COMMENTARY A way to say “thank you” in the Key of D

I didn’t set out to be a songwriter or poet. That just happened by circumstance, under the influence of others who gave me gifts of words and how to use them and, later, the gift of music, through the cutting-edge technology of the time, a radio that was taller than me. An imagination, sense of humor, curiosity, and the motivation to observe and relate stories are also among the first gifts deserving of my thanks. This book is a return gift that I am now unleashing on unsuspecting family and friends. So, I give to you “Paper Plates”; the title chosen in reference to my tendency to snatch up anything with enough clear space to write on. The main meat of the book is a collection of 119 song lyrics, the first written when I was 15 and desperately in love, and the last before the turn of this year. It spans the years 1957 to 2022 and includes only songs for which I am totally responsible for the lyrics; some fact, some fiction, some from sources that I cannot identify as to person or place. Even those I can’t pin down leave me thinking, “thanks for that.”

In addition to the collection of lyrics, the book begins with a brief introduction that attempts to trace the influences and the steps I followed to get from a toddler turning the dial on that old console radio, looking for music that made me bounce, to the 80-year-old that is blessed to still be able to write and record songs with people I love. I guess some would call it a short memoir based on recollections that are, at best these days, fuzzy with respect to whether I lived them or made them up. It is not an autobiography. Once you wade through the history section and my usual clowning, what you will find between the covers of

“Paper Plates” is a pretty good “bathroom book”. It’s designed to be taken in small doses and actually works in any room you’d like to read it in.

I bet some of you are wondering what the key of D has to do with my ramblings. In part, it is a private joke told by many of my musician friends who know that when left on my own, and if I am writing it to play myself, chances are it is in the key of D with some chords I can’t truly name. Over the ongoing years of learning to be what I’m learning to be, I have decided that music is a team sport, and even though the words in the selected songs are mine alone, all were made richer by

See JIM “Poppy” BOYD page 20

Footrubs and a NYC apartment for $30 month, those were some fine times

operations in the New York area. And. New York City was quite affordable.

BILL BOURIS

digi@mindspring.com

Most people have no idea of the benefits and pleasures of a foot-rub. If you have a friend, especially a partner, then everything positive about the experience is multiplied, especially the strength of its memory. As a matter of fact, the first time, which happened back around 1958, is a solid memory, probably because I’ve recalled it many times.

I was 23 years old and had recently started the first job of my career with computers. At that time there were just two known computer

For instance, I had just signed a lease for two side-by-side apartments, old, built in the 1860s, that I would soon join as one. The combined rent was $30/month. My commuter railroad ticket, from Grand Central Station to where I worked, in White Plains, a suburb 30 miles away, cost about $25/month. I was a student-member of the Museum of Modern Art, which I’d visit about twice a week and meet my friend and former college classmate, Gene, for coffee in the museum restaurant, and a stroll through the galleries and garden: cost, $15/year. I was within 10 minutes’ walk from Central Park, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the wonderful Frick Museum, and the Guggenheim! I even had former classmates doing their residencies at New York Hospital. So, my personal healthcare was just a three minute stroll away. No wonder $80/week felt like good money.

From that perspective, I could never have guessed that I was missing something. I was young and healthy, enjoying things like the daily physical experience of knocking down the wall that was between my two apartments, remodeling, and then leaving that mess to go to work. In every way I felt it was a full life, materially, spiritually, socially, you name it. So, you can understand when I say, I could never have guessed that I was missing something. This is how I learned of what was missing.

One Friday night, I’d taken my girlfriend to Grand Central, for her to get a train to Boston, where the her graduate school was located. This was a sort of farewell. We’d had our party and some drinking. When I got back to my place, I did more drinking and soon flopped down on my bed feeling a bit sorry for myself.

Suddenly, my good friend Gene and his soon-to-be wife arrived, so that we could go to dinner and see a movie. I’d forgotten all about that, and when Gene saw my condition, he