#74: Collecting Reasons (Hobbies)

You Can Keep Your Baseball Cards
All Buried In Your Neighbors' Yards . . .
And Wings Of Butterflies, And Shards
Of Antique Bowls, And Tacks . . .
Bound In Groups And Put Aside,
Like Leaves Of Trees That May Have Died,
But Hung Around 'Til Petrified
In Green, But Lifeless Stacks.
But Only You Have Got The Mind
To Carve An Empty Pumpkin Rind,
Or Think Important, Ways To Find
Of Making Ceiling Wax.

We arrived at one int'resting spot.
It looked like a garage,
inside of which an old guy sat,
building a model lodge.

It was made of Popsicle sticks and glue,
and was getting out of hand.
It appeared that he'd been sitting there
since modern time began.

We'd studied his project a little bit,
when, all of a sudden, we
felt ourselves beginning to shrink,
down to an inch or three.

We looked up at the model lodge,
as big as some real house.
We felt the urge to go inside,
like any hole and mouse.

We walked into the foyer, where,
within the rough-glued halls,
we discovered plaques that hung upon
several of the walls.

They were simple, framed engravings
that held some simple lines.
As Jo began to read out loud,
we visualized the rhymes:

"A man sat on a back porch stoop
and tied some ribbons in a loop.
He let the middle sort of droop
when stringing them together.

A woman brushed some peanut shells
with cooking oil and colored gels.
She pasted them to plastic bells
and left them out to weather.

A little boy with modeling glue
stuck some toothpicks to his shoe.
His mother cried as he went through
too many Jack Purcells.

A little girl lined up her dolls
in evening gowns, with little shawls.
In miniature mirrors on tiny walls
she primped their pony tails.

A Dandyroid with steely hands
was crushing rocks like Pepsi cans.
He saved the dust in separate pans,
and phoned his buddy, Bruce.

An admiral, now retired and rank,
remembered how his cruiser sank.
He sits in water he once drank
to some forgotten truce.

It all comes down to saving things . . .
to keeping track, and tracking rings . . .
of passing time and timing pings . . .
as if the doing might . . .

make some living more worthwhile,
with stamps and coins and antique tile . . .
fulfill a life, or fill a file,
with cause to rise and fight."

"So?" I asked my knowing friend.
"What do you think it means?
It sounds like a message of making life
from any-ol' hill of beans.

Like, all we do is pick some strange,
and personal oddity,
do it with a purpose, 'til
the purpose comes to be."

"Well, actually, that's exactly what
I think the message is.
But still, that's not the answer to
our most important quiz.

So, this State's all about the things
we do when we get bored.
Like baseball cards, and foreign coins . . .
the things we like to hoard."

"So you're thinking that the riddle here
has less to do with stuff,
than it does to do with making sure
we gather up enough?"

"Well, I guess. I figured that we both
were well aware of that.
Just look around . . . there's everything
from coins, to stamps, to hats.

Hey, it's got to be the State of stuff,
at least, that's what I think.
There's anything you'd ever want,
from angst to kitchen sink."

"Okay, Boys, you've done your best,"
the stick house walls all shook,
as the Voice's message rumbled from
the cranny and the nook.

"You've gotten close enough, again,
for me to offer you
a minute's worth of counsel that
might finally get you through.

No, it's not their quantity
that makes these things become
whatever they might be before
the one who adds their sum.

And no, it's not their nature that
can make a box of maps
worth any more collecting than
a stash of bottle caps.

The lesson here is almost less
than human minds can claim . . .
it's not about the target, but . . .
it's all about the aim.

Yes, hobbies are the things you do
because you've chosen them
to be the lights that light your life,
and regardless of how dim . . .

they might appear to other folks . . .
that never bothers you.
Your choice is what has made this thing
so special and so true.

So, 'hobby' is the word you seek
to exit from this loop,
but don't forget that it says more
than things all in a group.

It points to greater context of
what man might find or lose,
whenever he might see his life
as something he can choose."

A moment later, the sky rained down
pennies and other coins.
The Voice was gone and we stood there,
shielding our heads and groins.

The Buggy'd stayed right by our side,
and hadn't made a sound
until those coins came crashing out
of clouds, and to the ground.

With money landing everywhere,
and Carriage at a hum,
Jo and I just took our seats . . .
perhaps, a bit less dumb.