Brianland

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th 

Or

Everything I Ever Needed to Know I Learned At A Grateful Dead Concert

            The weekend of my 30th birthday, four old friends drove from Winnipeg to New York to help celebrate it, and the Grateful Dead flew in from San Francisco to play.

It’s a curious story how the Dead have ended up following this displaced Canadian around all these years.  I first heard them at an older friend’s house when I was about 16.  Of all the musical vibrations emanating through my teens, I’m still not sure why it was these guys who were strumming the rhythm of my inner pulse.  Why wasn’t it The Beatles, The Stones, Elvis, Bruce, or any of the other aural entities who captured my peers’ ears?  Why was it the Grateful Dead, a San Francisco acid-rock band from the sixties, and not some Canadian beer-rock band from the seventies?  I mean, I’d barely even heard of acid, let alone knew what it was, let alone done it at one of their concerts.  And I’d certainly never been to San Francisco.  Fifteen years later, I’m still amazed that what struck me then, continues to strike me today.

After I first heard this otherwise unknown band in Winnipeg, I held their sound between my ears and went off in search of their records.  The stores in my farm implement outpost didn’t have a Grateful Dead section.  Most didn’t even have them under “Misc – G.”  Finally in some basement New & Used joint I found one, and the journey began.  At the time, no one else I knew was listening to them.  I mean no one.  And since they weren’t on the radio or anything, it was difficult to put their records on at parties.  I remember it got to the point where I would plead to get one side played, which would give me a fix for the night.  Even then, before I’d ever seen them, or even thought that I would, I was living on nightly fixes.  Little did I know the size of the future doses.

The concept of seeing a band live wasn’t even in our frame of reference.  In Winnipeg, we weren’t too sure what a concert was, and were hardly aware that they existed.  So few tours came to town, the ones that did were more like a traveling exposition that everyone felt obliged to attend but didn’t quite understand.  And it seemed like the Grateful Dead were something that happened a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.

But one afternoon, there in a 7-11 on the corner of this lily-white elm-treed neighborhood in a mid-western prairie town, I was flipping through a Rolling Stone magazine when I came across a two-page photograph of a huge crowd of people that looked like an aerial shot of Woodstock─only the caption read, “150,000 people rise for The Dead.”  I later learned this was the famous Englishtown, New Jersey concert, and I was looking at the heads of many of my future friends.  I remember crouching there, slurping a slurpee out of a plastic hockey cup with the condensation dripping to the floor, looking at this black & white spread of people pushing toward the stage, and realizing it wasn’t for Jimi Hendrix and a cast of hundreds.  “The Dead again?  Who are these guys?”  A hundred thousand was nearly the population of my town.  I realized then that something was definitely going on in America that we didn’t know anything about.

These odd little experiences began piling on top of each other out there on the frozen tundra.  There was the time that out-of-town band played at The Zoo and covered their tunes.  There was that poster on the wall at the babysitting place.  There was that chapter in Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

After high school I bought a van, with my subconscious mind muttering, “This’ll get me to a Grateful Dead concert.”  The next spring, friends and I drove to Vancouver and settled in.  Before long, word filtered up that the band was playing in Seattle.   The show was sold out by the time we heard about it, but I remember phoning and pleading, and somehow getting to mail them a money order because the extra soundboard pulls or something would be going on sale in a week.  Either way, from our naive little apartment on the wrong side of the border we were able to procure our first tickets to a lifelong adventure.

The initial show was general admission, and there was this unusually comfortable conformity in the amount of space each person took on the floor.  The Deadheads we talked to all seemed surprised that this was our first show.  We were wondering, “What do you mean?  Isn’t it yours?  Why do these people all think this is strange?  Why are they grinning at us like that?”

After a summer of starving out west, I ended up in college in New York, whereupon the Dead promptly came to town for eight shows at Radio City Music Hall.  Suddenly the phenomena I’d brushed up against in Seattle was in town for a fortnight.  What were once misunderstood expositions was now a visiting circus!  And what a spectacle it turned out to be, with the camped-out American hippies pulling off a coup at music’s Palace of Versailles!  This was the sacrificial whiplash of my indoctrination, where The Innocent Canadian gets snatched up and flung through the American Animal House Fraternity, with everyone plastered on a 20 year bender of social freedoms.

