Years ago. as some of you may remember, I sent out a rather large Christmas letter that kept growing in length until it became more of a Christmas epistle. I then started publishing twice a year and it became a newsletter of sorts but mostly a forum for me to ramble on about anything that pleased me, and to get creative.
It being the Christmas season, here is a poem I assembled in my head back in 1992 about how commercial Christmas has become over the years and how the real meaning has become overshadowed with the emphasis on sales figures and the economy. It's more true today than ever.
Christmas Couplets - Just for You
When we think of holidays we all think of fun
And the favorite of most? Just ask anyone
One holiday stands out above all the rest
The biggest, most festive, the absolute best
The grandest of grand holidays of them all
Celebrated at home, at the church and the mall
And which holiday am I talking about?
Aw, yes, it is Christmas, of that there's no doubt
It's the season for giving and showing good cheer
For lavishing gifts on the ones we hold dear
For eating great meals and for drinking good wine
For having a joyous and wonderful time
A great time to gather with family and friends
For renewing old friendships and making amends
For laughing and loving and dancing and singing
For moonlit night sleigh rides and jingle bells ringing
Christmas, well known for its colorful glitter
Its bright shining lights and its gay festive litter
That adorns all our walls, all our ceilings and floors
And hangs from our rooftops and clutters the stores
The spirit of Christmas is found everywhere
The songs of the season adrift on the air
Glad tidings of joy and peace towards men
The music rings out in an amplified din
And nothing compares with a trip to the mall
For acquiring a relative feel for it all
So there I was - one of the last shopping nights
Caught up in the crowds, all the sounds and the sights
There were pictures of Santa and his sprightly elves
Rudolphs and Teddy Bears spilled from the shelves
Little dolls that can potty, can walk, talk and cry
Remote action race cars and space toys that fly
Every conceivable toy and confection
Was proudly displayed for the shoppers selection
But amidst all this cheerful and noisy commotion
My thoughts were distracted by a nagging emotion
Something was missing from this whole affair
And the spirit I should have felt just wasn't there
What's the true meaning of Christmas I thought
It was not in this big bag of things that I'd bought
It was not in the Santa who laughed Ho, Ho, Ho
Or the Frosty constructed of Styrofoam snow
Or in Rudolph for whom all the small children pray
To safely guide Santa and his Christmas sleigh
And it was not in the Christmas displays we set out
Or the trees with the ornaments dangling about
It was not in the large crowds of half-frenzied shoppers
Buying up gift sets and magic food choppers
It had nothing to do with our Yuletide obsessions
For showering each other with hopeless possessions
The symbols we cherish and traditions we follow
Are so disconnected and spiritually hollow
In fact the percentage is really quite small
Of any connection with Christmas at all
Where was the real reason we celebrate?
I hadn't seen one thing that I could relate
With this on my mind I went searching the store
For the point of the season we all but ignore
And back in a corner almost hidden from view
Sat this little nativity scene all askew
The Christ child was missing as was one of the sheep
And a red tag announced you can buy this one cheap
The one lonely thing among all this array
That bore the true reason for this holiday
And it wasn't all there - so what good was it now?
I stood there and thought about this for awhile
Then the message came to me amazingly clear
Why the spirit of Christmas wanes year after year
The child that was missing from that little shrine
Is now missing from Christmas for most of the time
Copyright 1992 by Gary Cobb
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
THE KEYS TO THE MOON
Most of us can remember certain things when we were young and growing up. Who knows why some memories stick and why others don't. This memory I'm about to relate has to do with a friend and classmate, Paul Jackson, class of 1958. Paul left us many years ago when he succumbed to cancer at age 53 I believe it was. Growing up, Paul was a fun person to be around. He was a gentle soul.
This memory stands out as one of those vivid memories that comes complete with all the parts necessary to recreate the moment and to such a fine degree that I can almost relive it at will; the weather conditions, the smells, the sounds, etc.
Paul and I were riding our bikes one sleepy summer day in old Cahokia near the Cahokia grade school where we both attended. We were about nine or ten years old as I recall and were trying to fill an idle summer day with anything that would make life more interesting. We were riding around with no particular destination in mind when Paul suggested we go see this strange person he knew. This person apparently lived alone in a small cluster of old houses and sheds that made up the only black community in Cahokia. It was down the street that ran between the Historic Catholic Church and the Catholic School as it now stands, back past the house that the Magouriks once lived in and later the McEntires. It finally intersected with the small field road that led to Paul's house, I don't recall the street name but at the end, between that point and Rt 3, there was the last remnants of the old elevated trolley grade that ran along the highway and once connected Dupo and Cahokia to East St Louis by rail and crossed the canal just east of the present Canal Bridge on old Rt 3.
It was there along the ridge of and around this small elevation where several black families lived along with a collection of misfits and near-homeless people. I don't recall if Paul mentioned the man's name or not but this man lived in an old-at-the-time travel trailer, the ones with the rounded, inverted bath tub shape. It sat in the midst of other old shacks and debris, each house or shed seeming as if they had been deposited helter-skelter by a storm or flood in the most convenient open space available with no apparent pattern or attention to order.
