THINKING ABOUT BOB DYLAN SINCE SEEING HIM SATURDAY NIGHT: I saw him in Jackson, Wyoming maybe 15 years ago. I timed my visit to see my daughter who lives there so we could see his concert which would be outdoors at the foot of an in-town mountain not the surrounding iconic Tetons. We sat on the side of the mountain. No seats. He and his band we’re down below. It was perfect. Beyond the stage was the town of Jackson framed by mountains. It looked like a movie town. The Hardy Boys could have lived there. What was different though was there were no church steeples sticking up above the leafy trees. We were in the West. Not in the old European eastern part of the country. I found that refreshing to think about then; I’ve thought about it often since. On Saturday way early for the concert as is my habit going anywhere, I walked around the corner to the side of the theater. Sure enough there was Dylan’s huge bus sitting shiny under the street lights. And sure enough when I went to the back and looked at the license plate, it was from California.

MY STILL-HURTING LEFT SHOULDER hurt even more the last two days. I mentioned it to my physical therapist today and she asked what I might have done to aggravate it. I told her a couple heavier things I had carried that might have strained it. Then it hit me what I’d done that for sure caused it to hurt. I’d cheered and clapped with arms outstretched as strong and long as I could at the Bob Dylan concert Saturday night. I stood and put my hands together as much as I could over my head like a younger me at the end. Forever Young? I guess not.