Tracy Johnson is a freelance writer who lives in Alabama. This is her first book. She compiled and edited these pieces over a period of two years.

It was on a rainy day in October, 1983, at the awkward age of 16, when I realized that Bob Dylan’s words and music were fated to drastically alter my life.

I grew up with a military father and a family life that bore a striking resemblance to the film, The Great Santini. My folks couldn’t have been more mismatched: a domineering and strict Air Force father and an artistic, dreamily emotional mother. Then again, their decision to tie the knot was like something out of a fiction novel anyway, having first encountered one another on the street back in 1962 and saying their “I do’s” only six days later. It was the ’60s, after all.

From the time I was a freewheelin’ little cutie in pigtails, my father let me know that I had my place, which was in “the box.” I was too fearful of evoking his militant wrath to ever seriously entertain the notion of crawling out of this box custom-made just for me. Common sense restricted my defiant nature, but my soul was never fooled; it was running around in panicked circles, pleading with me to speak out and bust loose from my emotional prison. For countless hours, I’d lie on my bed, fantasizing over words of dignity I’d love to have roll from my tongue in protest of everything my Air Force father and his black-and-white world stood for.

Of course, being so young and so obedient, these thoughts remained strictly fantasies. That is, until that chilly October day when my mother arrived home toting Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits under her arm. “I bought this for you, sweets.” she said, which elicited a sneering, “Yeah, right.” I figured anything she would be into couldn’t possibly relate to me in even the remotest sense. “You’re going to hear this. Got me?” she replied with an edge in her voice. In a half-hearted attempt to humor her and get her off my back, I took my place on the couch and rolled my eyes as she gingerly placed the needle on the vinyl.

Minutes into first hearing Bob’s voice, I was certain my initial instincts about his music were right on target. Still, something about it stayed with me. Later that night, I crept out of bed to make a date with our den’s stereo to hear those songs again...and again...and again. By the end of the week, I knew every word to every track on the record. Never before had anyone presented me with such freedom and vision. That magnificent strength and attitude woven throughout his lyrics gave me hope for an individuality I’d never thought possible in the confines of my tight little box. Finally, finally, I had found a voice to articulate my yearnings, my resentment, and my vulnerability.

Seven years later, in September 1990, the day arrived when I was graced with the opportunity to attend one of his shows. I remember the drive up to Birmingham, Alabama, with my best buddy, whom I had converted to Dylanism several months earlier. Highway 61 Revisited and assorted other Dylan masterpieces screamed out of the cassette player of his beat-up Sunbird. It was a magical evening, and I was Cinderella on my way to the ball. Hours later, I was perched out under the stars, the autumn breeze blowing across my face and sifting through my hair, listening as intently as a child to Bobby (with only his acoustic guitar) crooning the traditional lullaby, “Barbara Allen.” His voice caressed each word like a graceful lover: “Young man, I think you’re dying.” I felt I, too, could die happily right then and there, as I savored every smirk and every nervous brush of those wild curls.

As the end of the show inevitably approached, and “Blowin’ in the Wind” was winding down, I dashed to the edge of the stage and stared up at him in utter disbelief. During the last two or three minutes, I could have sworn he was looking directly at me. After commanding myself not to faint, I eyeballed him back. For all of 15 seconds, those piercing, bright-blue eyes bore directly into mine until I could take this pseudo-intimacy jive no longer. Like some sort of rough-and-ready Annie Oakley, I hiked up my long peasant skirt and began to climb up past the barriers to plant a kiss on that “childish mouth,” as Joan Baez so beautifully described it. At that very moment, a brute of a security guard grabbed my hem, yanked me back down to reality, and growled, “Don’t even think about it, sister.”

Minutes later, Bobby Dylan strummed his last chord, flashed his last lightning-quick grin, softly spoke his last “Thanks ever’body,” and was gone. (“The Vanishing American,” as Bobby Neuwirth once quipped.) The overwhelming evening had drawn to a close. As other concert-goers filed out of the arena chatting, laughing, and arranging rides back home, I stood rooted in my grassy spot for what seemed like ages—hypnotized, speechless, and aching, really, for more of the conjurer’s magic.

On the way home, my buddy and I didn’t speak. No “Tombstone Blues” screaming out of the cassette player, no cheap conversational, “Wow, great show, huh?” Just a highway of diamonds with nobody on it, and a spiritual, sacred feeling swelling inside our souls we wanted to savor as long as possible. Later, when I mentioned this strange silence to him, he said, “I was too moved to speak. I was afraid if I did, it would have shattered the sounds inside my mind. Do you know what I mean?” Did I know what he meant? Was that some kind of joke?

Over the years of attending his concerts, I discovered I wasn’t the only one who had fantasies of making some sort of connection with Bob Dylan. Standing in line at shows, nearly every fan I encountered shared memories of having met him or dreams of doing so. And with every single tale at every single venue, I was enthralled by these conversations. I wondered if others might be, too. Thus came the idea for this book.

Bob, you’ve given so many of us voices. So many of us have received courage and dignity through your words. You’ve touched the lives of the gentle, the inarticulate, the guardians, the protectors of the mind, the aching, the wounded, the luckless, the abandoned, and the forsaken. Now, it’s time that we lifted up our voices to you, to give thanks for getting multitudes of us out of our boxes and into our own minds.