It Happens Every Spring: Baseball and Duluth Dylan Fest 2026

Yesterday morning a pair of low-flying bald eagles flew across my front yard just above the treetops. Earlier this week I saw hawk-watchers on Thompson Hill counting raptors migrating to their northern habitats. These are standard signs of spring here in the Northland. And then there's baseball.

Artwork by Misisipi Mike

Major League Baseball has opened this week. When I was a kid my family would watch It Happens Every Spring around this time of year. The film opens with college professor Ray Milland working on a chemistry project as some kids playing baseball outside hit a ball through the window, smashing his beakers and test tubes. The various chemicals cause something unusual to happen. The stained baseball is repelled by wood. As a result, you can't hit it with a bat. His "discovery" fuels his dream of being a major league pitcher and he takes a sabbatical to help his beloved St. Louis Cardinals reach the World Series.

Bob Dylan was about eight years old when this movie came out, and I have no doubt he saw it. If not at the theater, then I'm sure he saw it on TV because every year it was no doubt broadcast in Hibbing as it was in Cleveland when I was a boy.

Once you start to notice, you will see a lot of connections between Dylan and baseball. Did you know Roger Maris was born in Hibbing? Maris achieved controversial fame by breaking Babe Ruth's  home run record the same year Dylan moved to New York City.  The Maris controversy was due to the fact that 1961 was the year MLB lengthened its season from 154 to 162 games. This seemed unfair to some diehard fans and sportswriters. Of course, Dylan himself would go on to create his share of controversies.

This year's Duluth Dylan Fest emblem features a cartoonish Bob Dylan in a baseball uniform with the #85 on his back, representing his 85th birthday which we will be celebrating for a week here in Duluth later this spring. The Dylan-Baseball connections are many, hence this year's "logo."

A lot of folks are unaware that Abe Zimmerman played semi-pro baseball here in the Northland. Abe once shared how he travelled from Duluth to Hibbing around 1929 or 1930 to "play ball," where he and his teammates earned about $2 each for the day. In 1941, the same year Robert Zimmerman was born, Duluth built a minor league ballpark called Wade Stadium, which may have been part the inspiration for Dylan's minor league ballpark tours in 2004 and 2009 with Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp. The day after Dylan performed here in Duluth's Bayfront Park in 2013, he and his bandmates performed at the St Paul Saints Midway Stadium ball park. Bobby Vee was there and Dylan sang Vee's "Suzie Baby" as a tribute.

Illustration by the author.

Longtime Dylan fans are well aware of his Theme Time Radio Hour in which the bard shared his love of nostalgia, trivia and music history. One of his 100 episodes was dedicated to Baseball, the Great American Pastime. Until recently it was the one sport that was not dictated by time. You will enjoy Dylan's atypical rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" near the beginning of the show.

No blog post connecting Dylan and baseball would be complete without mentioning the song "Catfish," which was a nod to Hall of Fame pitcher Catfish Hunter, a million-dollar man--"Nobody can throw the ball like Catfish can." The song was actually a collaboration with Jacques Levy, who contributed to seven of the nine songs on Dylan's 1976 album Desire.

Baseball is a game of heroes and dreams, and just like you and me, Dylan has had heroes and dreams. Some of those heroes played baseball.

Baseball is also a game of numbers and statistics. A non-profit group called Retrosheet keeps records of every conceivable stat, even those you seldom, if ever, think about. One page of this statistically bloated catalog is devoted the 302 times players were successfully eliminated from the base paths by the "Hidden Ball Trick."  What a humiliating way to be sent back to the bench. Listen to some of these names of players who fell prey to this deceit: Joe Quinn, Chief Zimmer, Cupid Childs, Hobe Ferris, Birdie Cree, Fred Snodgrass, Happy Felsch, Wildfire Schulte and Bae McBride. 302 ballplayers suffered this indignity. One thing for sure, though. These guys had colorful names. Bump Wills. That's a baseball name.

Lazy stadium night Catfish on the mound “Strike three,” the umpire said Batter have to go back and sit down
Catfish, million-dollar-man Nobody can throw the ball like Catfish can

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SCHEDULE FOR 

DULUTH DYLAN FEST 2026

CLICK HERE

Are You Too Busy for New Connections?