And now, on this most recent birthday weekend, as I danced across the threshold from my first three decades and into the next, the house band was playing once again.

My old school buddies from Canada and I arrived in the parking lot at noon for a 7:00 show, joining tens of thousands of tailgaters already in full twist.  Every car, hatchback and van was smothered in transparent Dead decals, every window exposing the backpacks, cloths and gear of a moving army with too few vehicles.

Various periods of the band were playing from stereos in every direction.  Wherever we stood, dancing licks from some incarnation would dominate, until we wandered on and a different one would weave into focus.  The most deadicated were blasting crystal-clear speakers perched on rooftops, inspiring you to linger a little longer when the tune was sweet.

There we were, broiling on the blacktop of a steel-filled parking lot in the devastating heat of a Greenhouse summer, with beers and juice were for sale every few feet, and grilled-cheese sandwiches twice an aisle.  The visiting foursome had never been to a Dead show before, and despite my fervent preparations, they were still stunned silent.  But after we had encircled the Giant coliseum once, they seemed to have internalized the dancing shuffle and oft-interrupted pace, and were singing the collective tune of the kind, kind day.

Granted, there were overripe school kids guzzling beer, and here we were in our thirties, but there was no question that they were us and this was the culmination of a personal dream.  From those little tid-bits in a 7-11, and chance platters at a pal’s place, I was finally able to pull a group of old friends into the Kaleidoscopic Dancehall after all these years.  I’d spent much of my teens trying to convince everyone we should move to California.  The Great Migration never took place, but now some latter-day version was.

The long, circular asphalt stroll somehow condensed the years gone by.  Here, far from the madding Mounties, were free-styling Americans ─ that most shocking group in the eyes of Cautious Canucks ─ who were smoking joints, tossing frizbees, and GOING FOR IT, something that’s as foreign to Canadians as all-English labeling.  Here were my four porcelain-white brothers a million miles from the jaywalking tickets of home, sashaying through the breast bouncing, sun worshiping euphoria of a world they’d never seen.

I wish I could have time-traveled the optimistic faces of my youth into the land I discovered later, but then who doesn’t?  In New York I was able to find what we’d been striving to build on our own on that frozen permafrost.  I’ve never been able to share, except on occasional weekend outings, the findings of my Expedition South of the 49th.  But now, here we were, crossing the boundary between the plans of our twenties and the work of our thirties, and the faces and flames were together once again to share it.  It’ll be a different picture at the next decade’s dawn, but for now, as youth was burning away like that last slurp of gas from an empty tank, at least the car was full of the same faces as when the journey began.

Not everything was perfect.  It was stupefyingly hot, and a couple of the gang didn’t quite get The Big Picture, but that’s part of it too.  It’s what we are not that defines us as clearly as what we are.  We weren’t of one mind back then, and we weren’t that weekend on the tarmac.

But what we were was together, and if there’s anything homo sapiens crave, it’s more of the same.  If you can gaze into the human mirrors of your childhood every couple of years, you’re never going to grow too old, or wander too far astray.  If you can’t tell how fat you’re getting by trying on your pants, invite your soulmates over for coffee and check the waistline.  You can be full of shit, but they’ll see it.  You can blow your balloon as full as you want, and they’ll pop it.  Your carefully stacked rationalizations will topple in a breeze of your own reflection.

And it’s a joy.  It’s a joy when you wake up to find you that you’ve been doing something right all along.  And it’s even a joy to see where the sails need trimming.  Only old friends can bring that into focus.

And so it is with any band, … or novel, or movie, or canvas.  Good art grows with you.  If it’s real, it’s there for a lifetime, and you’ll grow up in its landscape.  Charlie Parker when you’re 50, or van Gogh at 60, will still inspire a celebration of life, but they’ll be in a different shade than today.  All the tingles you ever felt are still there for the rekindling.  The masters of eternity knit with the golden thread of our spirit, and have weaved a little of each of us into their song.

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For a reprise of the Jerry Happy Birthday Adventure, check out the 2014 Not Fade Away story.

Or here’s the Merry Pranksters at Yasgur’s Farm Adventure.

Or here’s an excerpt from my forthcoming book on Kerouac, the Dead and Kesey — arriving at Red Rocks for a show in 1982.

For more Adventures in Music — you may want to check out the (Route) 66 Best live performances ever captured on film.

