On this day in 1996...

Just after dawn on April 4, 1996 Garcia's ashes were sprinkled down the Ganges river 155 miles north of New Dehli by Deborah Koons Garcia and Bob Weir, the idea of which came to Weir in a dream. April 4 is known in India as Budh Purnima, Buddha's birthday and day of a full moon. It's also the same day the Buddha reached nirvana, the escape from the endless cycle of reincarnation. Garcia's brief ceremony initiated after the total eclipse of the moon, which took place from about 4:30 to 6:00 am.

Weir and Koons immersed themselves in the Ganges and let their garlands float away, after which followed a simple ceremony with poems, flowers and prayers. In the final moments, as his ashes were scattered into the river sending him on his way to another life, Bob Weir's farewell was the simple wish "May you have peace, Jerry, and travel to the stars.''

Jerry's remaining ashes were scattered in the San Francisco Bay on the morning of April 15, 1996.

A small gathering of friends and family listened to poems written by Mickey Hart and Robert Hunter.

Each of his closest associates and daughters released handfuls overboard, after which flowers were scattered on the water under foggy, drizzling rain.



We miss you Jer...

you've done it again,
even in your silence
the familar pressure
comes to bear, demanding
I pull words from the air
with only this morning
and part of the afternoon
to compose an ode worthy
of one so particular
about every turn of phrase,
demanding it hit home
in a thousand ways
before making it his own,
and this I can't do alone.
Now that the singer is gone,
where shall I go for the song?

Without your melody and taste
to lead an attitude of grace
a lyric is an orphan thing,
a hive with neither honey's taste
nor power to truly sting.

What choice have I but to dare and
call your muse who thought to rest
out of the thin blue air,
that out of the field of shared time,
a line or two might chance to shine &endash;

As ever when we called,
in hope if not in words,
the muse descends.

How should she desert us now?
Scars of battle on her brow,
bedraggled feathers on her wings,
and yet she sings, she sings!

May she bear thee to thy rest,
the ancient bower of flowers
beyond the solitude of days,
the tyranny of hours &endash;
the wreath of shining laurel lie
upon your shaggy head,
bestowing power to play the lyre
to legions of the dead.

If some part of that music
is heard in deepest dream,
or on some breeze of Summer
a snatch of golden theme,
we'll know you live inside us
with love that never parts
our good old Jack O'Diamonds
become the King of Hearts.

I feel your silent laughter
at sentiments so bold
that dare to step across the line
to tell what must be told,
so I'll just say I love you
which I never said before
and let it go at that old friend,
the rest you may ignore.

- Robert Hunter

We do indeed miss you Jer, such a long long time to be gone, and a short time to be there.