Anytime our somewhat pedestrian lives are favored by a brush with celebrity, the ensuing improvised exchange is not at all what we may have hoped for.

Last Tuesday, an obituary ran which brought me pangs of grief, but also awakened fond memories of the amazingly talented folksinger and gentle soul who was Richie Havens, best known as the first performer to take the stage at Woodstock.

I was lucky enough to brush elbows with Richie a number of times over the years through our mutual love of the legendary Club 47 in Cambridge during the '60s. I had intended to relate an incident which involved Richie and has taken on bittersweet overtones, both through the perspective of passing years and the departure of most of the principals.

However, as often happens, while on my way to writing that story, another one which is somewhat related got in the way, so today I'll share that one and hope to get to Richie very soon.

From the moment I heard the first notes of Jim Kweskin and the Jug Band ripping into "Overseas Stomp" in the early fall of '65, I was hooked so badly that I formed my own jug band, then later built a second one when my first musicians went to college or in the service. The first was mainly just five buddies kicking around, but I carefully chose some truly gifted musicians with the later group, determined that we would reproduce the magic that I heard from Kweskin's music.

We had sat not 30 feet from the stage at the Club 47 more than half a dozen times when Kweskin played, and every one of his albums were in my LP collection. By 1968, Jim, his sizable band and larger extended family were living communally in an old mansion on Mission Hill. His talented and multi-creative blues harpist Mel Lyman was the inspiration and head writer for his spiritually satirical underground newspaper, "The Avatar." Nearly everyone in the house contributed to this effort and sales were realized mostly by street hawkers.

One bright, sunny morning the guitar pickers in my second jug/blues band (a fantastic pair who were neighbors and best friends and had been learning and playing guitar together since the age of 6 or 7!), the extremely talented duo of Pete Kaczowcka and the late Cliff Bonna, swung by the house and invited me to join them on a trip into Boston so that each of them might "field-test" and purchase new amplifiers at Wurlitzer.

I dutifully sat in the sound booth with them as they ran through 100 little mini-jams and talked volumes of guitar "techno-speak," but the beautiful day kept calling me, so I excused myself to walk and gawk the neighboring streets. I aimlessly meandered and window shopped - I believe I was on Boylston Street when I chanced to almost walk into some guy with a thick head of curly black hair sporting black shades, and he was selling "The Avatar." Now, I always bought one whenever I could, finding it cleverly written in a slightly irreverent vein.

Leaving my house in a hurry that morning, I had thrown on a clean pair of Wranglers plucked from the backyard clothesline (ask your grandparents, kids), then grabbed a few handfuls of change from the candy dish atop my bureau which I dropped in my pockets. I noticed the just-washed bluejeans were pretty tight, so as I started my walk, I was hoping they may stretch out a bit for comfort.

Well now, the fella with the canvas bag of "Avatars" and I just stood facing one another and making eye contact (at least I think we did, but we both wore sunglasses against the sun's glare. Our ensuing exchange went like this:

HIM: "Avatar, brother?"

ME: "Huh- Whuh? Oh, oh yeah, Avatar, right, right - sure, I'll take one..."

At that point I held my garrison belt with my left hand very tightly in order that I might wrestle my right hand into the terribly snug constraints of my right hip pocket; now it was a bit of a difficult go, and was taking considerable time and effort. Even hopping about the sidewalk brought me no success, and I sensed that the patience of the vendor seemed to be shifting from wry amusement towards the annoyance range, so I plunged my hand deeply into the pocket, closed my fist tightly around the money, and savagely withdrew it, turning the pocket inside-out as I did so, and the variance of the tones from the variably sized silver coins dancing,jingling and jangling about the sidewalk and gutter provoked from me a burst of laughter, as the title "Silly Symphonies" jumped across my mind.

The pair of us, hands on hips, eyes on the astounding number of coins at our feet, and this sparked yet another palaver:

HIM: "Hey, man, You're droppin' all your change!" (I was beginning to think that maybe this guy sprinkled the same topping on his cornflakes that I did...)

ME: (sagely, with the wisdom of the ages) "Yeah..."

Then we got down on hands and knees, removing our shades as we did, so I they wouldn't fall from our faces, and began collecting the coins.

Einstein proved that eventually, two dumbbells crawling on all fours will bump heads, despite the size of the area they are in, and we just barely averted the same fate, each flinching backwards before lifting our heads and exchanging broad grins. At that point, I jumped to my feet and pointed, blurting "Whoa, man! You're Jim Kweskin!"

HIM: (with mutual sagacity) "Yeah, man, I know..."

ME (gushing shamelessly now) "Wow! Hey! I absolutely love your stuff so much - got every album and caught you at the 47 a dozen times! Listen to this - you inspired me to form my own jug band, man; a couple of the guys are runnin' through amps at Wurlitzer this very minute - Dig it!"

Now apparently, slicing off my van Gogh ear and opening my carotid to my very inner soul failed to inflame the "Jug band soul brother" fire in Kweskin to match my own - he never even taught me the handshake, but only responded with a simple nod, whispered "Cool.." and returned to the task at hand.

A moment later we both straightened and Kweskin returned my change to me, I shot back a JFK half for the paper, then thought quickly and slipped him another half-dollar and two quarters, responding to his quizzical look with "For your time and trouble, friend." He snapped me a quick salute, said thanks, and after taking a few steps, over his shoulder he was nice enough to leave "And best of luck with your band, brother" hanging on the midday air of the Boston street...

I double-timed it back to Wurlitzer to alert Cliff and Pete, but despite a rapid return to that same corner of Boylston Street, Jim Kweskin could not be found. We made a reasonable search of surrounding streets, but of course, as I came to learn early in life, our meeting had only been what it was - a simple twist of fate which lasted only a moment, and then, no more, and in the passing years,even the innocence and halting awkwardness is cherished within memory's pages.

Please be kind to one another out there, and try to do a good turn daily - each and every face you pass masks some inner turmoils with which they suffer, so please try to be compassionate. Remember the less fortunate among us, the hungry and the homeless. Their troubles do not improve with the weather, only their priorities for survival vary. Peace...

TOM McAVOY of Attleboro is a community columnist.