I don't know how Paul knew this person other than the fact that Paul lived close by and that this "crazy" guy, as Paul referred to him, also rode a bicycle. Paul thought it would be entertaining to talk to him so I could get an idea just how loony this guy was. Besides being entertaining this diversion would give a little purpose to an otherwise purposeless summer day. So, we rode over to the neighborhood to see if the man was out and about. Sure enough we found him tinkering with his bicycle.
The thing I remember most vividly was sitting cross-legged in the dust in front of this man's trailer as Paul coaxed the man to talk about something - just anything - it didn't matter. The sun was shining warmly and the man sat on some low object facing us - perhaps an inverted bucket or a stump of a wood. A before his time hippie type, he sported a fairly long, bushy,unkempt beard and was probably in his early thirties if I had to guess. Paul would ask the guy a question and then would slyly grin at me as a signal to get ready for a really bizarre answer.
This man told us the wildest things and all in a matter of fact voice and serious look on his face. I don't remember all the conversation, just the part where he was telling us he had been everywhere it was possible to travel and that he had traveled to all these places on his bicycle. He said he had been to China. This got my attention. I immediately tried to imagine him riding his bike across the ocean. I somehow suspected this might be a lie. Either that or this bicycle that stood propped up in front of us was the most magical bicycle on earth. Paul bent his head down and was drawing with a twig in the dirt just to keep from laughing out loud, but his face had a wide grin.
Paul then asked the man what was the furthest place he had ever been (as if China didn't quite qualify) and the bicycle traveler paused, slowly looked up to the sky and thoughtfully told us he had been to the moon. He added that he went their often. When we asked him how he got there he looked at us as if we had just asked him a question with the world's most obvious answer and said, "I rode my bike".
Fantastic! At this point I was amazed beyond belief. First China and now the moon? This guy seemed so convincing I looked with renewed interest at his bicycle. However typical it appeared, this bike must be a very special machine indeed. I was totally caught up in this guy's stories.
Then Paul spotted this heavy ring of keys that was hanging from the man's belt and asked him what all the keys were for. The man looked down at the keys and separating a few from the others for us to see he told us these were the keys to the moon. These keys, he claimed, unlocked the doors to the moon. Wow! I was really impressed. Here was a space traveler who lived right here in my home town!
Honestly, as unbelievable as his stories were, I remember as a young boy being somewhat in awe of the things this man told us and I still am today. I went there with Paul to be amused at the absurdity of this man but I left in somewhat of a trance, not because of what he said but because of the way that he said it. He didn't smile an absurd smile, it was a warm and gentle smile. He didn't babble like you might expect an insane person to do, When he talked to us he paused thoughtfully before answering each of Paul's questions giving each question careful consideration. His demeanor was also not the demeanor of a man who was pulling the legs of a couple of kids who came to make fun of him, nor that of an illiterate, mentally unbalanced fool. Instead he seemed to possess the quiet dignity of someone who had considerable knowledge to offer - someone who had been not only to China but who had been to the moon. He was the master and we were the students. He was taking us on a fantasy ride and we were the willing passengers.
I'm not suggesting I believe this man rode his bike to the moon or that the keys he showed us actually unlocked a door to the interior of the moon. What I do believe is that his answers were no more absurd or deceitful than many of the answers we are given today by those that put themselves in charge of telling the rest of us just how it is. I think he may have been trying to impart a valuable lesson to both Paul and me but the lesson was not in the truth or untruth of his words. It went deeper than that. Maybe he was offering us the keys to the moon of our imagination.
Maybe what he was trying to tell us is that no matter what we may think or believe that the truth is not always obvious or easily determined. And that the truth is not always arrived at by logical reasoning or by referencing what we think we already know against the unknown, but instead, what we seek as the truth is constantly changing along with the ebb and flow of life. What might be the truth in the present moment gives way to a newer truth in the next; that the mind cannot be trusted to discover the truth and that language is only symbolic of a greater truth, the truth that exists only in the space between our thoughts - the space where God resides.
On the other hand maybe he thought we were just a couple of stupid little jerks that came to make fun of the village idiot and he truly enjoyed feeding us these wild, loony tune stories just to mess with our heads.
Now that I think of it, that's probably it! Keys to the moon my ass! He was just putting us on.
Most of us can remember certain things when we were young and growing up. Who knows why some memories stick and why others don't. This memory I'm about to relate has to do with a friend and classmate, Paul Jackson, class of 1958. Paul left us many years ago when he succumbed to cancer at age 53 I believe it was. Growing up, Paul was a fun person to be around. He was a gentle soul.
This memory stands out as one of those vivid memories that comes complete with all the parts necessary to recreate the moment and to such a fine degree that I can almost relive it at will; the weather conditions, the smells, the sounds, etc.
