The World . . .

. . . was my oyster . . .

. . . as full of wonder and joy; as carefree; as full of potential but more importantly, full of fun. With a bicycle practically a permanent part of my anatomy, the neighborhood provided (what seemed like) endless miles to explore, numerous friends with whom many adventures were undertaken. Safe, secure, content and not a care in the world. . . except for possibly 'in which direction do I ride today?' One day, with some friends (who sometimes possessed less-than-noble motives), my bike and I ventured to the property of a nearby box-manufacturing facility. In the yard of the property, which was not secured by fence, wall or canine representatives, were stored rolls of paper (a necessary component of cardboard boxes) of all sizes and weights. For some reason which does not readily or otherwise come to mind mind now, we dismounted our vehicles and came in personal contact to a relatively small roll which was probably about four and a half feet tall, not very big in diameter, yet quite heavy; a fact which I was later to discover first-hand.  Our close contact with the object eventually involved changing its position from vertical to horizontal. As we proceeded in our endeavor, the roll of paper somehow managed to attain its horizontal orientation upon the tip of the big toe on my right foot. Upon my return home and my walk through the living room where my parents were watching their evening television, I resorted to limping somewhat to relieve the pain of the injury I had sustained. When questioned about my unusual method of walking, I assured Mom and Dad that nothing was wrong.  This for two reasons:  1. I was hoping the injury was minor and would not require any significant attention;  2. House rules said that my wanderings were to be confined to our neighborhood and I was NOT to cross the major thoroughfare to where the box company was located. Eventually I 'fessed-up.'  The nail of my big toe on the injured foot was severely bruised (nothing broken, thank goodness). It eventually fell off being replaced by a brand new one.

My Oyster
©2017 Raymond M. Jozwiak

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Grass. . .

 

. . . growing two feet high
Casting awful shadows
Bicycles, cupboards all awry
Pieces of linoleum pie flash by

His family had nothing to say
So embarrassed
Helpless too
What makes a man turn out this way
Can he change or is this how he'll stay

There's just no talking to the junk man
There's just no talking to the junk man
With shelves and pottery stacked to the sky
He won the lottery back in 05
Now he's a millionaire
But he can't find anything
In all the junk

The neighbors don't know what to do
They've got visions of a jungle
No one thought they'd see the neighborhood
In this state
You know this can't be good

There's just no talking to the junk man
There's just no talking to the junk man
With shelves and pottery stacked to the sky
He won the lottery back in 05
Now he's a millionaire
But he can't find anything
In all the junk

The Junkman
©2009 Raymond M. Jozwiak

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The roar of the crowd. . .

My friend Joe, he of the red American flyer 26-inch bicycle (it was more an extension of his being than a mere bicycle) and I played electric guitar and accordion arrangements of songs by Peter, Paul and Mary, Buck Owens, Buddy Holly (yes, Buddy Holly's music was in there too), and a number of other 'fake book' songs. Our repertoire included Pack Up Your Sorrows, The King of Names, On a Desert Island, I'm In Love With A Big Blue Frog, Sam's Place, Buckaroo, Tall Dark Stranger, Love's Gonna Live Here, My Heart Skips a Beat, I've Got A Tiger By The Tail, Black Texas Dirt, Baby Elephant Walk, Tijuana Taxi, Spanish Flea, Third Man Theme, Zorba The Greek, Solitary Man and Love Is Strange.

We even entered a 'talent show', which I don't recall was actually a competition or simply a variety show, organized by our local Catholic church, to which we both belonged by benefit of our families. And since I don't remember that, I certainly don't remember whether or not we won anything. But it didn't matter. We got to play the music we loved in front of an appreciative crowd. It doesn't get any better than that.


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Way. . .

. . . Way before I discovered the joys of jazz/rock fusion, my musical tastes took a turn that was probably pretty natural considering that the accordion pretty much started it all. My friend Joe - he of the red American Flyer and the hill at the elementary school in my neighborhood where we would sit (yes, on our bicycles) and discuss everything from soup to nuts and solve the problems of the world. . . well, at least our little world - had pretty eclectic tastes and what just the kind of personality I needed to gravitate toward at that time in my life. One of those tastes that rubbed off onto me was for a folk trio who had already been making music successfully for a number of years and of whom I knew some (Puff the Magic Dragon was a childhood anthem), Peter, Paul and Mary. And as is the case with much music that I loved in my early days, I couldn't then explain to you what attracted me to it, although now you would be sorry if you asked me to explain, I was enthralled by the simplicity, the intertwining harmonies and the contrast of the three voices when Peter, Paul and Mary performed.




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