Still friends after all these years.

When my wife Susie and I returned from Mexico after the second year of our marriage, a friend suggested we visit Bethel Temple in St. Paul. He raved about the good people, solid pastoral care, and vibrant worship. It was a very special place, he said, in the heart of the Twin Cities. I believe he even repeated “good people” for emphasis, which stuck with me. 

After the service on the first Sunday we went, a friendly, blonde-haired man greeted us with a warmth that felt genuine. His name was Henry, and our conversation flowed effortlessly. He was on a wavelength I instantly connected with—thoughtful, engaging, and genuine.

I could tell Henry was someone I wanted to know better, but I also sensed he had a very busy life. The way he moved through the crowd, balancing greetings and tasks, I could tell this was a role he played here, making a conscious effort to welcome visitors and get them connected to the fellowship. 

As we were talking later I blurted out, in my somewhat direct way, “Is your life too busy to have another friend?” It was a bold ask, but after a pause in which he no dubt did a quick internal inventory of his commitments, Henry’s gracious smile said it all. Despite his packed schedule, he and his wife Lisa welcomed Susie and I into their lives. That openness changed us, and we remain deeply grateful for their friendship.

From tme to time I've reflected on that moment and have had to ask myself Are you too busy to allow another person or new experience into your life? It’s a question worth pondering. Life moves fast—work, family, errands, and endless to-do lists can fill every crevice of our days. It’s easy to say, “I don’t have time for new friends” or “I’ll try that new hobby later.” But what if “later” never comes? What if the cost of busyness is missing out on connections and experiences that could enrich us?

Henry could’ve brushed us off. He had every excuse—his plate was full. Yet, he chose to make space, and that choice sparked a meaningful, lifelong friendship. It’s a reminder that life’s best moments often come when we pause and say “yes” to something new. Whether it’s a conversation with a stranger, a spontaneous adventure, or signing up for that class you’ve been eyeing, opening the door to new possibilities takes courage. It means prioritizing connection over convenience and growth over routine.

So, here’s the challenge: take stock of your life. Are you too busy to let someone new in? Too swamped to try something different? If so, maybe it’s time to carve out a little space. Say hello to that coworker you’ve never really talked to. Book that weekend hike. Invite someone to coffee. Like Henry, you might find that making room for others—or for new experiences—brings unexpected joy. Life’s too short to let busyness block the beauty of what’s waiting. 

Related Link

Henry is a professional pianist and founder of Quiet Heart Music.

www.quietheartmusic.com

 

Local Arts Scene: Makers Make A Mark

At one time photography was not respected as an art form. Then, a group of modernist photographers--Arthur Stieglitz, Paul Strand, Edward Weston and others--showed the possibilities and broke through the wall. A similar thing happened with printmaking around the 1940s and the definition of what was an acceptable art form was broadened yet again. The world has been enriched by these ever widening horizons.

This past week I dropped in on an Open House for Creative Makers and Artisans at the Creative Folk School in Lincoln Park. The place was buzzing with activity and enthusiasm.

When I first heard of the Twin Ports Makers, the word "Maker" in mind was tied to recent discussions and reading I had done pertaining to 3-D printing, technology empowerment and a movement to grass roots tool-making. Last week's Maker even was no such thing. It was people from various creative disciplines who have banded together to show and share their work, from basket-making to quilting, rosemaling to Zentangle. It's the art of functional creation, an aesthetic that seems to permeate our various blended cultures here in the North Country.

One of the groups represented was the Duluth Fiber Handcrafters Guild (DFHG). Formed in 1973, the DFHG is under the wing of the DAI and now consists of 125 members. One benefit of banding together with others is that beginners can get connected to mentors, experts who have learned many lessons about their craft-and-art making the hard way, including the business side.

This particular event was not about selling goods. Rather, it was an invitation to the public to come discover the kinds of makers we have actively creating in our community. The event was sponsored by the Needle Art Guild of Duluth, Northern Lights Machine Quilters Guild, Duluth Fiber Handcrafters Guild, and the Duluth Folk School. According to the DFHG website, "Our mission is to strengthen the creative capacity of our regional community by facilitating and encouraging a robust network of makers, artists, and community supporters."

