When I walked into my local coffee shop the other morning “Same Ole Layne Syne” by Dan Folgerberg was playing. It reminded me that he left this Earth last week. Mara called me the day after to ask me if I had heard. I had not and was devastated by the news. I was glad it was her as Mara and I have been through a lot together – like August 18, the day Jerry Garcia died. Even though we only ever went to one show we lived the life of Gratefully Deadicated, barefoot, pot smoking, acid dropping hippies 20 years too late. Dan did not represent a movement or provide the soundtrack for a generation, but he represented a time for me and Mara that was simple and innocent; our formative years.

Dan Fogelberg was part of my world before I was part of this world. He blared from ma’s 8 Track during my time in the womb and while I sat sucking strained peas from a yellow Pyrex bowl. Even when I started to wear ripped flannel and eye liner Dan Folgelberg, Jackson Browne, Gordon Lightfoot and the like remained in my cassette bag next to Nine Inch Nails, Stone Temple Pilots and Concrete Blonde. There was a station in Cleveland, Ohio called WDOK, 102.1. It was our favorite station; Mara and I used to call Nancy Alden, Cleveland’s Lady in Red, and dedicate songs to each other all the time. Ma listened to that station religiously and it was the backdrop of being with her at home or in the car. Every corner of my childhood was accompanied by the sounds of AM Gold and the 70’s.

Mara and I would sit in the park and many times Dan would be playing from the Skiv and some of our hippie friends would cock a curious head. It wasn’t usual to hear something blaring other than the Dead, Buffalo Springfield or Janis. Amazingly there were quite a few that did not recognize Dan and his soothing, melodic music that Mara and I had come to love.

We got older and exchanged our shag throw rugs, flip flops and KB’s for Keds, checking accounts and coffee shops. Our lives were very different, yet Dan’s music provided a familiar sound to alleviate the stress from our new, unfamiliar way of living.

Soon Dan and his music would accompany me on a difficult journey. My father died of cancer and at the close of his funeral, I chose “Leader of the Band” to play. It was absolutely the most perfect song for my Dad. To this day when I hear that song I stop, close my eyes and say “Hi Dad”; I somehow think that that was what Dan was saying.

That music has been with me for my entire life. No other artist has been so closely associated with so many aspects of my experience and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve lost something. Although he is not of this Earth he lives here with Mara and me, an arms reach and USB cord away.

Download Same Ole Layne Syne

I can’t say that I remember too much from my 5th birthday, but I can recall that cake and the basement of the house that sheltered me for my first 12 years.

Note the shag carpet. I remember that carpet like it was yesterday. I adore shag, I have a large shag area rug in my own house and if I had the room I would have more of them. I also remember the smell of the carpet. We had a poodle named Charlie for a very long time that preferred the texture of the carpet to the elements of the outdoors. Perhaps it was his own spiteful behavior; I think he knew that my Dad didn’t care for him too much. There were always small dried turds embedded in the fibers that I guess ma missed when cleaning up the last delivery. Nobody ever seemed to mind or if they did they didn’t vocalize it to us. We always had birthdays, football parties, holidays and general get-togethers in that basement and we always sat there, on the floor among the soiled shag, beer, cake or present in hand unaware of the matter beneath our feet and knees.

Now the cake, my mother was famous for this cake as it became the bona fide birthday cake for both my brother and I for a very long time. It was a zucchini cake with chocolate Cool Whip as the frosting. We were definitely Midwest and boy did we love this cake. My father grew the squash in the garden as did my uncles so there was always plenty of it around. That was probably how the cake came to be, lots of squash and nowhere to put it. I remember the labor involved. The zukes had to be grated and the pulp pressed to release the water inside the stringy flesh. It was hard to imagine watching ma elbow deep in zucchini guts that it would be transformed into a delectable chocolate cake that would be chock full of Hershey’s chocolate chips and topped with that light, airy cocoa topping that complimented the richness of the cake better than anything I have yet to taste.

Later in life I realized that that zucchini did more than just free up fridge space it gave the cake lasting moisture that kept it perfect for days long after the party. I also came to find that it benefited from a couple days in the fridge after it had time to sit much like a stew would be.

I cannot remember the last time I had the cake. I should’ve asked for it to be FedExed to California for my 30th. Oh well, there is always next year.

We were raised Catholic but that did not seem to last long. We did the Sunday School thing and I remember being totally consumed with fear in and out of Sunday School. I was afraid to touch the walls or do anything without permission for fear of going to hell; from an early age the nuns and priests took great strides to make it painfully clear that all us children knew about hell and what a terrible place it was. We were all promised that if we did not obey our parents or them for that matter that that hot, terrible and frightening place down under would be our home for all eternity. I get sick thinking of how many children had been abused and were forced to keep it secret under the threat of hell. Had they known that what they were experiencing was in fact hell itself in its most terrible form, perhaps they would have the chance and strength to speak up and rid them selves of the evil dressed in contradiction, lies and white collars.

My Father never went with us. As we got dressed and complained he sat silently in the kitchen or on the sofa. I do not remember whether or not we asked why or even if we got an answer but later I learned the my Father had been married before and had gotten divorced; it was a very bad thing to do in the church those days. I doubt that my Father had chosen not to go based on religious respect and saw it more as a perfect excuse.

Before I could really grasp the religion and form my own opinion about it, we seemed to have stopped going. But not before I received communion. It was a real whoop-de-doo in my school as it was in any Catholic school.

There was lots of preparation; classes, rehearsals and lots of drilling home the idea that this was a great spiritual gift and we should be happy and grateful. There was of course the underlying threat of eternal damnation that was always lingering behind the chalice, before the prayer, after rehearsals and all throughout that year at St. Pius X in Bedford, Ohio.

I do not think I was nervous as much as I was excited. A large portion of my family had showed up in suits and fancy dresses to the church. There was going to be a great party at my house after the ceremony and I was stoked to hear that money would be given to me in lieu of presents; it was later that day I learned it would be put into an account far from my reach.

I do not remember much about the party, the ceremony or how much money I got. But man do I remember that suit and how much I liked it.

This is one of those stories that sounds so much better coming from my mom. When reminded of this story, she rolls her head back and says with great enthusiasm, “You were so rotten that morning, I could have…” made me a pancake mom? She was so not looking to make me breakfast.

Those of you from my generation will remember the birth and success of Star Wars and the Pound Puppy craze. Well that year I wanted nothing more than the Ewok Village play set. I remember going to Randall Park Mall in Cleveland and having to wait in the line with the other kids and their parents for the chance to request that number one toy that would make my year. The line and the surrounding area were coated with too much glitter and cotton webbing. I remember smelling the combination of Sanka, Enjoli and popcorn.

I don’t know if I told that sad, fat alcoholic that had the cotton webbing on his face that I really wanted the Ewok Village. I must have. Either way you look at it, the stupid drunk got the orders mixed up and he gave that god damned village to my brother. I remember being quite shocked that it was Carmen’s name that was written on the tag that stuck to the “Ho- Ho- Ho” wrapped box that contained my coveted Ewok Village. After witnessing the travesty and cursing the obese red nosed liar I unwrapped the rest of my gifts with great discontent.

I’m sure that Carmen let me play with his prize that morning and I’m sure that some time soon thereafter I dismembered the Ewoks and set the village ablaze in retaliation. I was sort of wicked like that way back when. I am so different now. I would have sold the village and its inhabitants on Ebay.