dylan in the basement

my mom just recently sold her house and these three record albums, along with over a hunded others, were in a big wooden crate in a dark corner of her basement. the collection of albums from the 70s and 80s belong to my husband, steve, who couldn't bear to part with them even after most of them got damaged in a flood over 20 years ago.

in college (marshall university in huntington, w.va.), before i ever formally met steve, i had heard his very loud music blaring from the set of huge klipsch speakers in his small dorm room. i can't believe he got away with blasting his music like that - but i'm pretty sure that michelle, the resident advisor of laidley hall, our co-ed dorm, had a crush on him, and just "listened" the other way.
steve played a wide variety of music, including springsteen, the who, neil young, beatles, rolling stones, tom petty, and lots of bob dylan.
and bob dylan was one of the things that instantly connected steve and me. i thought it was pretty cool that he had so many of dylan's albums and he thought it was pretty cool that i knew most of dylan's lyrics by heart. before we started "dating", steve would send me dylan lyrics that he had penned on tea-stained paper - songs like tangled up in blue, girl of the north country, and love minus zero/no limit.

having trouble winding up this post - because it extends to the present on a long and winding road...so i'll just fade out singing the words my true love once wrote me:

Love Minus Zero/No Limit

My love she speaks like silence,
Without ideals or violence,
She doesn't have to say she's faithful,
Yet she's true, like ice, like fire.
People carry roses,
Make promises by the hours,
My love she laughs like the flowers,
Valentines can't buy her.

In the dime stores and bus stations,
People talk of situations,
Read books, repeat quotations,
Draw conclusions on the wall.
Some speak of the future,
My love she speaks softly,
She knows there's no success like failure
And that failure's no success at all.

The cloak and dagger dangles,
Madams light the candles.
In ceremonies of the horsemen,
Even the pawn must hold a grudge.
Statues made of match sticks,
Crumble into one another,
My love winks, she does not bother,
She knows too much to argue or to judge.

The bridge at midnight trembles,
The country doctor rambles,
Bankers' nieces seek perfection,
Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring.
The wind howls like a hammer,
The night blows cold and rainy,
My love she's like some raven
At my window with a broken wing.