Paul and I were riding our bikes one sleepy summer day in old Cahokia near the Cahokia grade school where we both attended. We were about nine or ten years old as I recall and were trying to fill an idle summer day with anything that would make life more interesting. We were riding around with no particular destination in mind when Paul suggested we go see this strange person he knew. This person apparently lived alone in a small cluster of old houses and sheds that made up the only black community in Cahokia. It was down the street that ran between the Historic Catholic Church and the Catholic School as it now stands, back past the house that the Magouriks once lived in and later the McEntires. It finally intersected with the small field road that led to Paul's house, I don't recall the street name but at the end, between that point and Rt 3, there was the last remnants of the old elevated trolley grade that ran along the highway and once connected Dupo and Cahokia to East St Louis by rail and crossed the canal just east of the present Canal Bridge on old Rt 3.
It was there along the ridge of and around this small elevation where several black families lived along with a collection of misfits and near-homeless people. I don't recall if Paul mentioned the man's name or not but this man lived in an old-at-the-time travel trailer, the ones with the rounded, inverted bath tub shape. It sat in the midst of other old shacks and debris, each house or shed seeming as if they had been deposited helter-skelter by a storm or flood in the most convenient open space available with no apparent pattern or attention to order.
I don't know how Paul knew this person other than the fact that Paul lived close by and that this "crazy" guy, as Paul referred to him, also rode a bicycle. Paul thought it would be entertaining to talk to him so I could get an idea just how loony this guy was. Besides being entertaining this diversion would give a little purpose to an otherwise purposeless summer day. So, we rode over to the neighborhood to see if the man was out and about. Sure enough we found him tinkering with his bicycle.
The thing I remember most vividly was sitting cross-legged in the dust in front of this man's trailer as Paul coaxed the man to talk about something - just anything - it didn't matter. The sun was shining warmly and the man sat on some low object facing us - perhaps an inverted bucket or a stump of a wood. A before his time hippie type, he sported a fairly long, bushy,unkempt beard and was probably in his early thirties if I had to guess. Paul would ask the guy a question and then would slyly grin at me as a signal to get ready for a really bizarre answer.
This man told us the wildest things and all in a matter of fact voice and serious look on his face. I don't remember all the conversation, just the part where he was telling us he had been everywhere it was possible to travel and that he had traveled to all these places on his bicycle. He said he had been to China. This got my attention. I immediately tried to imagine him riding his bike across the ocean. I somehow suspected this might be a lie. Either that or this bicycle that stood propped up in front of us was the most magical bicycle on earth. Paul bent his head down and was drawing with a twig in the dirt just to keep from laughing out loud, but his face had a wide grin.
Paul then asked the man what was the furthest place he had ever been (as if China didn't quite qualify) and the bicycle traveler paused, slowly looked up to the sky and thoughtfully told us he had been to the moon. He added that he went their often. When we asked him how he got there he looked at us as if we had just asked him a question with the world's most obvious answer and said, "I rode my bike".
Fantastic! At this point I was amazed beyond belief. First China and now the moon? This guy seemed so convincing I looked with renewed interest at his bicycle. However typical it appeared, this bike must be a very special machine indeed. I was totally caught up in this guy's stories.
Then Paul spotted this heavy ring of keys that was hanging from the man's belt and asked him what all the keys were for. The man looked down at the keys and separating a few from the others for us to see he told us these were the keys to the moon. These keys, he claimed, unlocked the doors to the moon. Wow! I was really impressed. Here was a space traveler who lived right here in my home town!
Honestly, as unbelievable as his stories were, I remember as a young boy being somewhat in awe of the things this man told us and I still am today. I went there with Paul to be amused at the absurdity of this man but I left in somewhat of a trance, not because of what he said but because of the way that he said it. He didn't smile an absurd smile, it was a warm and gentle smile. He didn't babble like you might expect an insane person to do, When he talked to us he paused thoughtfully before answering each of Paul's questions giving each question careful consideration. His demeanor was also not the demeanor of a man who was pulling the legs of a couple of kids who came to make fun of him, nor that of an illiterate, mentally unbalanced fool. Instead he seemed to possess the quiet dignity of someone who had considerable knowledge to offer - someone who had been not only to China but who had been to the moon. He was the master and we were the students. He was taking us on a fantasy ride and we were the willing passengers.
I'm not suggesting I believe this man rode his bike to the moon or that the keys he showed us actually unlocked a door to the interior of the moon. What I do believe is that his answers were no more absurd or deceitful than many of the answers we are given today by those that put themselves in charge of telling the rest of us just how it is. I think he may have been trying to impart a valuable lesson to both Paul and me but the lesson was not in the truth or untruth of his words. It went deeper than that. Maybe he was offering us the keys to the moon of our imagination.
Maybe what he was trying to tell us is that no matter what we may think or believe that the truth is not always obvious or easily determined. And that the truth is not always arrived at by logical reasoning or by referencing what we think we already know against the unknown, but instead, what we seek as the truth is constantly changing along with the ebb and flow of life. What might be the truth in the present moment gives way to a newer truth in the next; that the mind cannot be trusted to discover the truth and that language is only symbolic of a greater truth, the truth that exists only in the space between our thoughts - the space where God resides.
On the other hand maybe he thought we were just a couple of stupid little jerks that came to make fun of the village idiot and he truly enjoyed feeding us these wild, loony tune stories just to mess with our heads.
Now that I think of it, that's probably it! Keys to the moon my ass! He was just putting us on.
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