I was fortunate enough to meet
the man once. He gave a poetry reading at the University of Oregon in the early
1990s, when I was a student there. I got to the auditorium early (I am always
early to everything), and grabbed a seat in the front row. There was an open
door next to the stage leading outside, and through that doorway I spied Robert
Hunter standing there, smoking a cigarette. I could see only him, not whoever
might be accompanying him. I grabbed my copy of A Box Of Rain from my backpack and went outside to see about
possibly getting an autograph. Turned out he was by himself out there. That
surprised me. I assumed he’d have a group of friends and maybe some fans around
him. But he was alone. So I had a chance to talk to him to a bit. And he signed
my book. I was struck by how relaxed he was, how friendly and completely
natural and genuine he was. He put me at ease immediately.
Meeting him meant a lot to me,
but the lyrics that he wrote of course mean so much more. These are the songs I
sing to myself when I’m driving, when I’m worried, when I’m
confused about the world, when I’m sad, and when I'm happy. These are the songs that are with me
whatever I’m doing. So many of Robert Hunter’s lyrics deal, in one way or
another, with death itself, and I have a feeling these songs will be with me when I
go. At least, I hope so. As Jerry Garcia sings in “Ripple,” “Let there be songs to fill the air.”
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