteers. It gave everyone a certain degree of immunity from this problem. There were too many of our company always coming and going, for any disreputable characters to get away with anything.

Buddha knows, there are enough odd-looking personalities here, but peculiar looks take a backseat to peace, harmony and love.

There is a pervading spirit here that begins with the automatic greeting, “Happy Reggae,” applied similarly to the Holiday greeting, “Merry Christmas,” and rising to encompass far more than just the words being expressed.

This spirit enveloped all that I encountered. As chaotic as matters may have become at any point in time, there was always the music to fall back on; we were all here for the music. 

Returning from my encounter with Diego, on the way back from the bathrooms Sunday morning, clutching my strawberry cannabis cake which I deposited on the community table, I gathered all of my accoutrements to success, and journeyed the ten minutes over to the outdoor kitchen. 

Having already tested the waters on Saturday morning, successfully charging all three of my electronic devices, while lounging at one of the picnic tables under the pavilion, I was now in full rewind mode. I envisioned myself happily investing a couple of hours to post some pics on face/book, and do a little writing, while enjoying a cup of the kitchen’s off-the-charts-tasty coffee.

As I rounded the corner and surveyed the expansive area, I noted two things immediately: One of the two electrical outlets already was in use, with industrial extension cords trailing off to the side for one of the vendors nearby. The second was that the other outlet was located right next to where two early morning revelers were already ensconced, nursing the same ambrosia of the gods that I sought. 

With cream.

The entire kitchen was devoid of other patrons, making it slightly awkward that I went right up to their space, and brutalized their privacy.

Zounds! I hope these two pretty ladies don’t mind being accosted by a goofy-looking old hippie, who happens to be one of those nerds who brings his computer everywhere he goes. 

“The top of the morning to you! I trust you have both had a very pleasant, and yet most enjoyable morning, thus far?” I inquired politely, attempting not to frighten them.

I pressed on, “My sincerest apologies for this invasion, Ladies, but I would like to take advantage of the electricity, and the only available outlet is situated right next to you. I can assure you that I will immediately affix the headphones to my ears, so that I will not be privy to your conversation.” I beamed expectantly at my captive audience.

They certainly do not seem fazed by my presence; quite the contrary, actually. Smiles of greeting from both is a good sign. I better explain.

I was to find out that I was addressing Kathy from Ashland, and Stephanie, from Ft. Bragg, both having made certain to revisit a venue that they had enjoyed in the past. Being volunteers also, they were camped amongst a fellow group of like individuals, so we had that much in common.

I rapidly set about plugging in the white, home extension cord, into which I plugged Terra Jean, my camera, and my-

WTFP? (Where’s the f**king phone) Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

The best laid plans of mice and men. I had left my phone back at camp, in my tent. I hoped. It certainly was not with me...what now? Do I gather all my stuff up, return to camp to get the phone, or do I ask these nice ladies to watch Terra Jean?

Dude! That’s a lot to ask of two folks, who don’t know you from a fence post. But you know, they both look to me as though they have good hearts. Here goes nothing.

Standing, and pausing, I made it known to them that I wanted once more, to egregiously disrupt their morning coffee. Bowing my head just slightly, and placing my right palm on my heart, with my left over it, I begged their forgiveness once more for interrupting them.

“It seems in my haste to take advantage of the electricity, I have neglected to bring my phone. Would it be too much of an imposition, if you are going to be sitting here anyway (noting that there was still coffee in their cups), if I asked you to keep an eye on my stuff?”

Stuff? Computer, camera, San Francisco Giants bag with all of the vital paraphernalia, and my head if it weren’t attached to my shoulders...

“I mean, I wouldn’t expect that you would try to stop anyone, but the fact that you are sitting right here, would probably discourage anything like that from occurring.”

They assured me it was not a problem, so I scurried back to camp, doing a double-time that came close to alarming a few early morning risers, who were obviously not expecting to see some old geezer moving as fast as I was.

Nothing like taking it to a new level. Dude, seriously. You left Terra Jean sitting by her lonesome, in the middle of Reggae on the River? Have you lost what little of your mind you have left? Uh, Terra Jean is not alone-she’s with Kathy and Stephanie.

And thus I found her upon my return, some twelve or thirteen minutes later. I felt a surge of exhilaration that paralleled my feelings from the night before, or rather, earlier this very Sunday morning, as I watched Stephen Marley perform.

