Billy Collins wings over Texas . . .
Flying Over West Texas at Christmas
by: Billy Collins
with a ruler line of a road running through you,
you anonymous cluster of houses and barns,
miniaturized by this altitude
in a land as parched as Bethlehem
might have been somewhere around the year zero—
a beautiful song should be written about you
which choirs could sing in their lofts
and carolers standing in a semicircle
could carol in front of houses topped with snow.
For surely some admirable person was born
within the waffle-iron grid of your streets,
who then went on to perform some small miracles,
placing a hand on the head of a child
or shaking a cigarette out of the pack for a stranger.
But maybe it is best not to compose a hymn
or chisel into tablets the code of his behavior
or convene a tribunal of men in robes to explain his words.
Let us not press the gold leaf of his name
onto a page of vellum or hang his image from a nail.
Better to fly over this little town with nothing
but the hope that someone visits his grave
once a year, pushing open the low iron gate
then making her way toward him
through the rows of the others
before bending to prop up some flowers before the stone.
Collins's poem is kind of a beautiful carol to all the little towns of the world at Christmas. Think about it. If Bethlehem wasn't included in the gospels as the birth site of Jesus Christ, it would simply be a tiny, dusty little desert berg that nobody would remember today.
The little Upper Peninsula town where I grew up is known as the birthplace of a couple famous people: Glenn Seaborg, who won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, and John Voelker, who wrote the novel Anatomy of a Murder which was adapted into a film starring Jimmy Stewart. So, my hometown is like a Bethlehem of sorts for those two men.
Of course, people's memories are fairly short. There aren't any monuments or historical plaques in place reminding tourists of our two famous citizens. The world changes. Forgets. Moves on.
Change has never been easy for me. In fact, I pretty much hate the word, and most of its synonyms, intensely--alteration, transition, adjustment, revision, correction, mutation. I could go on. A quick Google search brings up about 182 matches or near matches.
Hence, I dislike this time of the holiday season when everyone seems hell-bent on banishing all the sparkle and hope into cardboard boxes to be stored in the attic or garage for another year. Sure, I know that New Year's Eve and Day are fast approaching with all the attendant promises of fresh beginnings, and I can also freely admit that 2024 has had its fair share of catastrophes (not the least of which was a convicted felon and wannabe dictator being elected President of the United States).
So I prefer to linger in the light a little while longer, which was a tall order today because of dense fog advisories. I kept myself busy, though. I had a dentist appointment (shots and drilling and filling) and an energy session with a healer friend. Then I spent the afternoon making dinner, taking my puppy for a few walks, and picking out music for this weekend's worship services (all Christmas carols, in case you're wondering).
It was also a day of reflection and meditation for me. I don't often get the opportunity to just sit and think for extended periods of time. My life is usually too chaotic. Yet, I had quite a few hours to ruminate about the universe and my place in it.
I don't think anybody's going to be erecting statues in my honor once I shuffle off this mortal coil. Aside from family and friends, my work will probably be forgotten after a few years. The most I can hope for is that my kids keep my picture displayed somewhere prominently in their homes. Maybe keep copies of my books on their shelves as novelties to show off.
These kinds of changes are inevitable. Nobody is going to make a pilgrimage to my home town to see the house where I grew up or the church where I played the pipe organ. Maybe my kids will visit my grave every once in a while to dust away the fallen leaves and prop some flowers before the stone. Perhaps, every once in a while, somebody will have a vague recollection and Google my name to find out what I accomplished. Or not.
Tonight, in the midst of this season of light, I hope that, if I'm remembered years from now, it will be because I was a loving husband, good father, and loyal friend with a really cute puppy.
Sing with Saint Marty, "O little town of Ishpeming . . ."
❤️
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