Highway 61

I first heard Bob Dylan as a fourteen year old while lying on the bare boards of the lounge room of a fibro public housing home on the south coast of NSW. His relentless nasal poetic mix of uncertainty, rebellion and hope, lodged. For one who picked guitar and hitchhiked, Dylan posed questions and answers to the imponderables of youth.

Living in a rural setting, happy, active and engaged, was a vague dream of adolescence. There were the necessary prerequisites of school and university to come. Through these times Dylan circled in the background, mocking.

Today I live on a farm. The imponderables have faded. I am living the answers. Odd now, listening to Dylan and typing on a computer. So much has moved on. The farm is about to become self-sufficient. Our family merges humour with purpose. Meeting are rare events, comic, insightful, astute and sensitive.

The next generation is almost at hand. The farm is an asset yet to reveal its full value for us all.

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