A couple years back, I was sitting in the garage with my feet in a bucket of lukewarm hose water. I'll never forget, probably talk about it too much. Funny how some things stick.
The garage door was open, so was the back door. We didn't get much of a draft. Four days into a power outage with two more to go. We tossed a percolator over charcoal for morning coffee, read the Post during the afternoon and sang Dylan songs in the starry night.
Summer power outages come every year round here, though most don't last longer than a novella.
Bob Dylan's music isn't best during a summer power outage anymore than it's ideal for sunrise, but it doesn't get any better either.
"Worried Blues," when you feel like realism.
"Paths of Victory," when you need to overcome realism.
"Someday Baby," you realize everything's going to be all right.
"Talkin' Bear Mountain Picnic Massacre Blues," when you need to laugh at the sweat dripping from your brow.
"Shelter From the Storm," you know, in case you feel like getting literal.
"When the Ship Comes In," when the camera splices a montage of you kissing the gal, the kids bombarding each other with water balloons, smoke from the sheltered grill fading, rain overflowing from broken gutters.