If your creative urges flow in alternative channels, one of these might be worth checking out. The Northern Printmakers Alliance and the Northern Prints Gallery provide the same kind of opportunities for connection, mentoring, personal nurturing and growth. (Shout-out to Cecilia Lieder.) The potters and ceramicists here in the Twin Ports and up the Shore likewise have a decades long thing going. As do our Lake Superior Writers.

Once you get down to the grass roots, you discover how much more is happening here in the Twin Ports than you might have initially realized. It's worth the extra effort to dig down and check it out. 

Reminders 

Ribbon Cutting @ the new Joseph Nease Gallery tomorrow at 3:30 p.m.
23 West 1st Street

Kathy McTavish's "Chance" Opening Reception at the Tweed, Thursday evening.

The 2017 Goin' Postal Fall Art Show, Friday 6-9 with afterparty at the Top Hat.

"Three States" Opening Reception at the new Joseph Nease Gallery, Saturday 2-5 p.m.

* * * *

So much to see, so little time. 

Will you join us?

Whitman, Dylan and Me: Uncanny Connections

This year I keep running into allusions to Walt Whitman. Just yesterday someone sent me an essay by Philip T. Nemec (on the power of music) that opens with these Whitman references.

One afternoon as a young man, I read the line from a poem in Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, “I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing”. Mysteriously, this line, a simple statement, overwhelmed me, and tears welled. Its secret power defied rational explanation. After all, at that point, I had never even been in Louisiana or seen a live-oak. Decades later, my son, known more for his athletic prowess than literary sensitivity, faced his first assignment to analyze a poem. To my utter amazement, after searching our shelf of poetry books, he came to me with my dog-eared copy of Leaves of Grass opened to that same poem. Choked with emotion he recited, “I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing.” My son had never been to Louisiana, seen a live-oak, or had the poem read to him. The power of that declarative line locked our two generations together in a deeply felt moment. Not surprisingly, when I read the poem now, I relive that experience with my son. That line and the relationship with my son are permanently bonded.

I know that a brief essay on music should not, in the name of discipline, wander into poetry even if the “Good Gray Poet” titled many of his efforts, “songs,” but this experience with my son is the best example I can dredge up for illustrating what happens to us all with music. I do not offer this as a breakthrough musical insight; rather, I write about it to celebrate its universality, its commonness – the coupling of music to the most intense moments of our lives. It is a Song of Joys to use a Whitman title, and it is an emotion understood everywhere on planet earth.

Because of social media I have re-connected with a friend from high school whom, as chance would have it, owned a home in Fredericksburg just a few houses away from my uncle on the same street. I had driven within spitting distance from his front yard several times in the past few years without knowing it. This was not the only surprise. I learned that Charlie is also an actor who has played the role of Walt Whitman in a one-man show he's performed in the Great Hall of the National Portrait Gallery. Over dinner last spring we discussed, among other things, his strong interest in Whitman and the manner in which the bard was profoundly touched by attending to the needs of the wounded during the American Civil War. You can read here a review that appeared in the Baltimore Sun titled "The Essential Walt Whitman."

Dylan Talks of Whitman, Too
As any regular reader of this blog already knows, I have been a fan and follower of Dylan's music and career for much of my life, writing about him with measured frequency. One result of this is that people like to send me Dylan-themed articles or links to articles that might be of interest to me. And so it is that I was sent this particular Rolling Stone article in the midst of which were statements about Whitman. "Dylan has become our great American poet of drifting, inheriting a baton that was passed from Walt Whitman to Vachel Lindsay to Carl Sandburg to Allen Ginsberg." A few paragraphs later the author elaborates.

When tabulating literary influences, Dylan summons the name Walt Whitman, for Leaves of Grass continues to inspire him. Toward the end of his life, Whitman was preparing a "Death-Bed" edition of Leaves of Grass, reflecting on the indignities and ragged joys of growing old. "I don't think the dream of Whitman has ever been fulfilled," Dylan says. "I don't know if Whitman's spirit is still here. It's hard to say if it holds up except maybe in a nostalgic sense. That westward-expansion thing has been dead for a while now. When Whitman started out, he had such great faith in humankind. His mind must have been destroyed when the War between the States fell at his front door. His vision, which was so massively phallic, suddenly must have become plundered, ruined and emasculated when he saw all that indescribable destruction."

