Recently I noticed headlines that said someone had surpassed a home-run record formerly set by Roger Maris.
That name is familiar in my memory, somehow, even though I have never followed baseball closely. Some of those names just sink into your memory and stay there, like antique china that you have but don't use.
Looking him up online, we find that he was born in the same hometown where Bob Dylan grew up: Hibbing, Minnesota. Seven years apart -- Maris born in 1934, Dylan in 1941.
Hibbing is 90 miles south of the Canadian border, 208 miles north of Minneapolis / St. Paul, 522 miles distant from Pierre, South Dakota, and 1,331 miles from New York City where Bob went in January of 1961, to play music and visit Woody Guthrie.
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-------------- [excerpt from Chronicles, by Bob Dylan. Copyright 2004, Simon & Schuster.] ---------------
The moon was rising behind the Chrysler Building, it was late in the day, street lighting coming on, the low rumble of heavy cars inching along in the narrow streets below -- sleet tapping against the office window.
Lou Levy was starting and stopping his big tape machine -- diamond ring gleaming off his pinky finger -- cigar smoke hanging in the blue air.
The place was like a room used for interrogation, a fixture like a fruit bowl hanging overhead and a couple of lamps, some brass ones on floor stands. Below my feet a patterned wood floor.
It was a drab room and cluttered with trade magazines -- Cashbox, Billboard, radio survey charts -- an ancient filing cabinet in the corner. Besides Lou's old metal desk, there were a couple of wood chairs and I sat forward in one of them strumming songs off the guitar.
Recently I had called home. I did that at least a couple of times a month from one of the many public pay phones around town. The phone booths were like sanctuaries, step inside of them, shut the accordion type doors and you locked yourself into a private world free of dirt, the noise of the city blocked out.
The phone booths were private, but the lines back home weren't.
Back there every household had a party line. About eight or ten different houses all used the same line, only with different numbers. If you'd pick up the phone receiver, seldom would the line ever be clear. There were always other voices. Nobody ever said anything important over the phone and you didn't ramble on long.
If you wanted to talk to people, you'd usually talk to them in the street, in vacant lots, fields or in cafes, never on the phone.
On the corner I put the dime in the slot and dialed the operator for long distance, called collect and the call went right through. I wanted everyone to know I was all right. My mother would usually give me the latest run of the mill stuff.
My father had his own way of looking at things. To him life was hard work. He'd come from a generation of different values, heroes and music, and wasn't so sure that the truth would set anybody free. He was pragmatic and always had a word of cryptic advice.
"Remember, Robert, in life anything can happen. Even if you don't have all the things you want, be grateful for the things you don't have that you don't want."
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♫♫ ♪ a song to listen to:
on You Tube
Bob Dylan - Simple Twist of Fate
uploader / channel: Bob Dylan
They sat together in the park
As the evening sky grew dark
She looked at him and he felt a spark --
tingle to his bones
'Twas then he felt alone, and wished -
that he'd gone straight
And watched out -- for a simple twist of fate
They walked along by the old canal
A little confused, I remember well
And stopped into a strange hotel,
with a neon burnin' bright
He felt the heat of the night --
hit him - like a freight -- train,
Moving with a simple twist of fate
A saxophone someplace far off played
As she was walkin' on by the arcade
As the light burst through a beat-up shade,
where he was wakin' up,
She dropped a coin into the cup --
of a blind man, at the gate --
And forgot about -- a simple twist of fate
He woke up, the room was bare
He didn't see her anywhere
He told himself he didn't care,
pushed the window open wide
Felt an emptiness inside,
to which he just -- could not relate --
Brought on, by a simple twist of fate
He hears the ticking of the clocks
And walks along with a parrot that talks
Hunts her down by the waterfront docks --
where the sailors all come in
Maybe she'll pick him out again,
how long -- must he wait
One more time -- for a simple twist of fate
People tell me -- it's a sin
To know and feel - too much within
I still believe she was my twin,
but I lost the ring
She was born in spring,
but I was born too late --
Blame it on - a simple twist of fate
-30-
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