Or the New Orleans Jazz Fest ride.

Or the night Dylan showed up at Springsteen’s show at Shea Stadium in New York.

Or when Neil Young returned to Massey Hall in Toronto.

Or Paul Simon doing Graceland in Hyde Park in London.

Or Furthur came back and reprised the Dead at Madison Square Garden.

Or when the Dead, Janis, The Band and others took the Festival Express train trip across Canada.

Or the night I was hanging with Dr. John’s band in Toronto.

Or here’s the day I finally “got” Bob Dylan. 

Or the night we all lost John Lennon. 

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by Brian Hassett      karmacoupon@gmail.com        BrianHassett.com

Every Day Is A Gift

by Brian Hassett

Every day you’re alive is a gawd-damned gift.  And that’s the whole shot, as Gregory Corso would say.

Try adding up all the times your Indomitable Spirit was challenged but did not topple in a deathly firestorm of adversity.  There’s probably been a hundred of them, and many more when you were a couple of seconds from Ka-Plooey and never even knewy it.

Remember all those times you were so depressed you almost killed yourself — or those premonitions which never came true about dying on some trip — or the ice patch skids you blindly avoided — or the hiking adventures where you barely made it back — or the other car that went out of control just seconds away from you — or your pilot who just missed last call at the bar because his cab got stopped at a red light because the car in front was going slow because the driver was arguing with her boyfriend when it was really a total misunderstanding — or the mugger who just missed the subway train and got to your neighborhood five minutes later — or all those times you said to yourself, “God, get me through this and I’ll be good forever” — that if only one of these had ended in death — which odds are would happen at least once in the hundred close calls — you’d be gone.  But you’re still here!  And living with that second chance at life that nobody really gets but every dying person prays for with all their might.

You’ve got that chance.  Feel blessed.  You are.  God, or whatever you call it, gave you a chance to go on, to do what you’re here to do, to add to The Big Picture the way you were meant to.

You’re still Alive, and no matter what happens today or tomorrow, it’s okay, because you’re not even supposed to be here anyway.

Every moment, every smile, every vista — is a pure gift, and don’ you-ever for-get it.

Remember all the good things that happened in the last year?  Then think of all the time you spent worrying and complaining and being pissed off or depressed about things.

Everything worked out the way it was supposed to, and the only mistake you made was the time you wasted and the Stress-Death Cards you collected by worrying about it.

And in the next year, all sorts of amazing and wonderful new things will happen that you have no idea about today.

You don’t have to worry about a thing.  And you certainly don’t have to worry about today, because Christ man, it’s a gift.

Simply unwrap, and play.  Batteries included.

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For some other inspirational tales and riffs . . .

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Visiting Vincent van Gogh

Sans Sons — A Song In Names Only

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

Brian’s Christmas Blessing

The Sneaking onto the Pittsburgh Penguins Bus Story

The Obama Inauguration Adventures

Winifred Mitty — Walter’s wife

The Day I Heard The Tambourine Man

A Song of Enid I Sing

The Toronto “On The Road” Adventure Story

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

The Jumping Out Of A Car While Being Robbed, Killed or Kidnapped Story

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Brian Hassett           karmacoupon@gmail.com          BrianHassett.com

.

May your lights be bright and your resilience strong,
May your thoughts be poetry and your voice be song.
May your dreams be vivid and your days be bold,
May your riches be measured in human gold.

Happy Shopping Daze — 
But
the best gift you can give is the gift of time,
and love and attention and conversation and fun and activities and help and kindness.
Stuff is cool — but you’re cooler!
Share your presence and presents will open where there were no presents before.

“Life should Not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid across the finish line sideways, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, ‘WOO HOO, What a Ride!!’”
(author unknown)

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For some other inspirational tales and riffs . . .

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Every Day Is A Gift

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

The Sneaking onto the Pittsburgh Penguins Bus Story

The Obama Inauguration Adventures

Winifred Mitty — Walter’s wife

The Day I Heard The Tambourine Man

A Song of Enid I Sing

The Toronto “On The Road” Adventure Story

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

The Jumping Out Of A Car While Being Robbed, Killed or Kidnapped Story

==============================================

Brian Hassett           karmacoupon@gmail.com          BrianHassett.com

It was a grey newspaper day during “papers” week at Camp Cleanup — digging through layers of mounds of newsprint and letters and notes like an archeological dig, uncovering the strata of history in this ancient city of my life.