“My sincerest thanks, to both of you, for watching my stuff. I realized on the way back to camp what an imposition it was, and I feel bad.”

“Nonsense! It was no big deal!” was the immediate response. “We were glad to be able to help out.” So simple in its eloquence, but so profound in its implications.

I have tried all along in these chronicles, to imbue the reader with a clear understanding of the prevailing spirit of ROTR. For me it has been about the love and support from all of those here who know that this was a huge challenge for me. 

To get love from random revelers (“Wanna give you some good love this afternoon...And I am gonna get a next portion real soon”) left me giddy with emotion.

These beautiful people are no different than all of the folks here, who instinctively reach out and give support.

“But it is a big deal to me,” I responded. “You did a big favor for me and I appreciate it.”

“We just did for you, what my friends are doing for me,” responded Stephanie. “They are watching my four-year-old, so that I can come over here to have a cup with Kathy. They have been great about that the whole time I have been here.”

And I was worried about my computer. Stephanie has such the incredible support system in place, that she can leave her most precious cargo of all with them, and know that all is well. That is ROTR.

I showed both of them a few pics I had posted on face/book of Stick Figure, Collie Buddz and Stephen, and at some point in time Kathy informed me that if I friended them, they would accept my request. 

I continue to be enthralled with social media, for allowing a guy who lives off the grid, five miles up a dirt road on a mountain ridge in rugged Northern Mendocino County, to remain so plugged in to what is going on in my world.

As with many social situations in which I engaged over the weekend, I have lost track of the dialogue portion of the video from my custard-like brain. Kathy, Stephanie and I exchanged pleasantries, in between me moving photos around, and posting on face/book because I had excellent Wi-Fi service all weekend.

When my new friends went on their way, they left behind them, an individual with a renewed sense of faith in folks. 

I am feeling buoyant this morning, a much better term than manic. I need to share this feeling. Hmmmm.

I returned to the coffee urn for my one-half cup of coffee, having already consumed one full cup, and as I strolled back past the kitchen chow line, now churning out that same Irish breakfast as Saturday morning, I paused. I had had to cut through the lengthy line of waiting patrons, on my way back to Terra Jean, so there was no shortage of people to hear my crow of success.

Putting my best bellow on, I shouted out at top volume, “Big ups to the kitchen crew for the best coffee I have ever tasted, and breakfast to match! You folks are awesome!”

Heads snapped up and smiles burst out all around. It is so easy to make people smile.

I know. Get a load of the goofy ancient with the loud voice. 

It is so easy to share the love.

Tomorrow: Philosophy 101

Aftermath

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#12: Aftermath

I once went aloft in a glider, being towed up to a height of 10,000 feet by a second plane which actually had an engine, and then released. That eerie feeling of silence, and the knowledge that only the skill of the pilot without any motorized assistance from any source, would get me back to terra firma, was an effective wake-up call. The feeling was one of exhilaration.

I felt a similar feeling when Stephen Marley played “No Cigarette Smoking in My Room.” The lyrics to this song, unlike the two of which I wrote about yesterday, have no particular relevance to me personally, except that it was the first of Stephen’s song that encased the right side of my brain in an iron-tight vice, one that has me in its grip, still.

Stephen sings a duet with Melanie Fiona, one that strikes a strong emotional chord in me. He begins,

“No cigarette smoking in my room, No alcoholic beverages in my room

Wanna give you some good love this afternoon

And I’m gonna get a next portion real soon...

I’m gonna keep you warm is cold outside, 

Protect you from the storm is war outside. 

You know I love you baby, No need to worry about me.”

She responds,

“Tell me what am I supposed to do, 

Why you got me sitting here waiting on you?

Baby hurry hurry come back and give me some love this afternoon

Cause I can’t wait to see you smile, Could you stay a little while

And do the things that only lovers do?

Try not to think about How I’m gonna do without your touch

Your touch. And I can’t stop thinking about the love I need so much

And until you come back to me, There will be

No cigarette smoking in my room, No alcoholic beverages in my room

Wanna give you some good love this afternoon

And I’m gonna get a next portion real soon...”

http://www.bing.com/search?q=mlyrics%20marley%20no%20cigarette%20smoking&pc=cosp&ptag=N1234D011014A316A5D3C6E&form=CONBDF&conlogo=CT3210127

Buddha, tears again. Why not? This is what it has been all about. Doesn’t get any better. What’s this? Casey on one side, Lito on the other? Big hugs, cool shit being said, one emotional wave cascading over another, all swirling around in that creamed-cauliflower-brain of mine, which struggles under normal circumstances, let alone these. 

