He was thinking about an earlier time, "when the biggest fear was the Commies and polio." He was thinking about a rising economy and a youthful music genre known as rock and roll.
And he put it all into writing for his contribution to an ongoing story that was worked on during the third annual Ramble Music and Arts Festival. Titled Ramble On ... A Story of Our Town, it was a work-in-progress begun by city native and author Steve Huff.
Houseknecht was one of nearly two dozen locals who shared their own versions of living and traveling through Batavia and the Genesee County area.
But it's not about being here or there, Houseknecht said.
"It's not about where you are, it's what you do with where you are," he said while downtown at Ramble. "It all boils down to right here, right now."
As of "right now," the 51-year-old described himself as a father and a media department staffer at the state School for the Blind. A Ramble participant, he's also a musician -- on guitar and harmonica -- from days past and present.
Huff's writing assignment, which started people on a taxi ride through Genesee County, took Houseknecht down a road of mostly good memories.
"Of course we have good memories," he said. "There are some bad, but, hopefully, the good overshadows the bad."
Craig Yunker, who submitted two entries, couldn't help but check back in after a few hours at the Ramble. He wanted to take a peek at how the story was unfolding.
As each person wrote a line or paragraph, that was the only line to be viewed by the next writer. Yunker didn't know how the person after him would complement his first entry. It was the memory of an old woman, a black migrant worker, who worked on Yunker's farm in Elba. He recalled how she sat at a piece of equipment, with a cigarette in her mouth, working.
The description seemed poetic: "... That July night has to become an historical moment in time. She dangled the self-rolled cigarette from the right side of her mouth but squinted her left eye."
"Creative writing is a fun thing," Yunker said.
As each person stepped up to the table -- set up just outside of Jackson Square -- organizers Patty Hawley and Kirby Moore kept their fingers crossed. After all, while they weren't really expecting the next Grapes of Wrath, they were hoping for a decent Batavia epic.
"It's better than what we expected," Hawley said. "People seem to be picking up on the theme; they do seem to be understanding the process."
Not that this is a first of its kind, she said. Other areas have done similar finish-the-tale type projects. But this was a first locally. And the public seemed to embrace the idea, she said.
For Tom Hunt, the task brought back memories of "the simple pleasures of living in a small city."
Hunt, 62, grew up in a home behind Batavia Middle School. He experienced summers filled with a youthful energy that made playing baseball and tag in the school's athletic field commonplace.
Flying kites, he said, "was the order of the day in spring."
"Things were a lot simpler and cheaper," he said.
Hawley and Moore stayed beyond the 4 p.m. shut-off time to allow as many people as possible an opportunity to add something. They thought they were set with the finale to the tale until a Ramble fixture -- Michael Murray -- added his thoughts.
Murray, a member of the Ramble "Posse" with Bill McDonald and Bill Pitcher, helped get the event off the ground three years ago. He's been an interested and involved party ever since.
He thought of the Ramble event: A 10-hour festival of live groups and arts events.
Those musicians who once were scattered to all parts of the country, found the Ramble, he said, "to meet and renew old friendships in the place they first met."
Hawley thinks that perhaps that ending will kick off next year's tale.
And now, Ramble On ... A Story of Our Town. Huff began ...
I was a night taxi driver in Batavia. I drove people home from bars, drove farm workers from the bus station to the fields. The elderly to bingo. Others to the racetrack. It was thirty years ago, but it's a long, clear memory. A city only pretends to sleep; actually it's always got the slit of one eye open because it's shook up from love and heartbreak, always hoping to holler an immortal "Bingo." Taxi drivers are ghosts in that they are not part of things but they see everything. That is why so many of my stories and poems are set in Batavia. Sometimes I've given the city a different name in a story, but it's still Batavia.
And everyone else continued ...
But what else is a taxi for if not to deliver people to their dreams? What were your dreams in Batavia? What are your dreams for Batavia?
If only Batavia had a zoo ... it can feel like a zoo, especially if you go in to the Super Wal-Mart! Is it really necessary to have a nail salon where you buy groceries?
Fortunately, Batavia still has its share of small town local businesses. The mega-box stores have quantity, but not the character and charm elsewhere.
There's something to be said for going from store to store visiting friends and neighbors as well as picking up what you need.
There will be Super Wal-Mart's with a concert hall in them before you know it!
Music has always had strong roots in Batavia. I love and paint jazz and when I hear it I think of color. One of my favorite quotes from the great jazz drummer, Art Blakey, says it all: "Jazz washes away the dust of everyday life."
And life in Batavia certainly can get dusty. We all carry the dust of generations that came before us.
And as a taxi driver, you learn how dirty the dust of your backseat driver can be!
After six-plus decades, I've never ridden in a Batavia taxi, but I've seen the dust and dirt of backseat drivers; often covering the whole city. But always those come whom clean up the dust and add their own new shine to our city.
And what a shiny city it was! What a shiny city it can be!
Available at anytime to transport city folk from homes to businesses and back. There were years when groceries and clothing were downtown. Recently, taxi trips are to the outlying mini-plazas to the east and west of the city proper. The narrower main thoroughfare with diagonal parking gave way to more lanes and a flowered meridian. The mall hovers over downtown quietly observing the passing traffic. Oh, and another late-night fare. It's better to call for a ride than attempt to drive home sometimes.
I think back a mere 45 years ago, when 6 years old, big fluffy soft flakes drifted down the Main Street center. Big fat black and white city buses headed east and west regularly, passing stores with bright Christmas lights and carols playing on the streets. There's the Singer Sewing Machine Shop, Knox's Shoes, Kustas' Soda Fountain, Mooney's Grill and Mancuso's Cadillac showroom. And whizzing by on a bicycle with fat tires is Wolfman.
Not the beast or mystical horror creature you're used to hearing about. This was the old homeless guy that local kids' parents warned them to stay away from. He was rough around the edges and didn't have a friend in the world, but that was all about to change one fateful Fourth of July night.
"Little Bit" was his first female for a long, long, time. That July night has to become an historical moment in time. She dangled the self-rolled cigarette from the right side of her mouth but squinted her left eye.
Many summers were spent at the sandwash -- camping, swimming, writing songs, playing music with friends. What a wonderful time it was till we got run out by the police. We always went back. Many songs I wrote are about my hometown, which I love, Batavia.
Growing up on a small dead-end street behind the Ross Street Middle School, summers were filled with playing baseball and tag in the athletic field next to the school. Kite flying was the order of the day in the spring. As I grew older, we used to fly U-Construct model airplanes in the parking lot. Things were a lot simpler and cheaper.
Everybody knew everybody. Everybody trusted everybody. A simpler time. A safer time. A warmer time. Oh, to go back again!
Back again to 1955 ... when the biggest fear was the Commies and polio. The economy was on the rise and predators weren't yet lurking behind every tree and street sign. 1955 ... and rock and roll was a newborn.
He was only 5, but already a restless soul. He was to become one of the "new generation." an admirer of the "lost generation." Woodstock was his coming-out -- his entrance to the '60s, the next beatniks.
But the lost generation was still lost. Lost but wandering around the same county, where "everybody knows your name" and family heritage meant something. So, he found something in the history and the music of the Genesee.
And the musicians who were scattered to all parts of the country found the Ramble. A time and place to meet and renew old friendships in the place they first met.