Overnight, the cat tipped over an old Safeways bag full of newspapers from a closet shelf.  On top were a bunch of various John Lennon copies from December 1980.  I figured that would be the whole stash;  but after I dusted away an inch or so I uncovered an unexplainable collection of different papers from 1959 — a New York World-Telegram, a Chicago Times, and a Minneapolis Tribune.

I flipped through the New York and Chicago ones looking for the major story these were saved for — but there’s nuthin — just a random day’s edition like someone picked them up on a cross-country trip.

The last paper was the Sunday Minneapolis Tribune with all the different sections, including not one but two magazines.  One was a Picture Magazine — a routine Parade thing — although it did have a cool page about the new singing sensations Paul Anka, Fabian, and Bobby Darin!  But it was already late in the day and my eyes were glazing sepia after an endless flipping flow through the yellowing pages of antiquity.

The last thing in the pile was the This Week magazine — which looked like the TV listings.  I flipped through it hoping for a story on Dobie Gillis or American Bandstand, but of course it wasn’t a TV guide.  There were only 3 channels back then!  It’s just another news magazine with ads and recipes and bowling stories from the fake Father Knows Best ‘50s — my numb finger flipping through the same numbing fluff, next page, next page, and the next page I flip there’s the headline across a 2-page spread —

“Wouldn’t that be funny if this was about acid…” I think,
before my eyes have time to scan to the bottom of the page
and see

In 1959.

You can click on any of these pictures and they go big.

I love the quote above — “Music is often played to stimulate memories and fantasies.  And patients are told to ‘go with the music,’ that is, have fantasies suggested by the music.”

Check.

“a psychic energizer”  🙂
“The most common experience of people who have taken LSD may best be described as ‘mystical’ or ‘religious.'”

It turns out the writer, Joe Hyams, is the guy who famously first broke the Cary Grant / LSD story earlier in 1959, and then he got sued by the movie studio, but later they totally settled and Hyams ended up writing Grant’s authorized biography.  Long story.  But he got interested in the subject because Cary Grant told him about it, so he began researching the drug, and here he safely writes about what he’s uncovered without mentioning any famous movie stars.

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Some related discoveries and adventures and visions . . .

The eternal admonition to — Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

The naked truth — Love Is

The Grateful Dead Played My 30th Birthday

The very dosey train trip across Canada — Festival Express

The Boys still Makin’ Magic at The Garden

The Woodstock-like trip of Obama’s Inauguration 

The poem Where Wayward Jekylls Hyde

The trippy Long Island Mansions Adventure.

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by Brian Hassett            karmacoupon@gmail.com         BrianHassett

The Ballad of the Profiteers

.

You’re suckin’ on / your money’s teat,
When nothin’s left / for folks to eat,
You’re livin’ high / down on Wall Street,
Crushin’ dreams / beneath your feet.

How come it is / and why it’s not,
The biggest thieves / are never caught,
When all you are / is what you bought,
And what’s inside / just ain’t a lot,

You’re singin’ the Ballad of the Profiteers,
You’re sailing your yacht on a river of tears,
You’ve been scorchin’ the Earth for all these years,
You’re the skill-less, soul-less profiteers.

You don’t make anything / except for money,
You don’t find anything / to be that funny,
You’re only friend / is a hired bunny,
And you’re drowin’ alone / in your milk & honey.

Selfish is / as shameless does,
And profits are / your only buzz,
You cast aside / whatever was,
You have no love / and it’s all because . . .

You’re singin’ the Ballad of the Profiteers,
You’re sailing your yacht on a river of tears,
You’ve been screwin’ us all for too many years,
You’re the skill-less, soul-less profiteers.

You’d push your mother / down in a hole,
If it added to / your bankroll;
You’re all fluffed up / like a perfumed troll,
That thinks it scored / The Golden Goal.

Life doesn’t start / on Monday morn,
It began on the day / when you were born,
When you looked outside / with so much scorn,
Then skipped the dance / with The Golden Horn,

cuz …
You’re singin’ the Ballad of the Profiteers,
You’re sailing your yacht on a river of tears,
You’ve been fuckin’ us over all of these years,
You’re the skill-less, soul-less profiteers!

repeat as needed

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You can read this and 50 other Political Adventure Tales like it in my 2020 book Blissfully Ravaged in Democracy — Adventures in Politics — 1980–2020.

