Boots of Spanish Leather

 I have long loved this Bob Dylan song. It is a poignant story of love lost, and is remarkably musical for Dylan. In classic folk-song style, it is a dialogue between the man and his departing lover. She offers to send him treasures from her travels, and he declines, saying all he wants is to have her back. She offers three times, he refuses three times. Then she drops this bombshell: "I don't know when I'll be coming back again. It depends on how I'm feeling." He wishes her well, and then asks if she couldn't send him a nice pair of Spanish boots.

 

I was always struck by the coldness of the girl's snub of her faithful lover: I'll come back when and if I feel like it. But also by the coldness of his reply: on second thought, a nice pair of boots are better than you.

 

The other day I heard an interview with Suze Rotolo, Dylan's girlfriend at the time, the very one who appears on the cover of his iconic Freewheelin' album. Apparently, she had lived her whole life in New York City, had never gone to college, and got an opportunity to go to Italy. It was something she wanted to do, because she felt constrained, she wanted to discover who she was beyond "Bob Dylan's girlfriend." The plan had been for her trip to be 3 months at most. She wound up staying 8.

That's when it hit me what was missing from "Spanish Leather." Her. Who is this girl the singer loves so much? Why is she going to Spain? No idea. All that matters is she is not where he wants her, at his side. Now, that's not horrible, every lover wants their beloved to be with them. But look again at the words with which he declines her presents.

 

No, there’s nothing you can send me, my own true love
There’s nothing I wish to be owning
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled
From across that lonesome ocean

 

What is this word, "unspoiled"? There's a sexual meaning of "spoiled" that is hard to ignore in this context. He doesn't just want her back, he wants her back without her having had sex with anyone else. It's striking that, in this moment, when he's trying to say how much he just misses her companionship, he slips in this caveat. There's a way you could come back to me that I wouldn't want.

But even if we don't go with the sexual meaning of "spoiled," why "spoiled"? Is his concern that something would happen that would change her, so that she lost her value to him? Suddenly I'm looking back at the previous line, with its word "owning." He doesn't want her to lose her value. 

 

Now remember the context of the story behind the song. The idea of going on a journey to find yourself was a part of the culture of the times. Kerouac's On the Road, or Steibeck's Travels With Charley. Was the possibility of Rotolo's self-discovery threatening to Dylan?

 

How different things can look, when you see them from the other side.

Some things are better if you know history

The usual answer to "why do we need to learn history?" typically involves doom and repetition. An alternative answer is that it lets you into a special club in which all manner of things mean a whole lot more. For instance:

I was listening to a favorite song of mine, "Brand New '64 Dodge" by Greg Brown. Mostly, it's just the musings of a boy who thinks it's odd to be riding in a '64 Dodge in 1963.

Money comes out of Dad's billfold,
Hankies come out of Mom's purse.
The engine hardly makes a sound
Even when you put it in reverse.

But then later he muses about the girl he likes.

Her little brother is retarded,
But Jesus loves him, too.
And Jesus loves our president,
Even though he's a Catholic.

Then if you know history, you know he's singing about John Kennedy, because he was the first Catholic president, and some people were worried that a Catholic president would have to obey the pope. Turned out not to matter so much, but that's what people worried about back then.

The world is big and full of autumn,
And I'm as hungry as can be!
We're in our new '64 Dodge
November of '63. November.

He repeats that month, to make sure you don't miss it, as if it's important that it is November. Because it is. If you know a little history, you know that in November of 1963, John Kennedy was shot and killed. And suddenly you know what this song is about. It isn't about a car at all. It's about the Kennedy Assassination. It's about a great tragedy that's going to come crashing down on this innocent little boy, a big smack of reality into the face of a kid who's been told all his life that the world is a good and safe and wonderful place, and all these questions he's been pondering are suddenly going to seem like they don't mean anything at all. It's about innocence destroyed.

But if you don't know history? ...Then it's just about a car.

Pete Seeger -- a big empty place inside me

To paraphrase myself

I cannot remember a time without Pete Seeger, and I cannot remember a time without the music.

