Graveyards weren’t always on the outskirts of towns. They used to be in the churchyard. At least once a week you were faced with your mortality. You were reminded that your days and weeks and years were not endless; there were only so many. When they ran out, there would be no more potlucks, picnics, workdays and weekends. There is only so much time to follow your dream, go to the beach, let go of a grudge or travel. I can’t help but think there’s a connection to our banishing local cemeteries to the edge of town and our desire to forget that we are all on the clock.
There’s a book of poems Carrie gave me as a wedding gift-- Christopher Morely’s Chimney Smoke. He worked for Random House in the early 1920s. He wrote most of the poems in the book on his train commute from his office in Manhattan to his country home in New Jersey. He was a man noted for being gregarious but also for his vast literary output. He knew how to balance his accomplishments while being generous with his time to friends and family, perhaps recognizing that they were the stuff poems were made of. Chimney Smoke is full of life’s grand and normal moments. He wrote poems about book clubs, his toddlers learning to eat, his fireplace, tea with his wife, smoking his pipe the night his son was born, his furnace, watching his sleeping children and the family cat.
This song is about the short life we have and the joy of the small, wonderful things that fill it.
lyrics
I’ve seen your face in city lights, expelling night. Hooray, hooray for night and day. The city noise becomes our skin. A heart, a home. Hooray, hooray for night and day.
The Casualties (the days) to calendars (the years).
Do people change? Yes, Sir!
Am I one of them? Unknown.
Allegiances to pass the time. A blueish face. Hooray, hooray for night and day. A fitting hand and Chimney Smoke. Enjoy. Repeat. Hooray, hooray for night and day.
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