APRIL 21, 2024 – Replacing the Tobins were the Joslyns—Warren, the dad, a realtor and jazz trombone player; Audrey, the mom, who was always well attired and perfectly even-keeled and had some part-time job outside the home, and the four boys: Mark, in Nina’s class; Dave, two years ahead of me; Jim, two years behind me; and Tommy, two years behind Jim. The younger three kids and I were as thick as thieves. Because Bobby Snyder lived next door, he was often included, as were Casey Ward and Tom Coleman, farther down the street, but by their numbers—three boys from the same family—and the size of their house, the Joslyns formed the center of my Rice Street universe.
Almost every day after school we wound up in the spacious game room over the double car garage that was attached to the back end of the sprawling, three-story (if you included the stand-up attic) house. Our favorite activities were pool, endless rounds of the Milton Bradley Civil War game, Battle-Cry, and general rough-housing, when occasionally something got broken, though miraculously it was never anyone’s bones.
The same could not be said of Mark Joslyn, however. Being quite a bit older than the rest of us, he was rarely around, though when he did decide to make an appearance, he was nice enough to acknowledge us with a “Hi, guys!”
One day the Joslyn Trio appeared at our house, all excited to inform me that Mark had just bought a brand-new Bridgestone motorcycle. The four of us then dashed down to their house to have a look. Mark was with his new toy at the back of the driveway, and though I thought it looked perfectly shiny as it was, Mark was working a clean towel over it vigorously. Upon seeing us he offered us rides up and down the long driveway.
I remember distinctly the premonition I had while watching Mark ride away alone: a mishap was in his future.
Late one Saturday morning, weeks or months later—I’m not sure—Dave Joslyn and I were taking turns with my archery bow shooting my quiver of arrows at a target set up in our backyard. Suddenly, Jim Joslyn appeared, running and shouting “Dave, Dave! Mark’s been in an accident with his motorcycle. You’re supposed to come home right away!”
I recalled my premonition instantly and shuddered. As we would soon learn, Mark had been struck by a vehicle driven by a woman who’d blown a stop sign. His leg was broken, as was the motorcycle. For a few weeks Mark hobbled around on crutches, his leg in a cast. The incident had a profound effect on me, and ever since, I’ve sworn off riding a motorcycle.
I got to watch a fair amount of TV at Joslyns, especially when it was raining outside and we’d grown bored with our usual games inside. Once during a commercial, I remember, Dave and I simultaneously happened to lean over on opposite sides of a small setup of books next to where we were sitting on the floor. It was one of those jerry-rigged arrangements of two short boards held up by bricks at either end. No more than a couple dozen books sat on the makeshift shelves. As far as I’d observed in all my extensive wanderings throughout the house, this small stash of books was the extent of the Joslyn’s family library.
I was taken aback when Dave said, “That’s quite a lot of books for a house, don’t you think?” Clearly, I thought, he hadn’t spent enough time inside our house, the main reason being that all the fun stuff was down at his house. I didn’t make a big deal of his remark except to say, “It’s really nothing, Dave. You should see our house.”
He grunted neutral acknowledgment of my statement, as the TV show we’d been watching resumed after the commercial break.
Dave was otherwise curious, however, and if he wasn’t known for being a scholar particularly, he was consistently sharp and inquisitive; the kind of kid you could engage in serious conversation about one thing or another, in which talks he’d invest considerable thought. One time he and I were just killing time, sitting on the brick retaining wall that ran along the sidewalk in front of his house, when a mosquito decided to bother Dave. After finally smacking the bug, he asked almost contemplatively, “What possible good is a mosquito?”
I attempted to answer, though I hadn’t yet been introduced to the food chain workings of biology. “Maybe,” I said, ignorantly, “they keep certain other animals out of places such as swamps.” I was thinking of mosquitoes up at the lake and how concentrations of them seemed to gather around swampy areas—places where we rarely went for that very reason: too many mosquitoes. “People, for example,” I said, based on firsthand experience. “And deer,” I added, in ignorant speculation.
“Yeah, maybe,” said Dave. “But still . . .” He hadn’t heard of the food chain either.
During the summer of ’68, I got Dave interested in talking politics, and it seemed that on that topic we were considerably better schooled than we were in biology. Perhaps it was because our parents often talked politics at home.
I didn’t have much interaction with Mr. Joslyn. He drove a late model blue Bonneville coupe, smoked, and always wore a suit. He was a Republican but wasn’t happy with Nixon’s choice of Spiro Agnew as a running mate. My oldest sister was working a summer job in Dad’s office that summer of ’68 and overheard a joke that Mr. Joslyn told someone in the lobby . . .
“Knock, knock,” he said.
“Who’s there?” said the willing listener.
“I knew.”
“I knew who?”
“Agnew they’d choose someone we’d never heard of.”
My sister, at least, thought it was clever enough to bear repeating.
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