We talk about Whitman serving as a nurse in a Washington, D.C., hospital during the Civil War, draining gangrene from a wounded soldier's limbs. "I think you can see the change in Whitman," Dylan says. "Before that and after that. He had the most grand view of America. Almost like he's America himself. He's just so big, and he's all that there is. The Greek Empire. The Roman Empire. The British Empire. All of European history gone. Whitman is the New World. That's what Whitman is all about. But it isn't the New World anymore. Poor man. He was hounded and mistreated, too, in his lifetime. And ridiculed. Emerson, Thoreau, all those guys, you don't know what they really thought of him."

If any American personifies life on what Whitman called the "open road," it's Bob Dylan. 

But it doesn't stop there. Douglas Brinkley's piece continues.

We talk about Whitman serving as a nurse in a Washington, D.C., hospital during the Civil War, draining gangrene from a wounded soldier's limbs. "I think you can see the change in Whitman," Dylan says. "Before that and after that. He had the most grand view of America. Almost like he's America himself. He's just so big, and he's all that there is. The Greek Empire. The Roman Empire. The British Empire. All of European history gone. Whitman is the New World. That's what Whitman is all about. But it isn't the New World anymore. Poor man. He was hounded and mistreated, too, in his lifetime. And ridiculed. Emerson, Thoreau, all those guys, you don't know what they really thought of him."*

It's as if my friend Charlie got it right. His one-man show zeroes in on a segment of Whitman's life that made a profound impact on the bard, and it never left him. It made me half wonder if Dylan could have been in the audience for one of Charlie's shows.

Now for one more interesting twist to this story. During our Dylan Days in May I curated an art show featuring art inspired by Dylan and his music. I sold a couple of pieces from that show, portraits I'd done of Dylan, but one was too large to fit in my car and it had to be delivered to Minneapolis. I posted a note on Facebook hoping to find someone willing to transport it. The gentleman who agreed to help happened to be a book publisher, Jim Perlman of Holy Cow! Press. When we met to make the exchange he left me with a newly updated version of one of the most significant books on Whitman in print today, Walt Whitman: The Measure of His Song. It is a beautiful book. But there's something uncanny how many ways Whitman has been popping up on my radar this year.

And yes, I've started reading the book. I'll be sharing more on this sometime soon.

* Read Bob Dylan's Late-Era Old Style American Individualism at Rolling Stone online.]

EdNote: Tomorrow evening in St. Louis Park there will be another Salute to the Music of Bob Dylan, a free concert fund-raiser for Guitars for Vets. The Wednesday show was fabulous I hear.

The M Zone

I began building my first website in 1994-95 as a way to learn about the World Wide Web and also as a means for sharing some of my creating work, similar motives for the development of this blog. I usually learn new skills by reading books, buying a few for my personal library, and then applying through doing. I am not a great programmer, but the rudimentary HTML that I learned at that time has gotten me out of many a jam, including here on Blogger.

When Adobe Pagemill was introduced in the mid-nineties, they were in such a rush to get it to market that they forgot to include certain important information inthe User Guide. The day I got it, I went online to a PageMill user group to find out this crucial information. The author of the instructions was in the group! She said that they would add that info immediately.

My website included articles, art and short stories, plus a Labyrinth which I created as a tribute to Jorge Luis Borges, the Argentine short story writer perpetually fascinated by labyrinths. I am certain he would have loved the labyrinthine hyper connectedness of the web.

This story today, on Short Story Monday, was placed in the Creativity section of my website in the late nineties. In 2003 I was contacted by a Joe Sacher of Indianapolis who, for a film class, wished to make a short film based on this story. In his version, the film opens with a reporter out front of the building as events within unfold. It was a fun screen play. This was followed by a more elaborate version of the story. It was fun knowing that before the Internet, the unpublished version of this story would have been left sitting in a drawer. Instead, because of the Internet, some of my stories have been translated into three foreign languages and another has become a short film.

And now...

The M Zone

The revelation came suddenly. Like an "Aha!"... only it was an "Oh no!"

Richard Busby slumped into his chair, leaned his head back and stared off into space, attempting to make himself deaf to what he was hearing. "This is verified?" he asked, referring to the data in a report that had fallen from his hand.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir," Dr. Frey, Director of R&D, said.