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Some other poems . . .

Where Wayward Jekylls Hyde — The Mighty Bama-Rama Rap

Sittin’ On My Roof In New Orleans

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Love Is

Sans Sons — A Song In Names Only

A Shakespearian Cassady

The Royal Woods of Cassady County

The Carolyn Cassady Birthday Poem

Smokin’ Charlie’s Saxophone

A Song of Enid I Sing 

The Boys Who Grew From Northern Lands

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by Brian Hassett       karmacoupon@gmail.com       BrianHassett.com

Or here’s my Facebook page if you wanna join in there

https://www.facebook.com/Brian.Hassett.Canada

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Condolences, memories, and tributes to Enid have been coming in from —

Indonesia, Vietnam, Nepal, Oman, Switzerland, Austria, England, Mexico . . .

Los Angeles, Palm Springs, San Francisco, Lake Tahoe, Portland, Eugene, Seattle, the Olympic Peninsula, Missoula Montana, Colorado Springs, Minneapolis-St. Paul, Rochester Minnesota, Rochester New York, Phoenix, Dallas, Austin, Louisville, Detroit, Key West, Tampa Bay, Daytona, Washington, Philadelphia, Harrisburg, New Jersey, New York City, Woodstock, Saugerties, Boston, Northampton. . .

Victoria, Nanaimo, Vancouver, Bowen Island, Calgary, Edmonton, Saskatoon, Brandon, Winnipeg, Lake of The Woods, Windsor, London, Orillia, Collingwood, Burlington, Oakville, Mississauga, Toronto, Markham, Perth, Ottawa and Montreal.

That’s – 60 – different cities, and counting!

Way to go, Mom!

= = = = = = = = = = = — — Here’s a few choice riffs — — = = = = = = = = = = = =

Hi Brian,
There was no one closer to Enid than your superb self — in sparkling qualities, huge belief in life itself, generosity of spirit, imaginative wit, and quick intelligence. What a Mom — but also — what a devoted and proud son. She LOVED you more than you will EVER know and she is watching over you, calling the moves, and smiling the smile of the universe.
I’m sorry I won’t be there for the memorial, the wake, the party and the anythings else that happen.
On the Autumnal/Enid Equinox I will be in Salt Lake City (my film opens the Gandhi International Film Festival in the heart of Mormon country!) but will be sending the good vibes to you and Enid.
We need more Enids in the world. What a character, trailblazer, intrepid warrior of all things good and, yes, unique — just like you. So if you ever feel out-of-it/not-quite-here/but over in-the-undefinable there, you’re on track for sure.
Sending love & solidarity,
Keep your courage and faith, wonderful Brian!
Teri McLuhan — Marshall’s daughter and great filmmaker — in NYC

Dear Brian,
Words cannot express my appreciation for you sharing the biography of your wonderful, feisty, LIVE LIFE AND LOVE mother.
I wish we had had more time to spend together when she was in Texas, but alas, some distinguished Canadian banker traveled down here and swooped her off her feet. I mentioned to her one time that it was strange to have come down here so she could meet her future Canadian husband.
While I cannot be there physically, I intend to be at her Memorial in spirit at least. I can imagine the many tales that will be told about their friend, Enid. And yes, it could very well last into the wee hours. At least that is how Enid would have wanted it.
Sylvia Gregory — Mom’s friend from the 1950s — in Austin

Brian —
She was a great lady, Enid was. I have so many memories from way back in 1978-80…. “Sue, do you know what a bag lady is?” — that was from Christmas 1980. And of course I had no idea!
And how did she ask for the sugar when we had tea? “Pass the fattener, please Sue.”
And that massive car. Do you still have it? I know that we generally drove your dad’s car but I think hers was even bigger.
She never settled for less, and always wanted the best for you!
I’m thinking of you,
Sue Howard — my high school sweetheart — in Vancouver

Brian …

The first time I met you was the first time I met your mother! Do you remember this? At the Nuyorican show. I thought it was so cool that you brought your mum places — like Jack [Kerouac] did.
She was a great person — I also remember hanging out with her at your apartment on 70th street.
Know that I’m thinking good thoughts for you and you mom.
Required listening, of course … John Lennon.
With friendship and best wishes …
Levi Asher — founder of LiteraryKicks — in Queens, New York

