Patrick André Perron
Google
To reach that place, you must follow a winding gravel road, each stone whispering stories of the past beneath your tires. And when you arrive, there it stands—the big pink house, weathered yet timeless, cradled by the hills like a secret kept by the wind. The moment you see it, a flood of emotions stirs within, an echo of something eternal. There is, for me, no place more emblematic in the history of folk music.
I close my eyes, and the music still lingers—soft, haunting, alive. I can’t tell if it rises from the depths of my soul or drifts from the ghosts of those who once played here. Garth had just joined them then, only a few days before. I think of Bob, who, after his motorcycle accident, sought refuge in this very place—to laugh, to jam, to share a drink, and roll a joint with his friends, the ones who knew him best.
This January morning, the sky blushes orange, and the mountains burn with the soft glow of dawn. On the basement door, a simple note flutters in the crisp air:
THANK YOU, GARTH!
You live in our hearts.
ALL LOVE,
GOD SPEED.
DON + SUE & THE BIG PiNK.
I close my eyes once more, and I can almost see Dylan perched on the stone steps, quietly shaping the words to I Shall Be Released. Inside, Richard, Rick, Robbie, Levon, and Garth fill the space with the raw, soul-deep sound of a song that would carry far beyond these hills—The Weight.
The wind hums through the trees, carrying their melodies away, yet somehow, they never truly leave.#