Memories--Sweet Summer Day

(Play the song; the last clip is Young Dylan on Johnny Cash show: "once I had mountains in the psalm of my hand" ... whew.
Redondo Beach, California. 1967. A Summer night by the sea.
Danny’s three room apartment is painted deep blue. A red silk scarf from a flea market drapes down crazy in a corner--not where one would expect. Something written in Chinese calligraphy hangs over the couch; sounds of Leonard Cohan, Moody Blues, Janis Joplin. Someone smokes rolled cigarettes. This room is filled with good friends--though we don't know names. Our baked skin from a long ocean day brings us close, brought us here. My lips still taste like salt. I comb sand from my hair onto a towel and slide down to lean against a couch, the only furniture in the room. A dark-haired girl lights Sandalwood incense. People move around in muted talking, cooking in a tiny kitchen. Sandals scrunch sand on the tiles. Kat, from Idaho, pulls my hair back and braids it into strands, tying the ends with string. Another girl weaves the braids together with pieces of thin cloth she cuts from a blue scarf. There is no fear in this room. (Most of my life, I’ve been blessed with good friends. Sometimes they seem to come out of nowhere.) Faces shine in the dim light. My muscles release into drowsy--from running in sand, sea spray, sun and more sun, waves breaking over my shoulders. The dark-haired girl hands me a plastic fork, ice water, a hand-painted dish filled with cheesecake and warm raspberry jam. Someone else comes out of the shower. I trust these people--all of them. Here, I am not just what I can do. I am not my face or wit. I just "am" to them. We listen to the end of “Nights in White Satin.” For a moment, it’s quiet: a soft kind of easy stillness that no one wants to break. I hear a spoon scraping a bowl and seagulls on the beach. Danny picks up a guitar. Long-haired-blond-guy by the window wipes a harmonica on his shirt. He blows three or four notes, licks his lips, drinks water, while Danny picks at strings. He hits a certain chord. The blond person glances over. They strum and blend, and we sing--just because we want to, just because it’s a good day. In this twilight room, there is no Vietnam, JFK, Dr King, or Lyndon B. It’s just us and “Take a Load off Fannie.” Then, for the first time, I hear Bob Dylan's "Girl from the North Country." Even now, when I grow up I want to be Bob Dylan. The music could go on forever, floating out over the sand, over the ocean, straight up to the stars. I think good memories must be rocks we step on to get over bad ones.