Hey Sweetheart…
So sorry to hear of your mom’s passing…
Funny thing — my mom read me your mother’s Obituary earlier today and I KNEW as soon as she read it that You wrote it!
It was the most beautiful, heartfelt and loving tribute to your Mother, or anyone, my dear, sweet friend.
Know that You and your mother are in our hearts today and always.
We’ll talk very soon…
Until then know that we know that your mother is sleeping peacefully and know that Your work as an Angel will continue here on Earth …
I adore you for your friendshp and common love of life, doll… 😉
Love and the biggest softest squish ever my dear, dear, friend,
xx
Alison Myrden — law enforcement speaker friend — in Oakville

Hey Brian —
I knew your mom and really dug her.  I hung with her one evening when I came by your apartment and you weren’t home.  I saw her watching her son on stage in New York City with love, pride and admiration.  I know what a creative and inspirational force she was in your life.  Where does all that larger than life energy go?  Somewhere for sure!
Big Hug.
Ralph Stevens — filmmaker — in New York City

Brian,
We have such fond memories of Enid. What an amazing woman she was …. so many accomplishments in many areas. I sure remember the cottage in Gimli.
She was such a supportive neighbor when we were just starting our family. I love to hear about your relationship as mother and son….you had so many great adventures together. You were kindred spirits like none other. You will miss her terribly I know. Just think of all the people she encouraged and those who had amazing times with her. She left a huge gift to you and everyone she met.
That’s an incredible piece…. A Song of Enid. I love your writing style – you are such a free, liberated spirit, which is rare in the normal Winnipeg business world…..or anybody’s world for that matter.
You have a myriad of great friends who feel like family no doubt, but Enid especially, was a very big part of you. In fact, she lives on in you. You bring that same adventurous and creative spirit to the world. I absolutely love your realness.
Much love and thanks for sharing Enid with us.
Deanna Waters — musical theater singer & actress — in Winnipeg

Or there’s a ton of stuff going on on my wall on Facebook.

Or here’s — A Song of Enid I Sing.

Or here’s some deets on the massive farewell party we had for her.

Or here’s an account of one of our many adventures together — The Maltese Fall.

Or here’s my tribute to her husband and my dad — Vern Victor Hassett — Be Still Here.

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Brian Hassett         karmacoupon@gmail.com        BrianHassett.com

A full day and night party . . .
featuring Enid movies, music, paintings, photographs, artifacts, internet performances, books with stories, and people with stories.
It’ll actually be sorta fun.

We’ll have oliver favorite food n drinks.

This is just an invitation, not an obligation.
But it’ll certainly be a memorable Memorial.

Date:  on The Enid Equinox, Friday, Sept. 23^rd, 2011

Time:  Toodle’nine. (2 till 9)
And if it’s still cookin we’ll go back to the townhouse.
Or you’re always welcome to come out for one-on-one visits at a later time.

Location:  in the gorgeous Grand Gathering Grounds in the front of Burloak — two-story high ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, huge fireplace, piano, video screens, great sound system, giant patio, exotic fish and other weird stuff …

Burloak Long Term Care — 5959 New St., Burlington

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Mom’s Memorial — Friday, Sept 23^rd, 2011

It went great.  It was like an extensive museum exhibit, except the stuff wasn’t under glass and you could pick it up and look at it.  And it was like a library the way people had their heads buried in historical books and photo collections — and were finding things that I didn’t even know about!  And it was like a great party with a lot of laughter, electric energy, and new friendships being made.

There were no formal speeches — it just never felt right.  Everyone was so into the show and the moment — That was the Memorial.  They didn’t need anyone telling them what to feel — they were already memorializing in every direction on their own.

