I was channel surfing tonight when I landed on a salute to Bob Dylan. It was his birthday. He turned 70 on the 24th, a fact that would have escaped me were it not for the tv coverage — a retrospective on his life that jarred me into remembering that the 24th is also the birthday of two old friends, fraternal twins, who, like Bob Dylan, are from Minnesota. It wouldn’t be quite so bad, except that I had a lengthy phone conversation with one of the twins, and had talked on for some time without ever mentioning her and her late brother’s birthday.
Sometimes things just slip your mind. And so here I sit, in the early morning hours of the 25th, writing about birthdays I missed on the 24th. I was just hit by an urge to write something about none of us staying “forever young,” but I’ll resist it. Dylan’s words are so pointed, pertinent and poetic, that it’s just too easy to rip off his thoughts.
Anyway, when I heard about his birthday I connected the mental dots and got off an email to my friend back in Minnesota, apologizing for forgetting her and her late brother’s birthday.
It’s difficult to imagine Bob Dylan, turning 70. For an entire generation Summer is turning to Autumn, and Hibbing is a long, long way back up the road.