It’s all a dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago

I’m sitting on the patio of a microbrew pub on the eastern edge of Boulder, Colorado, on a hot summer afternoon in the Year of our Lord 2022, and I’m totally surrounded by Grateful Dead fans. They’ve set up a bunch of mobile tents on the edge of the street, selling tie-dye t-shirts, pennants embossed with the faces of various band members, and other bric-a-brac. (There’s a show tonight at the football stadium, which will be full).

Although there’s a scattering of old people like me, almost everybody seems to be in their 20s and 30s, although they’re dressed like it’s 1969, which I find much more charming than I would have thought (I am fairly buzzed however).

I was thinking these “kids” must have parents who are fans of the original band, but then I did some quick figuring and realized that a lot of them probably have grandparents who imbibed the heady elixirs of the Summer of Love, that having been 55 years ago now and all.

I have no real point here, except Box of Rain is playing on the PA, and even though I’ve never been a Dead Head in even a tenuous way I suddenly feel a great affection for these ingenuous inheritors of the hippie dream.

Erik likes to make fun of that dream, and with plenty of reason, but nevertheless nearly two generations on now I think we could all use quite a bit more peace, love, and understanding.