Commentary: Longtime friend of Petaluma legend Peter Welker pens final note to pal

“Everyone who heard you play in downtown Petaluma can still hear the notes, the chords, the melodies, harmonies, and lyrics with which you and your soulful compatriots filled the air on those summer nights by the river,” says Keith Thompson.|

Dear Peter: Taking pen in hand to write about you and your music, your marvelous life and storied legacy, I keep slipping into speaking to you directly, in the ways of our many conversations. Rather than fight it, I’ve decided to let the impulse breathe, along with all the rich memories that have returned since I realized the last time we met for coffee would truly be our last.

I don’t remember the calendar date I first heard you and your band perform at an outdoor Petaluma venue. It was summer, and I was there with my young son. He might have been 8. We became regulars. Between sets at one concert you pointed first at me and then at my kid, and gave us a thumbs up, which we returned with enthusiasm. I still clearly recall the day, immersed in writing at an eastside coffee shop, I heard a familiar voice say, “Hello again.” There you were. I invited you to pull up a seat and we had the first of many talks about ideas and issues we cared about.

When I inquired about your legendary collaborations with the likes of Glenn Miller, Van Morrison, Jerry Garcia, Jesse Colin Young, and Joe Miller, you were kind to share anecdotes “from those days,” but I could tell you weren’t caught up in the stories. What still stands out is when you asked, “How’s that boy of yours?” I recall slipping into proud-parent role and relating a few adventures of a divorced dad.

I can still see your face softening when I asked you to tell me about your son Jacob. “Thank you so much for asking,” you said.

You brought me into the story of his leukemia diagnosis as a baby, and the harrowing medical odyssey that preceded his death at age 5.

“It’s rare for people who know about Jacob to ask,” you said. “Have you experienced a close death?” You’ll remember I nodded and said, to your surprise, “Yes, among them my own.”

I proceeded to tell you about an encounter I’d learned to share only selectively: the experience of being carried away by ocean waves while bodysurfing in my 20s, and of subsequently viewing my body in the ocean from above and being convinced Keith had died. I heard anguished friends talking about me from far beyond listening range, with scenes from my life proverbially passing before my eyes. There were astonishing encounters with deceased friends and family members before returning to my body and being carried back to shore.

As the phrase goes, apparently it wasn’t my time.

We were both quiet for a long time. Do you remember what you asked? You wanted to know whether death is real. I told you I couldn’t speak to that with metaphysical certainty; I could only say that for me all fear of death left and never returned. “But what do you believe about the dead?” you asked. I said that as an article of personal conviction, I had come to view what we call death as a transition, a window to a new reality. I believe consciousness survives because consciousness always already is.

That’s what I take to be true, my friend, but here’s what I know with certainty. Everyone who heard you play in downtown Petaluma can still hear the notes, the chords, the melodies, harmonies, and lyrics with which you and your soulful compatriots filled the air on those summer nights by the river. Your recordings will keep inspiring listeners via vinyl, CDs, and playlists. Fellow performing artists, especially members of your bands, will never forget your passion for music. Nor will anyone who saw your smile and experienced your kind and generous humanity, particularly the families of kids suffering from life-threatening illnesses who benefited from your devoted volunteer work for the Carousel Fund for over 20 years.

Your beloved Carole and all your family are grieving, and I join them from afar. Rather than goodbye, for me as the French say this is au revoir: “until we meet again.” Give my best to Jacob, and strike up the band again, maestro.

Keith Thompson can be reached at his website: www.thompsonatlarge.com.

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