It was Enid through a kaleidoscope anywhere you looked — about 20 of her paintings, paintings of her, framed photos covering nearly 90 years, her report card from nursing school, her paint tubes and brushes, her brass rubbings, her father’s diaries from the 1910s, her childhood photo albums from the ’20s, her scrapbooks from the ’30s, her nursing memorabilia from the ’40s, her fashion photos from the ’50s, her Rocky Mountain paintings from the ’60s, her real estate clippings from the ’70s, her miniature paintings from the ’80s, her video adventures from the ’90s, her published stories from the 2000s, her notebooks from writing classes, her trip diaries, her writings to take with you in photocopy, a huge spread of all her favorite chocolates and cakes, Edward Sellers playing acoustic guitar in the background, home movies of her hiking under the Redwoods in the Cascades … her whole life on display in a giant cathedral-like space filled with all these different people who knew her, over all these different decades, in all these different ways, sharing memories with each other.
For 7 hours.

It was so nice.
And she was there smiling, laughing, and telling stories all night long.

Rock on, Mom!

Enid E. Hassett — 1920–2011  R.I.P.

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Obits ran in the Oakville Beaver for the Sept 16/17/18 weekend edition, in the Winnipeg Free Press on Saturday, Sept 17th, and the Brandon Sun, Saturday, Sept. 24th.

Enid Ester Hassett, formerly Olver, and originally Bennett.
Born in Brandon, Manitoba, on Earth Day, before there was one — April 22^nd, 1920.  She skipped away while dreaming on September 13th at the age of 91.

Enid was an environmentalist before there was a movement.  She was a feminist before there was a word for it.  She was a painter, a writer, a nurse, and someone who found people homes to raise their children.

She always championed what was right, and was never addled by artificial restraints. Her philosophy came down to — “Do whatever you think is right, but DO it.”  And — “Don‘t stop at the first roadblock — there’s a way around everything.”

She was a nurse anesthetist at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, and Supervisor of the first Intensive Care Unit at a hospital in Manitoba.  She was the top woman real estate agent in Winnipeg in the 1970s, and she made sure she saw the world, traveling far and wide long before it was common.  She married a happy, happening Air Force pilot, Frank Olver, who was tragically killed in 1951.  They had one daughter, Susan.

In 1956 she married a cute, easy-going banker, Vern Hassett, and had one son, Brian, in 1961.

An Epic Enid Memorial will be held on the Equinox, Friday, September 23rd, from 2PM till 9PM, at Burloak Long Term Care, 5959 New St. (at Burloak Dr.) in Burlington.

Enid is survived by her son Brian Hassett;  her sister Marjorie MacAuley in Brandon;  3 grandchildren, Christopher and Michael LeSavauge, and Elizabeth Sutherland;  and 3 great-grandchildren, Grace and Christopher LeSauvage, and Magdalene Tsushima.

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Here’s another tribute to her —  A Song of Enid I Sing.

Or here’s some of the other many tributes that came in to this Force of Nature.

Or here’s one of our many adventures together — The Maltese Fall.

And here’s — the tribute to her husband and my Dad — Vern Victor Hassett.

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Brian Hassett          karmacoupon@gmail.com          BrianHassett.com

Her father was an engineer on the CPR,
so the whole family got to travel all over North America,
when virtually no one in their town ever went more than a few miles from home.

They had 5 sons, followed by 4 daughters, Enid being the first.

They owned the first (and for a long time only) car and telephone
on Third Street in Brandon.

She grew up in a world with oil lamps for light,
and horse & buggies that delivered the milk;
Without cameraphones,
she painted pictures to share what she saw,
then lived to attach them to emails.

She got her drivers license by her dad taking her to the Town Hall:
“Well, kin she driave, George?”
“Yep. Taught ‘er ma’self.”
“Alrighty then.”

She painted mountainscapes in the Rockies,
seascapes around Superior,
and short stories using words.

She married a funny, happening Air Force pilot;
they had a daughter and a happy home,
until she was tragically widowed one December.

Then she became an Anesthesiologist at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester,
and did nursing stints in Austin and Houston,
before marrying a cute, easy-going banker from the home-country,
moving to Calgary, and bearing a son.

She was the Supervisor of the first Intensive Care Unit in Manitoba,
and the Director of Nursing at Winnipeg Municipal.

Then she became the top woman real estate agent in Winnipeg.

Then she bought the nicest cottage in Gimli, Manitoba,
… and made it nicer.  Eleven rooms!

Then opened her own manicure & spa business.

Then in her 70s, she up n moved from White Rock, B.C. to Oakville,
on a premonition, a series of dreams, and following some signs.

She always had a sixth sense, and proved time and again that it’s real.

