Asking yourself how it feels

Aug. 25, 2005

Dear Leslie,

Bob Dylan asked a generation how it felt to be without a home, like a complete unknown. Instead of worrying them, as it would have their war-winning, FHA-housed parents, the question was liberating for baby boomers. A rolling stone became their symbol.

Not many from that generation stayed completely true to the beliefs that material attachments could be forsaken, that security was an illusion, and that love is all there is. But the capitulation was far from complete. Got authority? We've got questions.

You had to live through the '50s to appreciate how different the world would be if the 1960s had never occurred. They had to, of course. The dark yin of the 1950s desired a flower-powered yang.

DC and I spent last weekend celebrating birthdays. Our friend Gail has now seen 50 of them. Our niece Casey is turning 18. And my favorite band, The Melroys, were at Stooges to play "Happy Birthday" for Ted, one of the owners.

Saturday night, Gail was surrounded by friends, by a son in from North Carolina and her daughter, and by fellow teachers at Blanchard Elementary School. She calls them the Blanchard Babes. They are, too.

Gail teaches behavior-disordered children. That's not really accurate. She adopts them for a year, and they become her godchildren for the rest of their lives. She loves them all.

Gail knows or knows about nearly everybody in town. E-mail was invented for her. She also believes in romance more than anyone else I know. "The Notebook" is her second bible. She knows how they feel.

Going to hear the Melroys has felt like a beloved obligation ever since our friend Randy, the band's leader, died last February. One of his sons, Jordan, plays in the band, and Randy's wife, Sally, always comes to hear them play.

Randy wrote most of their original songs, so I can hear him singing even when the voice belongs to one of the other Melroys. Everybody who knew Randy knows how that feels.

But late Saturday night at Stooges, something changed. When a couple seated near the door left, Ted carried their table out the front door to make more room for dancers. That act said there's a time to grieve and a time to dance. The floor filled instantly with happy people. Ted joined in.

Sunday afternoon my parents held a birthday party for their granddaughter Casey. She just started her senior year in high school. She has been accepted at the University of Mississippi. She plans to study pharmacology and hopes to study abroad. The infant goo-gooing on her mother's lap in the nightclub where her father played music is now a lovely young woman preparing her foray into the world. Soon enough she will begin to know how it feels.

Sunday night at the Water Street Lounge, a full moon shone through the window behind Bruce Zimmerman and his band. In the moonlight, a woman named Nadine celebrated her birthday by dancing to every song.

Most everyone in the club helped him sing the choruses when Bruce started playing "Like a Rolling Stone."

How does it feel? It feels alive.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is managing editor of the Southeast Missourian.