“When we’re gone, long gone, the only thing that will have mattered, Is the love that we shared, and the way that we cared, When we’re gone, long gone…” — Jamie O’Hara & Kieran Kane, “When We’re Gone, Long Gone” A prison furlough is technically an “unsupervised release” of a prisoner for a specific period of […]
Again to immeasurable delight, baseball was a serious undertaking at Camp Fed. Slow-pitch softball rather than the purist form of hardball, but there was an adequate field with a backstop, a moderate bleacher section and lots of high spirited competition between the teams. And leave us not forget: we’re supposed to be in prison here. […]
I arrived at the camp and waltzed into a private room with my brother and roommates, Artie and Lance. We were on the third floor of B-unit, overlooking the ball field and groves of pine and eucalyptus. Robbin had everything set up for me. He showed up in the middle of my check-in and immediately started harassing the guard (aka “hack”) in the good natured manner at which he excels.
A concrete stairwell provided an interesting place for me to play my guitar, an old Martin that belonged to a good friend, Harry Jackson, who generously loaned it to me the whole time I was down. As a substitute, I gave Harry my Gibson Dove, to my thinking a vastly inferior instrument; it was a […]
I had gone to bed secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would be Saturday and the prison would be on its free and easy weekend schedule. A light breakfast wouldn’t be served until 7:00 AM and if you wanted to sleep in, there would be a brunch at 10:30. I was rudely awakened at 3:30 AM with a firm shake of my foot by a black, female duty-guard.
The months following my discharge from John’s employ were hard ones, on me and those around me. I was living with an engaging and bright woman in San Francisco, estranged from my wife and family, and I was floundering.
Following the breakup of CCR, John kept me employed for another four years or so. We moved out of the “Factory” and set up shop in a temporary office on San Pablo Avenue in Albany.
The person who would most connect me to the memory of my father and his generation was Max Halsey. For at least one chapter of his lifetime Max worked in the automobile business, oftentimes for my father.
Memphis: We were fishing in a Mississippi river backwater with Tony Joe, Duck and the band. Jim Marshall was along to document the day with his cameras. We had rented several aluminum skiffs, about 12 feet in length with flat front ends that swept up as a whole, “bull-nosed” rather than coming to a point. […]
Hana, Maui: I could hardly believe my good fortune. The first time I traveled with Creedence to play a concert date it was in Honolulu.
It was not long after the loss of my father and John Kennedy, that new and curious events began to happen nearby, piquing my interest and getting my attention. Dad’s auto business, now run by my mother and me, was located in Albany, a conservative community bordering Berkeley, where social and political upheaval was about to change the world as we knew it.