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242 61 Head Over Heels T wo months ago, when I sat down to begin writing, I was still full of selfdoubt . With so many versions of the truth afoot, who was I to decide which ones were valid? My own faded memories were evidence of this, elusive and incomplete, so many names and places lost. For instance, in trying to recreate that first night Depty and I spent together , certain images remained vivid: the little smokehouse behind the main house, the bed against the wall, a record player on a high wooden table. Yet I had no idea where we were exactly, on whose property in the county. One morning, as I puzzled how to write about it anyway, Glyn comes up to the quarters to say he’s just gotten a phone call from Dave. “You remember Dave?” he asks. “He lives in Ohio now. Used to play with Dep at the Mill.” “Dave?” I reply. “As in Dave and Gail? They had a band called Head Over Heels?” Glyn nods. “That’s right. They lived at the old Gilley Place. Dep crashed there some, I believe.” Memory swerves to consciousness. “Wait—did it have little shacks, little outbuildings?” Glyn thinks so, but I can ask Dave myself because he’s visiting in Carroll County and heard I was in town. He’s coming over this afternoon to say hello. Dave and I greet each other breathlessly. These days he is a white-mustached , smiling Gepetto, his enduring mild manner belying a midlife passion for amateur racecars. We play thirty-year catch-up. He and Gail are still head over heels, now the parents of two grown sons. In turn, I tell him something of my life, and what I’ve learned about Depty Dawg’s. Head Over Heels | 243 He shakes his head over his old friend’s death. “I loved performing with him,” Dave recalls. “We even talked of becoming a trio. But Dep was so selfdestructive , I couldn’t see how it would work.” He grins. “I do remember the joy between the two of you. Oh.” He digs into his pocket. “I have something for you.” Pulling out a small plastic bag, he says, “You gave this to him. I guess it got lost. We found it when we cleaned out the Gilley Place before it was sold.” I am amazed. “And you kept it all these years?” “You don’t throw away something like this.” Dave hands it to me. I turn the bag over in my fingers. The clear plastic reveals a tarnished ID bracelet with a broken chain. Samuel Rosen 32494930. On the back is the inscription: I Love You Always Jeannette. I’m at a loss for words. To be honest, I’d forgotten all about the bracelet, and yet here it was anyway, back in my hand. Some things will not let you forget them. No matter how hard you try to let them go, they insist on staying around. Hours later, Dave and I say good-bye, still off-balance from the tug of threads holding this moment in place. What am I to make of this ageless gift from old, faithful friends, saying as much about their hearts as ours? Or this message from my parents: We are in this story too. Or this reminder across the decades from Depty Dawg: Don’t ever doubt. ...

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