My college friend Larry and another friend’s sister, Geraldine, got married in a hippyish-era ceremony in a flower-bedecked backyard in southern California.  I remember him as wearing cowboy boots, jeans, a long-sleeved white shirt with subtle pin-stripes, a light-brown corduroy vest, a paisley string tie, and a blonde Fu Manchu beard.  That description may not be factual, but I believe it is faithful to the time and place.

Beautiful young Geraldine wore an exquisitely simple, vaguely old-timey dress.  And, yes, she wore a flower in her hair.  Simply gorgeous.

Just before the ceremony was to begin, as we stood behind the crowd, Larry confided to me in a low voice, “Wait until you hear the music I recorded for the ceremony.  It’s Dylan.”

I thought it was odd that he would mention this to me at that point, but on the other hand we shared a deep interest in music.  He had shown me how to play guitar, and had also taught me a lot of old-time country songs by the likes of Jimmie Rodgers, Bill Monroe, and Reno and Smiley.  For several years, we played and sang together a lot—in living rooms, of course.

Anyway, after Larry and Gerry had completed their home-made vows and were walking back through the seated audience, a recording of Larry singing began to play from a boom box:  “New Morning.”  Very upbeat, very joyful.

A bit later, after the reception party had had a chance to settle into a groove, Larry came up to me, smiling, and said, “What did you think of the music?”

“I’m a bit disappointed,” I said.  “I thought it might be ‘Lay, Lady, Lay’.”

He laughed as if I’d made a joke.