John Denver...

then and now

We have become those people who flee the Midwest for Florida when the leaves fall. Last night was a magnifier of this cliche. We rolled up to an outdoor concert-on-the-lawn in our golf cart, and settled in to check out the local volunteer talent. 

You know the saying, 'Dance like no one is watching'? Richard came up with a new version; ‘Sing like no one is listening.'

In between songs, Richard asked: do you have another column in mind? 

Me: Nah, I said. Nothing comes to me. I think I’ll take a break. I’m sending too many emails.

Richard: Why don't your write about John Denver? 

Me: Nah.

Just then, the lead singer came to the mic and said, "John Denver wrote this song...blah, blah, blah…it was the flip side of his more famous...."

Really. So how can I not? Here goes:

In 1969, John Denver came to Simpson College just south of Des Moines for an artist-in-residence program. Each night, he would perform to a group of between 10-35 kids lounging around on big pillows in the Student Center's alcove. Peter, Paul, and Mary were riding a wave of Top-10 popularity thanks to Denver's song, 'Leaving on a Jet Plane.' And that was this songwriter's ticket to college campus gigs. Otherwise, John Denver was like most guys carrying a guitar and playing bars when given a chance. He was 25, newly married, and I was an 18-year-old freshman with a boyfriend. 

John stayed on the first floor of our women's dorm, in a room outfitted for guests. It was slightly bigger than student's rooms but still had the same linoleum. We listened to tapes he had of Jacques Brel, a favorite of his. 

To have the experience of listening to a musician like John Denver sing, while sprawled just feet away, is an advantage a small school has over large universities. 

Certain music becomes a soundtrack of a life, and for me, Joni Mitchell's 'Marcie' was one anthem of my angst-filled youth. John played it every night. 

This column is not about unrequited love or a fling. Had the experience been anything more than what it was, I wouldn't write about it. But it was special. 

I wish I'd kept a journal and recorded what we talked about. We were both passionate about world peace, he loved his wife, and didn’t think my boyfriend was the right fit. 

I do remember what we did one day.

He needed a ride to do a television interview in Ames with local personality Betty Lou Varnum. As a member of the Student Senate, I got the job. 

My VW Bug wasn't reliable in the winter, so I borrowed my parents' roomier turquoise Buick for the two-hour round trip. 

I’m not sure if this was the make or model, but it sure looks like it could be. A Buick Skylark, 1966.

After the taping of the show, it was snowing when we headed out of town. We came upon a big hill where kids were sledding.

"Let's stop!" he said. We did, borrowed a sled and flew down the hill a couple of times. 

I then gave John a mini-tour of Des Moines and took him to a place I rarely shared. Tucked in the center of town, behind houses and an apartment building, was a magical garden known by a few of us youngsters. We made pilgrimages to this place with sketchbooks, pens, and ink. I took a guy there one day, but when he said it would make an excellent place for a kegger, I got him the hell out of there and never spoke to him again.

John was the first newbie I introduced to the place since that day. 

Even in the dead of winter, the magic was there. Maybe more so with the monochromatic landscape of black trees and white blanket. 

The snow was crunchy underfoot, and senses often became magnified in that place. After we roamed the hilly garden, John looked at the sky and said, "I'm coming back here someday."

We made one more stop on our way back to Indianola. An abandoned, weathered farmhouse had fascinated me, but it was John who suggested we stop and explore. He had a camera and took lots of pictures, some of me, but I never saw them. 

When we approached the car, he got in the back seat and unpacked his guitar. As I drove, he was plucking strings and experimenting with chords until he came up with what would be the refrain for ''Follow Me.' 

We had talked about how he loved being on the road but lamented that his wife, Annie, didn't come along. And so these lyrics took shape on old Highway 69 from northern Warren County to Indianola. 

Follow me where I go, what I do, who I know.

Make it part of you to be a part of me.

Follow me up and down,

All the way and all around,

Take my hand and say you'll follow me.

He talked about someday having a place in Colorado where we could all hang out together. 

After his time on campus, he wrote the song, 'Poems and Prayers and Promises,' and I'd like to think our time together was a strand in the song's overall fabric.  

I attended a Denver concert in the 1980s where I was a mere human speck in a sea of fans. I watched his career soar and falter, as did his personal life. It made me sad. I'd had a mere whiff of his life on the road before fame took over, and it didn't seem a fit for a healthy marriage.  

On October 12, 1997, I was in a downtown mall in Iowa City. A clerk started crying. I looked at her puzzled, and she said, "John Denver just died in a plane crash." He was alone. Flying an experimental plane. Dead on impact.

And, too, was any hope of reconnecting.

Fifty-two years have flown since we first met. 

From the John Denver Sanctuary in Aspen

It is 2021. Now, on the flip side of life's top hits, I sit in a golf cart in Florida and listen to another oldster sing a John Denver song. As retirees, we have a job-free calendar allowing us to think back on a life well-lived. 

For one week in 1969, John Denver was my friend. 

Poems, Prayers and Promises: