Dear God we humbly pray for the safe return of our missing loved ones
It would have been far too heart-rending for the writers of Lost In
Space to cut to planet earth, exposing the horror of family and friends who
prayed for the safe return of the Robinson Family, Major Don West, Dr. Zachary Smith and their loveable robot.
That was not to be, no. Instead, we were with them on their journey.
"Earth" seemed to be an unmentionable; ignored in an unsettlingly dysfunctional
way. But wasn't that the way we handled all things unpleasant back in the
1960s?
A show could not be remembered well that ran (in black and white in '65-'66)
for only three seasons and ended just before the "small step for man; one giant
leap for mankind."
Certainly eclipsed by the spectacle that is Star Trek, this small-screen
sci-fi bagatelle came to mind immediately when I read the title of this node.
Not the Space One Needs a Rocket to Explore
It occurred to me that the tiny (probably 14-inch) Philco black and
white set I was glued to for every episode of "Lost in Space" isn't itself lost
in space. In fact, I know just what space that television occupies. It's in the
attic of my parents' former home in Connecticut.
Along with that television set are boxes containing pieces of our lives.
Homework assignments; but which ones? Cards and letters and articles of clothing. And a beach ball, long deflated.
Did dad get rid of the box from his office in New York? Is it still there?
Is my box of stuffed toys still up there; and dare I go there to see them and
perhaps bring them home. To my home. Could my heart stand re-visiting all the
memories that go with them? Hell, yeah. I'm strong enough for that. I'll pop a
couple of Prozac and see if, somehow, I can forget the many times I thought
those stuffed toys were my only friends, the only ones I could talk to or who
loved me unconditionally.
I didn't know it then but came to know all too recently that my father, too,
loved me unconditionally. But now dad's in space or wherever we go when suddenly
our souls become detached from our corporeal beings.
The Space Ship
Underneath what's probably now some sort of landscaping, underneath a
Weeping Willow tree, there's a pile of wood. That wood pile used to be held
together with nails; it had no roof, but a window and sides and a floor. It was
our spaceship, our tank, our imagination run wild. That heap of wood, long
collapsed and probably mostly mulch by now, will be lost in the space that was
our back yard when I forget about it. It'll still occupy space, but will indeed
be forgotten. I hope the time I forget that tiny structure will be a time long
away from now. It's a place I remember fondly.
Where I'm going with this is that time seems to be flying by these days.
Someday, the space which I describe in part one hereinabove will no longer
belong to me; its contents will have been cleared out. The decision to be made,
not immediately but in due time, is this: do I follow the instructions of my teacher
and jettison these things? He already tells me I cling to too much "stuff."
There will be so much stuff moved someday from one space to another. Will I
be able to forget?