We like to say that it takes a village to raise a child; sometimes that same village sticks around to help an old hippie out. Such was the case over the entire weekend, as so many in my community combined to let me know they were all providing a safety net for me, should one be needed.

Not only was the net unnecessary, I changed my mind about leaving Sunday morning, which was the original plan, and decided to stay for Albarosie, who closed out the festival, Sunday night.

The fact that he closed out the whole shebang, should tell you this artist has earned much respect in the industry. Casey had turned me on to Albarosie, minutes after he blasted northwards to begin his college life up at Pacific U, just east of Portland, in 2000.

I was enthralled and absolutely wanted to see him perform; I just did not want to set the bar of my own expectations too high. I figured two days and two nights was enough for starters, and if things went well, I could extend matters. 

Big Ross almost back-handed me the other day, when I told him I was going home on Sunday morning. He’s right, of course.

I will only mention Ross briefly, because it would take far more space than I have available, to go into any kind of detail. Classmate of Casey, and partners in various entrepreneurial endeavors, generous to a fault, never visits without wine for Annie, and gifts for all.

Like Mid-Sized David, Ross is from Minnesota, where they grow them big. He is a big man and goes at life full speed ahead, pausing only now and again, to keep from blowing a head gasket. Ross had a motorhome on site and disappeared for 24 hours at one point over the Friday/Saturday period, sleeping off the effects of being funch-paced.

Uppermost, like all of our community, Ross is about the love. Above all the other commodities that were so much in abundance, designed to enhance the festival experience, either physically or mentally, the love that pervaded the venue was epic. I felt as though I were enveloped in a blanket of love and support, that extended to all corners of the site.

Ross had sent me some Steel Pulse early on, and some Gentlemen later and was as much a part of my support system at Reggae as any one of the others. He was so tickled to see me that it reinforced my desire to stay the extra day.

Minnix took a pic of me standing between Casey and Lito, after Stephen was finished singing, in which I was beaming. No surprise there, since I was riding a tsunami of emotion, not to mention the effects of a bowl-for one-of some opium. Opium does not qualify as “other drugs,” as in my regimen of not taking anything I had not experienced before.

No surprises, and all that. Opium isn’t a drug just as cannabis isn’t a drug. They are mood stabilizers and right now, a little stabilization is probably a good idea.

I glanced at my phone just before I shut my eyes and prepared to sleep. It said 3:01 in the A of M. Tony Gullick was rocking some techno beats about three campsites over, and I lay on my air mattress and basked in the glow. I was supremely comfortable both physically and psychologically, and even when the cushion of the beats stopped abruptly, shut down we found out later, I remained nonplussed. 

I slept for three-and-a-half hours, waking because I had to see a man about a horse. Urgently.

On my way back, I saw three lads heading my way, laden down with their gear and obviously vacating the building. The third one, a straggly sort of chap, stopped and accosted me.

“Happy Reggae,” I automatically greeted him.

“Happy Reggae! Hey, Dude. Do you do edibles?”

“Only edibles with cannabis,” I joshed him.

I shouldn’t have. It only confused him.

“No, Man, I have this cake, Man, and I’m leaving. You want it? I’m gonna toss it in the trash if no one wants it.”

Do I do edibles? Does Stephen Marley play reggae? Let’s talk turkey.

“Give me a frame of reference..what’s your name? I’m Mark.”

“Diego. Huh?”

“How potent is the cake?” 

When I was going strong on edibles, I would make a batch of gluten-free cookies [in case Casey wanted to indulge] and eat two at a time, using oil I made from crock-potting the flowers of my medicine in canola oil for 24 hours. If anyone not accustomed to edibles wanted to try one of my cookies, I advised him or her to not eat any more than half of one cookie, and then wait at least an hour. 

Then if he or she is still functioning, a second helping might be considered.

“Oh, got it. I could eat the whole thing and still function.”

“Great success! And thanks, Brother Man. I will sample your cake immediately.”

I didn’t, of course, not until I returned from breakfast, that is. This second breakfast turned out to be a most intriguing experience, if ever there were one.

