What have we done to ourselves?

Something interesting sprouted wings and elected to fly over the weekend—while in the attic searching for those infamous boxes we aren’t supposed to throw away or people like the computer company will no longer support your system…I couldn’t help but notice how extremely different we are in America.



Growing up in Montana, I spent the majority of my childhood chasing trains attempting to escape town—most had stopped to pick up wheat and other grains or sugar beats from the farmers while other freights elected to play with a growing imagination honking that long whistle as if to tell the kid walking across those long metal tracks to do all he could do to become part of this incredible way to travel.



My vow was to be a hobo.



To be so carefree seemed more inspiring than sitting behind a desk or shoving bails of hay tightly together to keep the snakes, rats and winter out. My dream was to find the largest cardboard box and call it home. No HBO, refrigerator two car garage with two point six kids…I wanted to find the perfect box that didn’t mind being folded up and carried from St Louis to Seattle then south to Phoenix then Charleston.



Dad always bought things used so scoring boxes from him was a useless effort. I hunted for my boxes in a dirt covered alley or behind bars that featured beer bottle boxes that were stronger than life itself and if you collected enough of them you’d have the makings of a cardboard brick house that could be huffed and puffed by never blown down.



Kmart up on 24th street always featured the best and biggest boxes. Giant, larger than life pieces that took my heart and wrapped it around the idea of something coming true—I was the kid who’d be spotted zipping down Moulany lane with a box on his back riding a reconstructed bicycle…it was that important.



Once home…it became not a fort but a living quarters complete with my dog Cocoa and several gray and white pigeons with the coolest cooing and a dance that seemed to always go with it.



Boxes…I’ve always loved boxes. Even the plastic looking things the mailman tends to haul around these days. They don’t melt in a rainstorm. They’re extremely light and come with easy to use handles that never rip or carve lines deep into your palms. One problem…too small! Can’t live in the mailman’s nifty thingy that tends to make you believe it’ll last longer than a Twinkie and its friend the cockroach.



Move the clock ahead to 2010…how the heck did we get here?



A 47 year old man standing straight up in his attic wanting to locate the computer box that holds the secret DVD’s that’ll reboot a system that crashed and its at that single point in the pages I keep that this always out of control imagination constantly told to stop creating couldn’t help lay out the ground work of the most tragic news delivered to his childhood dreams and wishes: Television boxes are no longer a hobo’s dream home.



Look at them! Maybe 4 feet tall but barely a foot thick! Ten years ago, two or three television boxes set side by side told the always moving society I was the king of my hobo world!



After taking note of the tiny television box, the confused eye caught the square shapes belonging to kitchen mixers and coffee pots, stereos thrown away years ago, a cable TV box I’m still paying for and like I knew it would be…the computer box…barely two feet up and seven inches out. A pillow maybe?



What have we done to ourselves? I grew up loving the idea that the biggest box under the Christmas tree belonged to me. That doesn’t mean junk in this modern state! IPod boxes are dinky. In fact some electronic devices come in that skin cutting plastic designed to keep thieves away and consumers out. I can’t live in that! I’m the type of personality that would end up losing the pieces along the train tacks.



No wonder people spend everything they’ve got on the Power Ball; being down and out takes up too much room. The people at Ikea must get where I’m coming from…they sell furniture and appliances for rooms no bigger than a washing machine box. I can’t be that insane!



Cars don’t come in a box but people live in them. I’ve never seen the size of a highway overpass but if it came in a box…wow, talk about condo living for a hobo.



I’ve never been able to figure out my fascination for boxes except to blame it on the hobo way…interestingly enough…when all is said and done, a box won’t be where I’ll end up. For some odd reason the thought of it steals from my dreams of being as free as the wind.



Maybe it’s my sixth sense saying, “Dude, you ain’t goin into something the size of a salt and pepper shaker. The ego alone needs something the size of Mount Mitchell.”



arroecollins@clearchannel.com