She traveled the world, all ten provinces, and most of the states.

She took painting and elocution lessons,
learned Reiki therapy,
studied and collected antiques,
checked out different religions,
raised a champion Staffordshire Bull Terrier,
took a spectrum of New Age classes,
drove a car like she was a getaway man leavin a crime,
won damn near every bridge night she ever went to,
slept and stayed awake whenever she felt like it,
never had more than one drink on any day in her life,
but loved to party till dawn,
and went to writing conferences all over North America,
and was published in both countries.

She hit Limelight, Area, and all the nightclubs of New York;
she caught The Grateful Dead at the very Giants Stadium,
and the greatest jazz in the very tiny clubs of Greenwich Village;
and was known in some circles as the “rock n roll mum.”

And besides all that, she was a really focused mother —
Always inclusive and playful and encouraging and adventurous,
And she knew New York City was the place for her son.

Mother & son at a Grateful Dead concert, 1995

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Some of the tributes to The Mighty & Wonderful Enid.

Her colorful obit and final send-off party.

A similar tribute to my Dad — Vern Victor Hassett — Be Still Here.

Or here’s one of the many adventures Mom and I had — The Maltese Fall.

Some other poems in the Spirit . . .

The Boys Who Grew From Northern Lands

Love Is

Be The Invincible Spirit You Are

Visiting Vincent van Gogh

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by Brian Hassett       karmacoupon@gmail.com       BrianHassett.com

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Obama’s election night in New York City may have been my favorite single night / moment in 25+ years of living in Manhattan.
(You can read about it here: https://brianhassett.com//2008/11/election-night-2008/ )

That feeling was extended to a week-long celebration in my second favorite city, Washington, D.C. — a home-game in the History League — And lo, the magic gushed up like fountains showering the city in love and soaking us in positive human accomplishment.

And of course I was in the middle of it, sending out daily dispatches from the front, and one of them struck the great writer and editor Holly George-Warren’s ears as she was working with Woodstock producer Michael Lang on his book.

The guy who envisioned and produced “Woodstock” — the concert that changed everything — used my words on the climactic page of his book about the festival.

Forty years later, the Wall Street Journal would refer to Obama’s inauguration as “Washington’s Woodstock.”  Experiencing the joy in coming together with a million celebrants on the Mall in Washington, a blogger named Brian Hassett put it this way:  “As it was happening, every single one of the people I met was beaming with joy.  In terms of a crowd euphoric, the only thing I ever heard of that was like this was Woodstock in ’69.  That changed our country a lot, but this time Woodstock was in the seat of power.  Jimi’s ‘Star-Spangled Banner’ was the prelude, and a scant forty years later, here’s that scorching soul of new thinking actually overtaking the reins of government.”

from “The Road To Woodstock: From The Man Behind The Festival” by Michael Lang with Holly George-Warren.

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Here are the original dispatches that the quote was taken from … https://brianhassett.com//2009/01/the-dc-dispatches/

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You can read 50 other Political Adventure Tales like this in my 2020 book Blissfully Ravaged in Democracy — Adventures in Politics — 1980–2020.

For an account of the most jubilant night in the history of New York — check the Election Night 2008 Adventure. 

For a night in New York that started out just as joyous — check out the Election Night 2004 Adventure.

Or speaking of Woodstock, here’s going to Yasgur’s farm with The Merry Pranksters.

For the kind of creations that got us across the historic finish line — check out my poem and video for Where Wayward Jekylls Hyde.

For an on-the-campaign-trail adventure — check out the physical altercation I was in the middle of with Al Franken at a Howard Dean rally.

For my tribute to another great political reporter — check out my Tim Russert tribute.

For a full listing of great reporters and news sources — check out my Political Sources Primer.

For how well these sources work — check out my 2012 election predictions.

… or here’s the 2008 projections — in both, I’m over 98% correct.  😉

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Brian Hassett  —  karmacoupon@gmail.com   —  BrianHassett.com

Here’s the (Route) 66 greatest musical performances ever captured on film — after watching thousands of clips and reviewing hundreds of them for RockPeaks, this is the best of the best . . .

And it tells a story, one complete show of shows, in a sequence of greatness . . .

Blessing the blast is Johnny Clegg bringing Nelson Mandela into the house during the celebratory Asimbonanga