Tomorrow: “Breakfast for Three”

Stephen

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#11: Stephen

The stage was set, no pun intended, for my triumphant attendance at what many considered to be Reggae on the River, 2015’s premier event, Stephen Marley. A huge component of my original formula for success, included a strong selling point: I would have access to a little niche carved into the overflow of festival-goers, who shared my view that watching the performers from the middle of the bowl, was not workable.

Casey had described the arena as having a broad swath of available turf up the hill, behind the beer garden, which he described as Family-ville. There folks put up little shade pavilions to protect children and their respective parents from the scorching sun. Children were not a requirement for setting up your spot and enjoying this area.

Among those who had taken up residence in this less intense venue, was a friend of Casey named Rob. Rob, his wife, Nicole, their young son, and Nicole’s folks occupied a little oasis in this area, with a standing invitation that any of us who felt like popping in for some music and good company, should do so.

It doesn’t get any better than this. No way could I be up on that little side-stage during Stephen’s performance-too many people-not enough space. Up here where the sound is perfect and the big screen brings everything right into our space, is the best of all worlds.

I mentioned earlier that I was surprised at how punctual the artists appeared on stage, with Stick Figure actually starting twenty-five minutes early. Such was not to be the case with Stephen Marley, but I had no worries. Casey and I had made our way up to Robbie’s and had plopped ourselves down on the spread blankets, knowing that we were at least a couple of hours away from game time.

Tarrus Riley performed prior to Stephen, an artist with whom I was unfamiliar, and I lay down on my back and closed my eyes.

Toes-do your thing. Feet, you’re next. Slowly, slowly, heels, follow suit.

Deborah, the first leg of my therapeutic journey, had seen me for twelve visits back in the spring of 2010. She had informed my on my first visit, that she could not “fix” my panic attack syndrome, but that she could provide me with some key tools for reducing stress and anxiety. One was a simple relaxation strategy that I employ on a regular basis.

I slept for at least an hour, and awoke as they were setting up for Stephen. Casey and I chatted, comparing notes, and agreeing that all was a great success. 

Going back to the dead of last winter, when the lineup for ROTR first appeared, I have geared for this moment, and now it has arrived. A great success, indeed.

Lito and some of his entourage had joined us while I was napping, and he made sure I knew that he was sharing in my appreciation of the moment. Time stood still, as it is want to do, with there being neither a sense of urgency, nor any impression that time was dragging. Plenty of time to savor the moment. 

Plenty of time to pass the bong around and share in some of the same goodness, that HappyDay Farms had managed to convey to all of the Marley clan, through Desmond. 

As Stephen was introduced, and the first chords of “Made in Africa” began, I felt the emotion welling up in me, as I had expected.

http://www.bing.com/search?q=Made%20in%20Africa%20stephen%20Marley&qs=n&form=QBRE&pq=made%20in%20africa%20stephen%20marley&sc=0-0&sp=-1&sk=&cvid=cf6ec9f2c56b41b297873746c1914378 

“Educate yourself of, Africa

To liberate yourself, Africa

Keep your heads up high

No more will we cry

Our history that they stole, Africa

Is written in our souls, Africa

Oh this nation and this earth

Know just what you’re worth.”

I had never fully grasped the horrific reverberations of an entire continent being raped and plundered by outside forces. Regardless of whom the perpetrators were, the atrocities committed to so many unique cultures, in the name of any conceivable god or concept, were reprehensible. 

“Well, well. Ships that sailed to distant places 

Robbed us of our rights and words

History says that you’ve betrayed us

Talking to the gods you serve

Hear the rumbling in the sky

Tears that our forefathers cried

And today we’re still in chase

Take the shackles from our minds.”

Listening to this son of Bob Marley, imbuing me with a far clearer picture of what it meant to have had one’s forefathers endure these indignities, brings this particular holocaust right up on the front burner of my little pea brain.

“You’re the cornerstone, The king of wonder grown

How beautiful art thou, Africa, A nation you have to bow, Africa

Don’t you fall from grace, You’re that sacred place.

Our children must be taught of Africa, The science and the arts of Africa. Educate yourself, Africa...”

Stephen played eight songs before “No Cigarette Smoking (in My Room)” came on, one of them being “Old Slaves.” I have included a link to this song, as well as to “Made in Africa,” because one song is worth a thousand history lessons.