 I could be three, or four years old, skipping around a living room in a house that I cannot remember, singing "Put your finger in the air, in the air." Or what was then the funniest line I'd ever heard in song: [regarding the color of flowers for the imminently dying Henry] "Green and yeller. GREEEEN and yeller."

I could be six years old, at vacation bible school, singing, "If I had a hammer," which I then thought was a silly song, because if he really wanted a hammer, why didn't he just go get one.

Nine years old, at summer camp.

Fourteen years old, watching him on TV, calling out, "Split wood, not atoms." He looked like an older man to me, then. It was 1979. He was 59.

Eighteen years old, at vacation bible school, leading the kids in singing, "If I had a hammer," which I then thought was a marvelous song. I sang other songs with them to. And sometimes, I sang as I had learned from him, though I did not remember where I had learned it, "join in on the chorus when it comes round."

Twenty years old, at Oberlin College. He came to play. But I was twenty, and full of twenty, and though I wanted to go, something else called me away (I don't even think it was a girl).

I remember thinking later, that Muddy Waters had come to Oberlin, and died that same year. Then Count Bassie came to Oberlin, and died that same year, and I was sure that the curse would hit Pete Seeger next, and I had missed my one chance to see him. It was 1985, he was 65. Most people retire at 65. I was wrong about the curse, but I was right that that had been my last chance.

He came to Oberlin in 1956, too. In 1985 he filled Finney Chapel, the largest venue we had. In 1956 he filled the living room of Johnson House, which was just a living room. He was on McCarthy's black list and in contempt of Congress for not answering their questions. My mother was there. She could have reached out and touched him.

Twenty-one, still at Oberlin, having a protest in support of the campus minister who had just been let go. We sang "We Shall Overcome", until a group of black students pointed out that the song was precious to them, for the Civil Rights struggle, and could we not co-opt it, please.

Jump ahead. 2005, I'm 40 and a dad. I just got a USB turntable to convert my old vinyl to digital format. I pounce on my parents' scratchy old record collection and pull out four albums to borrow and convert. Half of them are Pete Seeger.

He was "wholesome," in a way nobody is anymore. The only one I think of as a peer to him was Woody Guthrie, but I wouldn't use that adjective for Guthrie. Seeger also could sing. I mean he could SING. Whether it was his songs for children ("Here's to cheshire, here's to cheese,") or Carnegie Hall ("If you see me at the back of the bus"), his voice soared.

It is 2014. I am 48, as old as he was when I was dancing around the living room. I heard the news while driving to work, and I very nearly had to pull over at the side of the interstate because I was crying. It's been 30 years since I worried he would imminently die. He was 94 years old. And still my heart cries, "No!" No, he can't have died. There has always been Pete Seeger. He is too precious to die like any ordinary man. Or couldn't he hang on, just another ten years, so Isabelle can see him in concert when she's at school?

Back in those days there weren't any televisions or radios, and if you wanted to hear any music you just had to make it yourself. It was only the kings and queens that could afford to have somebody else make music for them. And you might not think it would be very good music, everybody making their own. But you'd be surprised.

Pete Seeger, The Children's Concert

Bicycle Adventures

I took Isabelle out for her first ride on her bicycle. Her brilliant father bought her a five-speed, which he can't put training wheels on. But we gave it a try! I warned her, "Nobody learns to ride a bike with falling off and getting hurt once."

Off we went. After half an hour she had more directional control, and a little bit of balance. Woopee. Then just as we decided we were done for the day, the inevitable spill happened.

Isabelle barely scratched her knee. Her father, however, in his effort to keep her upright, tripped over her bike and caught all his weight with his outstretched thumb. I don't think I broke it, but I haven't been in this much pain since I don't know when--probably the time I drove a splinter the size of half a toothpick up under my thumb nail.

Isabelle composed a poem for me:

Bikes crashing,
Babies flying,
Daddies crying.

Isabelle's First Poem

Fat
by Isabelle Helene Rouillard Wightman

Fat Fat
What about Fat?
Bake Fat
Make Fat
Buy Fat
Eat Fat
Cook Fat
Book Fat
Fat is very tasty
People like Fat.