The Ripple Story

The Ripple story begins with Jim.

Jim was the first guy my teenage heart did somersaults over. He was tall, cute, outgoing, with smooth confidence.

I was a junior in high school when Jim started college, but since his college was nearby, we kept our little teen romance going despite the misery of such a separation.

Communication channels for us were slim compared to the options you have today. Only at the end of some days would we chat by phone. The phone we used back then was called “a landline”. It was the size of a new puppy and made a loud sound. It was affixed to bedrooms and kitchens mostly. It was only an addendum to life, and we never confused the two. We never dressed it in snazzy covers either.

The other option might have been a computer, but the only one I’d seen was at my high school. Besides, ‘email’ wasn’t a word anyone knew yet. Suffice it to say, Jim and I were relegated to the communication technology of the time: a landline and paper. Paper is what I’m getting to here.

A friend of mine at school lived right near Jim. This kind fellow would collect Jim’s love letters during the week and hand-deliver them to me in high school. Then I’d give my letters to the boy for hand-delivery back to Jim. This was how we kept our hearts calmed during our lovesick separation Monday through Friday.

Through these letters, I became well acquainted with Jim’s writing abilities, which were, shall we say, enough to convey his passion, but not enough to win literary prizes. This was plenty for me.

Concurrent with these love letter practices, Jim and I would get together and hang out at his parent’s house, where he would spend a fair amount of time playing his guitar for me.

Listening to these guitar performances, I became acquainted with Jim’s songwriting abilities too, which were, shall we say, enough to pass the time idly in the teen years, but not enough to win a record label deal.

I tell you all of this because of its relevance.

One evening while we were at his house, Jim came to me and said he’d written a song just for me, and he wanted to debut it. I was taken by surprise. He’d never done such a thing, and from how he was announcing it, it seemed this was going to be a big deal. I was sheepishly flattered. I settled into the couch and waited to be serenaded.

Jim started to strum the intro chords. Then he began to sing straight into my eyes. He sang in earnest, something I admired about Jim. He trusted me enough to sing soulfully to me. He was modeling vulnerability. I felt this cemented our relationship.

Yet, listening to this song, my ears tilted slightly. I was confused.

The music seemed so different than what he normally put together. It flowed. It was so — how shall I say — good. This song was quite decent. It had a quality of completeness — the melody, the rhythm. This was unusual for Jim’s tunes. It never occurred to me to question what the disconnect was, only why I wasn’t connecting.

I brushed away my thoughts and kept receiving this gift of song. This was a special, beautiful moment. I swayed my head in appreciation.

But the brain will have its way, and by the end of the song, I was waffling between feeling flattered, awed, and a teeny-weeny bit skeptical.

“You wrote that?” I asked when he made the last stroke down the strings. Granted, that wasn’t the best question out of the gate, but by that point I was a stone in a tumbler, banging against the sides of what was possible here.

“What?” Jim was crestfallen. “I wrote this for you.”

Oh boy. I felt bad.

“It seems so polished.” I quickly backtracked. “It’s amazing.”

This made Jim smile.

“It just came out of me, so I wrote it all down.”

Well now, there we had it. A songwriting genius sitting right in front of me, and I was his first muse.

“Are you going to write more songs?”

“Not sure.”

My genius boyfriend was ambivalent about pursuing his gift. What can you do? I shrugged.

“Well, thank you. I can’t believe you wrote this for me. It’s like a real song you’d hear on the radio. You should keep at it.”

Then that was the end of that.

Time went on, and no more radio-quality songs came forth from Jim. Eventually, we broke up, as young lovers will do. I went on to college in Philadelphia where I settled into campus life with my pals, and Jim faded from my mind.

As college freshmen, we would hang out in each other’s dorm rooms for fun, as it was our cheapest option. One weekend night we were all together, squeezed onto the two twin beds lining the walls. We listened to music from someone’s boombox, laughing and talking over each other. It was a flowy, noisy, happy situation.

Then suddenly I heard it. The unmistakable chord intro to Jim’s song. My mind noticed it before I did. My antennae perked up before I understood. Then the singer in the song started with the lyrics. They were Jim’s lyrics!

Wait. What?

Why was the Grateful Dead singing Jim’s song?

For a moment I was stuck between two realities. The first reality was well ensconced in me, what I knew to be true, namely that this was Jim’s song. The second reality was that the Grateful Dead couldn’t possibly be singing Jim’s song, so this meant — oh no — it was their song.

Ripple in still water

When there is no pebble tossed

Nor wind to blow

I started to get up from the bed. I moved closer to the cassette tape player to hear better. Yes indeed. This was Jim’s — now Grateful Dead’s — song. This is when I went nuts.

Oh-my-goodness-this-is-my-old-boyfriend’s-song-that-he-wrote-for-me-but-it’s-not-his-song-he-was-tricking-me-what-a-louse-I-can’t-even-believe-I-thought-this-was-his-song-but-I-knew-something-was-fishy-what-a-louse!

The thing about a dorm room party with music is that nobody can hear what you’re saying half the time, so nobody noticed my state of shock at first. In time my pacing back and forth in the middle of the shrimpy space grabbed some eyes and ears, and soon everybody was laughing along with me. Mostly they couldn’t believe I didn’t know this song from the Dead. I didn’t know it because I’ve never been a diehard fan — and Jim knew that. So, an argument could be made that he sure knew how to leverage an opportunity.

Well, I know how to leverage one, too. Ever since that shocking dorm room discovery, I’ve told the story more times than I have money. Here I am telling it again. Friends, you can’t put a value on that.

Thank you, dear Jim, for singing me the song of my life. You and the Grateful Dead make beautiful music together. Between you and me, I still take your version over theirs any day, you crazy dog. You gave me a precious opportunity to laugh at this funny life — its innocence, shenanigans, and surprises. I revisit it with pleasure every time.

Thanks, you old louse, wherever you are.