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=old+slaves+stephen+%2cmarley&qpvt=old+slaves+stephen+%2cmarley&form=VDRE&first=1#view=detail&mid=2AADEC14C1B8710066532AADEC14C1B871006653

“You wanna see my face?

Look in my pains...Look in my pains...Look in my pains...”

You see them pains from yesterday? Look in my pains...

And this morning feels so close to the past

For just yesterday, we were left in the dark

And the oppression from those chains still weighs on your and my brain.

Can you see what I’m saying? Look in my pains.

Was I born free? Was I born a slave?

Look in my pains. Wanna see my pains? Look at my face.

With the whip upon your mind so your mind leads your soul astray.

You can see that today we are all modern slaves.

We’ve been thinking that slavery is just from ancient days,

But that’s the puppet master’s game.

Can you see what I’m saying? 

Look at my pains.

Indescribable. Nothing like it. When my right brain takes control, it is like no rush ever. Such the powerful combination of content, musical genius, and empathy for a period in time, when man’s inhumanity to man, set the bar for terrorism at an impossibly high level.

That one percent, which controls so much of the economic lifeline to the poor, is resetting that bar, even as we speak, on a global level.

If you know reggae music, then you know all of this. If you do not, then be aware of these basic principles: When indomitable spirit which has undergone the worst of what mankind’s dark side has to offer, emerges stronger than ever, one reason might just be the pervading theme of positivism and love that is contained in this music.

I mentioned “No Cigarette Smoking” as being the eighth song. It was one of several that I was waiting for, because I knew that it would provide for me, a fitting climax to my experience at ROTR. This one would surpass even that of being able to meander through the bowl at the height of the festival, reveling in every step of the journey.

I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There. All done.

Done? Not even close.

Tomorrow: “Encore”

Auntie

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#10: Auntie

Lounging around the camp early Saturday afternoon, I was basking in the glow of anticipation, with Stephen Marley due to come on stage in less than twelve hours. Despite the paltry amount of sleep that I had been able to sneak in, while absorbing some of the overflow of enthusiasm raging throughout the night, on Friday, I was buoyant.

I knew that adrenalin would fuel my goal to be able to surpass my normal bedtime of eight o’clock, if I continued to follow my plan of no alcohol. Though there was enough booze to float the Queen Mary in the immediate vicinity of our camp the entire stay, it had no attraction to me.

After breakfast in the volunteer pavilion, with Casey this morning, we had spent a fair amount of time in the ERRP booth (Eel River Recovery Project), engaging in animated dialogue with the individuals running the booth. I say “we,” but I was merely a paperweight, strategically placed in the booth to take advantage of the oscillating fan, that wafted a cool breeze my way every thirty seconds or so.

Casey is so in his element in this setting, being able to intelligently discuss goals and objectives for addressing the politically volatile subject of the environmental damage done by illegal grows. That is only one of many, the statewide drought compounding each and every issue. 

This eclectic gathering of personalities here at ROTR is the perfect cross-section of our culture, ranging from those who simply are on the festival circuit, to those who fill prominent roles in the local community. Much gets accomplished in the trenches, over the course of the 100 or so hours, that the party rages.

Honestly, though, if I could follow the dialogue with any degree of accuracy, I could learn something. Unfortunately, the majority of the time, all I can do is grab onto bits and pieces of information, and try to make some sense of order later on, when I have had time to run the sound track back through my head, putting fragments of pertinent data in its proper cubby. The problem with the cubby in my brain, however, is that the light is pretty dim, and those cubbies all look the same. Sigh.

The booth was located only a couple hundred feet away from the main stage, so I was brought instantly to a sitting attention mode, when a Carlos Santana-type of sound exploded in my eardrums. I sprang out of my chair (music has that effect on me) and headed out, shooting an apologetic shrug of my shoulders in Casey’s direction, by way of explanation for my departure. He got it.

It’s just too hard to keep my spider-webbed brain focused on anything that comes at me through my ears. The inability to process information aurally is another manifestation of my mood spectrum disorder, and it surfaces any time more sophisticated principles are being bandied about in my presence. At least I understand why it is that I struggle, even if others don’t.

What I was hearing was the opening set of Alerta Kamarada, a Columbian group who infused a most pulsating rhythm and beat into their music, a sound that brought the crowd surging into the bowl. I headed through the gate into the backstage area, and up the ramp/steps to the side-stage, where I viewed all but the biggest of acts. 

