_{Courtesy Neil McCormick, London Daily Mail}

Even if you grew up with his music, it seems incredible Bob Dylan just turned 70. To us he's ageless, the Baby Boomer's ultimate spokesman. A musician and poet who grasped our generation's reality with unique sensibility and articulated it during the apex of our country's --and our own-- coming of age.

Of course Dylan spoke --and speaks-- for everyone. Fans continue to respond to his signature siren songs for peace and justice. I hope they also listen to his hundreds of other songs, old and new. Universal messages of the human condition and the state of the world.

No matter your age, no matter his age,  Bob Dylan has so much to offer you, to teach you, to share with you through the golden gift of his phenomenal body of work.

I have something to share with you too. A golden memory of my own personal experience with Bob Dylan. The Dylan in this picture, the Bobby I remember. The one I know still lives inside the man, no matter what age.

Below is my story, a gift to you in honor of Bob Dylan's birthday.

Can you please crawl out your window?
Use your arms and legs it won't ruin you
How can you say he will haunt you?
You can go back to him any time you want to.
Bob Dylan: Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window?

Come with me as I open a window to one of the singular events of my Boomer youth.

During the summers of 1968 and '69, I often visited my friend CC's family vacation home on Long Island Sound. Rows of Victorian beach houses clustered so close together you could reach out your window and touch the neighbor's curtains.

Early one morning we were awakened by music coming from the open bedroom window opposite ours. First groggy and annoyed, then stilled by the plaintive, haunting sounds floating on the clear morning air, we listened, awed. And a bit confused.

"Wow, I didn't know Dylan had a new record."

"Me either. Was there a concert somewhere? It sounds so real."

It wasn't an album. There wasn't a concert. Yet.

But the music was very real.

It was Bob Dylan himself, a (supposedly) secret guest of CC's boyfriend's family next door. Sitting in his room on a soft summer morning, strumming and singing. Also composing, polishing, perfecting.

We were entranced by the melody and the lyrics, mesmerized by the voice, so much deeper, cleaner, purer pouring from his throat than from any album, on any stage.

He sang again:

Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed
Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile
Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile
His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you're the best thing that he's ever seen
Bob Dylan: Lay, Lady, Lay  (click to listen to just a taste)

It wove through me, gave me chills. So intensely personal. Sensual. Intimate. To this day, whenever I hear that song I'm transported back to that time and place, laying across my bed, feeling the caress of Bob Dylan singing directly to me.

We came to our window sleepy-eyed in our rumpled t-shirts to see him sitting at his, looking much the same. No words exchanged --yet-- just gazes ... two girls, one legendary man, curious. Wondering.

Our silent applause was rewarded with a tilt of the head, a crooked grin. Phew, such charm in that narrow face, those warm, liquid eyes under that mop of hair. More than charm. Serious sex appeal.

I'd never thought of him that way, but suddenly I understood why Bob Dylan had a reputation as a ladies man. Don't ask if I became one of those ladies. So long ago. Irrelevant now.

Because I got something much more precious and lasting ... a rare glimpse of the muse. A chance to witness a tiny piece of the process, the power of the poet. The brilliance of the man.

And more.

Bob Dylan joined our crowd at the beach. The transition from bedroom windows to blankets on the sand was a bit unsettling. At first he was quiet. Seemingly aloof. Unapproachable. A spectator.

He was so thin and pale, especially compared to our robust, tanned bodies. His skin was very white, and almost completely hairless. Not even close to my image of a rock star or a sex symbol. And yet...

As he began to relax, the man in the bedroom window reappeared, compelling, magnetic. Sharp intelligence. A vibrating intensity. A hint of tenderness. Subtle wit. A measure of poise we didn't yet possess. And quietude. He was so still. 

Those knowing eyes didn't restlessly track every movement on the beach ... though they did linger on the girls in our bikinis. No matter his reputation as a lothario, there was more longing than lasciviousness in his gaze.

We were all so alive, so boisterous, so young and juicy, he opened up, soaked in our energy and enthusiasm. And because many were also elite Ivy Leaguers, engaged, involved, committed to changing the adult world we were about to enter, he was drawn into our conversations too.

What did we talk about, our little group and Bob Dylan? Vietnam, the draft, the Kennedy and King assassinations. Politics, feminism, racism, sex, drugs and --only a little-- rock and roll.

We didn't have to talk about that because he played for us. Bob. Dylan. Played. For. Us.

Leaning against a big red cooler, an old acoustic guitar on his knobby white knees, Dylan played and sang. It was our turn to be tentative, but soon encouraged by his smiles and nods, we sang too, familiar lyrics already woven into the Boomer culture.

It was pure magic. A bunch of tuned in, turned on college kids basking in the sun and our incredible fortune, talking, laughing, sharing cigs and joints and swigs of cheap wine, drifting in a private cocoon of near nirvana.

Privileged to be joined by this odd duck, this awkward performer, this towering talent, who was, for one amazing, glorious summer weekend, One of Us.

Word spread. A few more friends joined us but we made it clear we were a private party. He wanted it that way. We did too.

Adults wandered along the beach past our group, self-consciously casual, checking out the famous music icon their kids worshiped. You could see many shaking their heads, wondering what all the fuss was about.

A few stopped, openly listened. And --I hope-- heard the eloquent pleas for peace, reason, change, understanding. We were their kids after all, facing a challenging, chaotic future.

Looking back now, so much hope. So much determination. So much irony. Plus ça change...

But that extraordinary memory is as clear and sharp all these years later as yesterday. A collection of perfect moments, pure joy, all sense and sound and secret smiles.

And I know now what I couldn't possibly appreciate then: I was lucky enough to experience, up close and personal, the clarion Voice of my Generation.