Busby's brain was numb. Even though he begun to suspect it, had himself experienced the effects, he had remained in denial. "Do you realize what this means?" Busby asked.

Frey nodded, the small, thin line of mouth grimly expressionless. His dark eyes scanned the desktop and came to rest on the latest Forbes, which featured the ten most significant men of the first half of the 21st century. There, alongside Bill Gates, the world's first trillionaire, was Richard Busby, developer of the M Zone.

In the instant of Busby's epiphany his whole life flashed. His birthday in 1991. His celebrated experiments in computer design at age twelve. His national awards for innovation in computer aided brain mapping while still a teen. His leadership on the A.I. Research Team at Stanford resulting in the development of silicon implants to improve memory. His discoveries regarding the nature of memory, including his renowned theorem that memory is a series of hyperlinked rooms in an endless hallway, each room filled with neural impressions braiding internal and external stimuli.

His father had been an entrepreneur who distrusted government. Like his father he brought his ideas to the marketplace. Eventually he founded a company of his own with enough venture capital to attract the best minds from around the world. His breakthrough using wet wire connectivity allowed computer hardware to be integrated with brain synapses.

His chief claim to fame had been the development of the M Zone product line. By means of a cerebral probe a person could locate and re-experience memories. Busby verified, in his early research, that each memory is contained in a tiny shell or room within the brain, draped in such a manner as to both reveal and conceal it. When properly stimulated, the full and complete memory is revived and re-experienced.

Connections between man and technology were nothing new. The twentieth century saw the development of pacemakers, cochlear implants, pain relief modules and other forms of embedded electronics. Implantation of chips inside the heads of paraplegics to interpret brain signals and silicon retinal implants to recover sight were ancient history now.

Utilizing the M Zone Activator (MZA) one could safely locate, experience and re-experience the best times of one's life. Once approved by the FDA and BGS the patented MZA took the world by storm. At first it was presented as a means to comfort people in their twilight years. Before long Busby's marketing team exploited the general consumer markets with ads like, "Relive the Best Times of Your Life!" and "Can Memory Be More Real Than Reality? Try It & See" and "Deja View? Yes, You May!"

After its much ballyhooed market introduction the safety of the product had never been questioned. Testing showed that memory could be re-played endlessly without being damaged. Or so Busby had been told. Richard Busby never realized that Dr. Frey had not allowed his staff to present contrary findings. It was only a matter of time before inklings of a terrible truth began to emerge. The tech support hotline began receiving complaints from people who had trouble finding and dialing in their favorite memories. Tech support staff insisted that the product was not being used properly. The problems were being designated user error. That the MZA was slowly and imperceptibly depleting the contents of each memory until it was used up seemed inconceivable.

When Busby learned of the increasing number of complaints he requested new studies. The truth had not been discovered in part because memories are like a gas which expands to fill the space available within a container. While being depleted the gas thins but is still present. Likewise a nearly depleted memory can be re-lived in full force. Holographic in nature, one atom of a memory contains the whole. But when that last atom has been tapped, there is only a void and nothingness. A blank. An empty shell.

With horror Richard Busby understood what the MZA was doing. With an M Zone Activator in nearly every home in the civilized world his invention was erasing the best memories in human history. Everyone who had purchased his product will eventually erase all of their good memories, memories designed to comfort us in our old age when memory is all that we have.

Formerly heralded as a hero, he now realizes that he has unwittingly been worse than a fiend. His face is pale as he turns away from Dr. Frey and stares at the wall, then closes his eyes.

When he opens them again he is seated in a plush cushioned chair at his cabin on Lake Tweed. He glances down at the MZA which which is connected to his cerebrum via the electronic probe. On a notepad he is making hash marks, four downstrokes and a diagonal, four downstrokes and a diagonal. He counts 194 strokes. "Only 306 to go," he mutters to himself. "If I'm lucky."

He leans forward once more, double checks the settings and pushes the button.

The revelation came suddenly. Like an "Aha!"... only it was an "Oh no!"

Richard Busby slumped into his chair, leaned his head back and stared off into space, attempting to make himself deaf to what he was hearing. "This is verified?" he asked, referring to the data in a report that had fallen from his hand.