Well, of course I went to the concert - first, to check out Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan, and next, their effect on us. Like everybody there, I had a great time.

The predictors of strife must feel a bit sheepish now. Not a bit of trouble before, during, or after the concert. Much credit for the success goes to Polly Renckens and the scores of volunteers who steered the 12,000 fans and sold them refreshments.

But credit must also go to the concert-goers. No streakers among them, no doddering hippies hoping to re-live Woodstock at Doubleday Field. Though there were some zany costumes, this was basically a State Fair kind of crowd - big, boisterous, but full of good will. Lots of little kids in the mix, and a big corps of gray-headed folk who'd followed Willie and Bob since the stars' twenties and their own. And, I noted, a great many locals.

And what a setting! I hope Ed Johnson, our Fly Creek folk artist laureate, was seated high in the stands to capture the scene as night fell: Lighted stage built over the bleachers beyond second base. In front of it, the whole outfield packed with happy fans, shoulder to shoulder, waving arms overhead in time to the music. The walkways in front of both the open and covered rows full of sauntering folk heading for their seats or the concession stands.

And the scene's dead center, steadily more beautiful as the daylight faded, the Doubleday ball diamond, safe inside snow fencing, its grass emerald green and its base paths glowing like orange coral.

A security guard, out just beyond the pitcher's mound, had the best seat of all. He lounged out there in an open four-wheeler, ready to jump off if anyone tried to violate the diamond's sacred space. Not a soul did.

Anne and I were settled halfway up the tiers above third base with good friends Mamie and Dennis Golladay. (Mamie is president of Sullivan County Community College, and her husband heads Cayuga C.C., up in Auburn.) Dennis is a soft-spoken Virginian with a doctorate in history. But he grew up on rock and roll and played in a band himself. At times when Dylan was playing, the Dennis looked close to ecstasy.

I mentioned costuming; it was varied and delightful. This was mostly a sweat-shirt-and-denims, slacks-and-old-sweater crowd; but scattered through it were grizzled gents my age topped by slouch hats sprouting turkey feathers. I saw a few tie-dyed shirts, even love beads. (Dylan backers, I imagine.) On the walkway below us, two couples met with whoops and theatrical hugs.

All four looked right off the range, in long, caped dusters of waxed canvas and matching ten-gallon hats. (Willie fans, no doubt.) And a tall, middle-aged woman in a black pants suit stood by the snow fence with a full-length mink coat draped on her shoulders. (Not sure whose fan she was.)

Now, about the music. Willie, at seventy, still has his voice and used it well to lay a whole set of oldies on us. After a rousing "Whiskey River," came "Crazy" and "Mama, Don't let Your Boys Grow up to be Cowboys" and (of course) "On the Road Again." A real pro, Willie didn't pad the program with banter. He was there to play and sing, and that's what he did, despite carpal tunnel troubles that made him lean a bit on his son as back-up guitarist.

A long intermission gave us time to enjoy folks in the bleachers and to watch the milling crowd below. Anne struck up immediate friendships with gray-haired ladies just behind her and to her left; they traded favorite songs and concert memories at length. I sniffed the air for some faint wisp of weed, but not a hint of it, at least around us.

There were cigarette smokers in the rows below us, and I noted they were all practicing a new bleacher etiquette. When they exhaled, they tipped heads back and, like breaching whales, blew a gray plume straight up. It was a gesture, at least. But, if I didn't catch a whiff of marijuana, it was still on the scene, being used with great tact. A gray-haired matron returned from the phalanx of thirty port-a-pots to roll her eyes and tell her friend, "I think I'll go back in that one again - it's full of good smoke!"

My best entertainment during the break was a t-shirted, balding old dude whose khakis rode low under an enormous paunch. He was feeling no pain and capered below us on the walkway like a rodeo clown.

With a weathered, wonderfully expressive face, this man seemed to view us hundreds as a single person, a confidante. No words from him, just gestures and expressions. He'd hook a thumb back toward the stage and light up with joy. Then he'd glance down at his pot, hunch shoulders, and grimace with mock despair. "My past, my present," he seemed to say - and then shrugged both off in a shuffling dance. That great belly danced with him like a partner, swaying as he moved left and right. I watched him disappear into the crowd, still dancing.

Then came Dylan. I hardly understood a word he sang; but, then, Bob's never been known for clipped diction. His voice, always harsh, is now a reptile rasp. But this man is the greatest poet/lyricist that American music has produced - and Dennis Golladay seems to know every one of Bob's lyrics by heart. Better yet, the entranced Dennis was mouthing the words with him. And so, between listening to Bob and lip-reading Dennis, I followed things pretty well.

The trick, I think, is not to judge Bob's voice as a voice. It's better thought of as a reed instrument, a harsh woodwind that carries the melody. Thus accepted, the voice is expressive, ageless. Forever young.

With a lot of the bleacher crowd, we thought Bob was done when the stage went dark. The four of us were down on the walkway, being swept along toward the gates, when up came the lights and music recommenced. Two encores and thunderous applause accompanied us up Main Street and onto Chestnut, towards the lake. Halfway down that block, another song began, and Dennis froze.

"It's 'Watchtower!'" he said and turned to face back toward the ballpark. So did we. And so did everyone else along the block. The anthem's rich images echoed through the darkened streets. Dennis sang along. I think everybody did.

Jim Atwell lives and and views life from Fly Creek.