Dear Neil                                                                                                                                

 It’s Sunday evening, and my husband and I are sitting on the couch in front of the television. I’m watching a show about Rommel, and my husband is reading The Rolling Stone. He just read to me about the release of your long awaited Archives, and started playing a trailer for the DVD on his computer. 

He muted the television--- I was really only half watching Rommel as he and his defeated forces were fleeing Africa, and I began listening to the trailer. As I did, I was flooded with memories of my childhood—my adolescence really, and I began to cry, and I quickly stepped out to the backyard for a moment of reflection. It was then that I finally decided to write you this letter, to finally tell you before it’s too late, why I was flooded with such emotion. 

When I was 13, I listened to my sister’s copy of Harvest. I guess this was in 1974. While the whole of my neighborhood in Castro Valley was listening to Ten Years After and Led Zeppelin, I was shut up in my bedroom, playing Harvest over and over again, and I was off and running. It was not long before I got a copy of everything that you had recorded previously, and started playing the guitar, learning your songs. I was particularly fond of “The Last Trip To Tulsa”. I would sit there and bang that song out, feeling that you were my only muse. And you were Neil. You were indeed someone in my life who I clung to, who I felt would understand my very painful feelings. It seemed so natural that I would project all of my desperate needs on to you.  

My family life was disintegrating. Suddenly, my mother of 50 had turned into a caricature of Mrs. Robinson, and my dear father, who would die when I was 15, was becoming unglued. Our house was a battle zone; every new day brought an emotionally wrenching situation, and my only escape was music. I would go into my bedroom and play your records, over and over again. I bought each new record as they were released, learned all of the lyrics, tried to play them on my guitar, and soothed myself with the idea that at least there was something for me to hang on to. Listening to your songs, digesting each word, somehow gave me a kind of hope---certainly it comforted me in ways that I am extremely grateful to you for. 

I’ll always remember a favor that a family friend did for me. He was with your label at the time and has been a long time family friend. When I was 14, I called him and begged him to do something, honestly I don’t remember what. I don’t know what I could have wanted, to meet you? I don’t really recall. What I did receive was an autographed picture that I still own, and it reads: “Toni, fly, fly, fly, Neil Young.” When I got this, well, how would you expect a 14-year-old girl to behave? I was elated. 

Over the years, I followed you, bought your new releases, and went to your concerts. I saw you on my 17^th birthday at the Boarding House in San Francisco. We came for 2 of those performances. What a great way to spend my birthday. I also saw you at the Cow Palace when you recorded “Rust Never Sleeps”. That was one hell of a show. I’ve had great opportunities to see you, experience how you have evolved, how you have stayed the same, changed, yet never really changed at all. 

I can’t tell you how many of your songs are my favorite songs. I often tell people that I believe that “Like A Hurricane” is the best rock song that I have ever heard. I still crank that song up to a painful volume and soar with you, never being set back down on earth until the very last chord. 

Anyway Neil, I just needed for you to know right now, while I have the nerve to write this letter, that you helped me breathe when I was a kid. You offered me a lifeline, and you never even knew it. You helped a sad and frightened girl connect with something when it seemed that there was no one and nothing to connect to. You gave that to me, and when I listen to you now, still, my heart feels connected to you in a way that perhaps only few would understand. 

Thank you Neil, for everything, always.