I had the stage practically to myself, with only twenty or so in the area that could accommodate another fifty, easily, so I was draped over the railing, taking pics of the performance. It was galvanizing, and though I was completely unfamiliar with the music, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Upon completion of each act, we were asked to vacate the stage for ten minutes or so, something that I ultimately decided was done simply to allow others to be able to access the precious side-stage areas. By clearing everyone out and seeing them scatter between each act, it meant that those who returned ten or so minutes later got a fresh shot at obtaining a decent spot from which to view the show. No one could “own” a spot.

The crew running things was well-versed in its function, and I got to the point where I knew every one of them, so that all I had to do was shoot an inquiring glance at any one of them, to find out if I could return to the stage. When all is said and done, this optimum access to the music was something I never could have anticipated, but will always rely on in the future.

On came Emmanuel Jal, a performer with a background so macabre, as to render him worth seeing for this reason alone. Born in Sudan, he was left on his own at age seven when his mother was killed by pro-government forces, and he was forced into a soldiering profession, at that early age.

For four years he functioned in an army comprised of kids, engaging in civil war until he was rescued by Emma McCune, a British aid worker, who smuggled him to Kenya. Though McCune died in a road accident not long after, and Jal spent years living in the slums, he was able to educate himself, and discovered hip-hop. His music reflected his experiences.

An ancient woman, even older than I, tottered past me to glom onto a portion of the railing a short distance to my right, her knees, creaking seriously, dipping almost imperceptibly to the beat of the music.

This dude on stage has more soul in his little finger, than most people have in their entire being. Oh! Look at Auntie! What an inspiration. I am seriously impressed. And a roach? She’s rocking the reefer too. It does not get any better than this!

All attendees were either brothers and sisters, or aunties and uncles. All terms were meant to convey respect, and I had to converse with Auntie. This was almost too much for me to ingest.

“Has anyone told you that you are looking good, Auntie?” I gave the term of endearment the “ah” sound, rather than the “ant” sound, as is Casey’s manner. I had had to yell over the sound of the music.

She glowed with the words, nodding in acknowledgement, and offered me her roach, which had been reduced to almost nothing. Pulling out my always-available Altoids tin, with some already-rolleds, I introduced some purple diesel into the equation. Auntie did not miss a beat, literally and metaphorically, as she immediately saw the benefit of what I had to offer. We each continued our respective efforts at keeping time with the riveting music, until the set ended and we went our separate ways.

There’s hope for me yet.

Again, my main goal throughout the weekend was to maintain a strong independence, so that those dedicated to ensuring that I had adequate support, need not worry. I stayed with the music as Ghetto Youths Crew, featuring Skip Marley, Jo Mersa Marley, Black-Am-I, and Wayne Marshall, came on.

Skip Marley, Bob Marley’s grandson, was making his West-Coast debut so that was pretty epic. I enjoyed the set immensely, again marveling that I could listen to a solid hour of music that I had never heard before, and enjoy every moment. Such is the nature of the genre.

Listening to those family members of Bob Marley, on stage for three different sets, was being as close to the person who single-handedly made reggae so mainstreamed as one can get, and I savored the experience.

Afterwards, I returned to the camp for a meal of two boiled eggs, with salt and pepper, the remainder of my Spanish rice, and an apple, all according to my ongoing plan of eating lightly and regularly, so as to not have to worry about running out of fuel.

I think I am ready. The bowl is a crush of humanity, and I need to be a part of that. I do not want to take up residence, but I need to be able to wade into the center of the crush and just absorb it with no fear. No anxiety. Just acceptance that all are here for the same purpose: to take in the music.

As unfathomable as it is, I began my trek into the center of the bowl, a feat I had been preparing for all day, making my way one baby step at a time. Had a camera followed me from above, the route would have resembled that of a maze. One step left, one step right, two steps backwards, to avoid the dude in flight. 

Effortless. All this energy and it’s all positive. I can be in the center of this, simply because I don’t have to be. I don’t have to be at this venue but I am. I owe a lot to Casey, Lito, Conner, Mid-Sized David, Bull and Minnix, just to name a few. 

And in a few hours is Stephen.

Tomorrow: The Main Event

"You Are Beautiful"

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#9: “You Are Beautiful”

I have prattled on already about various former-student sightings at Reggae on the River, 2015, and how they inevitably lift my spirits. I have long since gotten over that awkward moment when another adult accosts me, obviously recognizing me from past times, and I am clueless.

“Hi, I’m Mark,” is always my go-to, figuring that it automatically requires a like response. Sometimes I get lucky and I have my game brain on, or as in the case of Samantha and Caleb, whom I saw on Friday afternoon not that long after I got there, I actually recognized. I had just seen them a couple of months ago, when they delivered Toby the cat to us, down at Harwood Hall, and it was nice to touch base with them again. 

It’s been ten years since I walked out of my classroom for the last time, and not a day goes by that I do not reflect back on the sixteen years I spent at the middle school. “Make wise choices,” I told my students. 

“Don’t get into something for the money; instead, get into it for the love of doing it. Look at me.”

Yes, look at me; I’m the guy who jumped up on the tables and ran around the classroom on top of them, to demonstrate action words. I’m the guy who used to pay students school currency when they caught me making mistakes. 

I was not the infallible dispenser of knowledge. “I make mistakes,” I would tell my students, and when I stop making mistakes, it means I am no longer human. Might as well take a gun and put a bullet in my head and put me out of my misery.

I miss those days and have said repeatedly, that were it not for the emphasis placed on the standardized testing, they would have had to drag me kicking and screaming from the classroom. The public school system is skewed, simply because it is the only organization on the planet that groups human beings simply based on their age level, but it’s the one we have to work with.

All are expected to learn at the same rate and the instructor must have the talent of an NBA performer and be able to entertain his or her charges for the designated period of time.

What about the kids who come to school each day, hauling excess baggage? The kids whose parents are flakes, and can’t even keep it together enough to make sure their kids make it to school, let alone eat properly, or be prepared?

And what about  the kids whose parents are involved in the cannabis industry, whose friends can’t come around for a few months each fall, because there are plants drying all over the house. But they better not be flapping their jaws...

I was strolling along the row of food vendors, vaguely considering a root beer float in the 100-plus degree weather on Friday, when I saw Felix coming directly at me. I recognized him instantly, beard and all, simply from the intensity of his eyes.

He greeted me enthusiastically. “I love what you guys are doing up on your mountain.”

“Great success!” I responded, and faster than Collie Buddz can get a crowd rocking, Felix was off and running with a series of questions that I was completely unable to answer. I mean, maybe the first one, but it became apparent immediately, that Felix had inquiries-and concerns-that could only be addressed by Casey.

“They’re all heading to Oregon,” he went on, trying to explain, that which I did not grasp. Another shock, I know.

Buddha! I should know the answers to these questions...I have heard the spiels so often. That being said, however, it is all so complex, I am still struggling to understand how everything fits together.  It has to do with establishing the legitimacy of connoisseur cannabis on the same level as wine, and the legitimacy of cannabis farmers. That much I know.

Having followed Casey around long enough already, including spending many hours at the Eel River Restoration Project booth, I should have had the answers to Felix’ questions, but I did not. So much of Casey’s time is spent politicking, it’s really crazy.

Between the work he is doing to organize the Emerald Growers Association (EGA), and the labor amongst the local politicians serving on the Board of Supervisors for Mendocino County, it’s a wonder anything gets done on-farm.

Organization, regulation and clearly defined parameters for an agricultural commodity that rivals that of the wine industry, are among the goals he has in clear sight. Oh, and he’s tired of being perceived as a criminal, for providing medicine for his community.

I was sauntering along in the middle section of the bowl, the part between the first row of vendors that paralleled the stage, and the Beer Garden. Revelers had gathered in small groups in the area, and moving around was infinitely easier than in the crush of the main bowl.

I spotted Lito and Sonny up ahead and angled over toward them. Sonny has been part of my world all along because he is good buds with Nathaniel, and it’s always fun to see him. The two were amongst a circle of friends which included a young woman, whose face reminded me of a student I had taught back in the day.

Judith? It has to be. Judith who was on Student Counsel, and instrumental in one of the most powerful activities I had ever been involved in, as the middle school lead teacher. This was a school-wide survey on violence, the results of which profited everyone involved, in a most positive manner.

I circled around and stood just to the side of Judith, known to all of her friends as Judy. She became aware of my presence, checking out the goofy oldster with the musteard down to his nipples, with a questioning look. It took a delayed second or two before the light went on, and to my delight, she let out a shriek and opened up her arms for a hug.

Again, we exchanged pleasantries, the content of which now escapes me, except that the tone was one of extreme gladness. We may as well have sat and chatted animatedly for three hours, for all of the difference the brevity of our encounter made. 

I had not yet come down from my magic carpet ride, as I stepped regretfully away to continue my meanderings, when I glimpsed another young woman who looked familiar, who had been standing in the shadows.  I decided that it was too coincidental that another individual could look so much like Fawn, and not be Fawn.

It has to be. Calm, collected, so aware for her age of what it means to be a caring individual who puts others’ needs in front of her own.

She would have been in sixth grade the first year I taught, 1990, and I had had her in my class for reading and language arts as a seventh grader, my second year. Paul and I took 27 seventh graders to Yosemite that year, including Fawn and a fellow student named Moese, who touched a lot of people in his short tenure on earth. Mo would unquestionably have been in this same venue, were he still with us today.

Not a spotlight kind of person, Fawn had been content to watch from a distance, until I realized who, indeed, she was. As intense as I was already feeling from my emotional meeting with Judith, the ceiling suddenly lifted, me along with it.

I floated on air over to Fawn and hugged her tightly to me for a second, before stepping back and inquiring gently, “Were you just going to let me mosey along my way, without saying a word, Dude?”

I know I was fighting back tears simply because the situation called for anything but. I had connected early on with Fawn on f/b, and have found her to be the exact same perceptive individual that she was as a middle schooler, only with a heightened sense of comprehension, when it comes to the human condition.

Her posts are inevitably positive and she is a source of inspiration for me and, I am sure, for many. So it was with a great deal of joy that I made this connection in the person.

Whatever we discussed in that brief moment eludes me, except to say I went along my path with an exuberant lilt to my gait, not produced by the heady feeling that cannabis invariably delivers, what Casey likes to call a face-punch.

The first time I tried that phrase, it came out funch-pace, so it stuck. I was funch-paced.

Then there was Brett, about to attend his last two semesters at San Diego State, where he is majoring in engineering. So epic! Once reintroductions were made, and we chatted, he commented that the thing he remembered most about the middle school, were the Shakespeare productions. 

“I was the villain Don John in Much Ado About Nothing,” and indeed he was, knocking my socks off with a performance that belied his far more relaxed nature in the classroom.

Engineering! So truly awesome to hear such enthusiasm. And San Diego! These “kids” are getting out and about, and it’s grand.

I saw Jessica briefly, an individual who goes back all the way to WellSpring, and we reveled in my being there for a moment, before going our separate ways. So upbeat, always! So capable of instilling a positive slant on every situation she encounters.

I saw Matthias, another individual I have maintained contact with because of his friendship with Casey. As always, he took my breath away with the fierceness of his hug, a man profoundly respectful to me. It is always “Mr. O” and it will always be so. I have much love for Matthias.

Before I end, I will mention that as Casey and I prepared to skedaddle, towards the end of Albarosie on Sunday night, I encountered Shane for the first time since he was in middle school. Shane had also starred in a Shakespeare production, “Twelfth Night” as Sir Andrew Aguecheek, opposite Ella, as Sir Toby Belch. 

I wondered who that was standing in the background of the circle of friends. I did not recognize him with the beard, but he saved me the grief, by simply saying, “Shane” How cool is this?

Finally there was Dakota, again a middle schooler the last time I saw her, except for a moment at the Emerald Cup, last December.

I hope Dakota does not remember that I confused her with Savannah the last time we met. I mean, I knew it was Dakota, but I thought she was the sister who had just had a baby.

Dakota was dressed for the heat in the late afternoon sun, in a modest bikini. She was with a circle of friends, including Conner and Lito, and she was beaming. I gave her a quick hug and stepped back to make with the palaver for a minute before moving on.

Before I wandered on, however, she made a comment that I will never forget. Appraising me with her head tilted just a tad to the left, she murmured, “You. Are. Beautiful.”

Hey, maybe it was my ancient ears and some wishful thinking, and what she really said was, “The weather sure is hot today...” And by beautiful, she wasn’t talking about my crusty features.

She means that I am here, a retired school teacher, an English teacher for Buddha’s sake, and I am thriving. I have traipsed outside the lines and it’s all good.

Tomorrow: Ghetto Youths Crew and others