First Frost, Oct. 4th, 2002



Up with the sun and a peek out the window. The first cold snap this autumn
has frosted the garden down along the old board fence with a fringe of
white. The frost predicts my day:  places to go, people to meet, and miles
to go before I sleep.



Places to Go



There's little traffic and I'm cruising along the back roads across the
coastal plains, making good time through the low wooded hills of western
Maine, an occasional flash of orange and yellow leaves. Tracking west into
New Hampshire on the Kancamagus Hyway, that ribbon of asphalt tracing along
the ancient Abinaki Trail Way edging the bank of the Swift River up into the
White Mountains. The Leaf Peepers are out, driving slow, enjoying the fall
colors, 45 mph, 35, 25.20. Too slow. I'll be late for my 10:30 appointment.
My mind finally gears down to match the pace of the traffic. Lots more color
in this neck of the woods, groves of gold among the green pines, a blaze of
red glows like hot coals against dark bark. I join the real world, tracking
through the forest, connected with the earth, connected with my fellow
travelers. They sense I have joined them and pull over to let me speed on
by. Upward past Passaconaway Camp, the rush of sharp curves, vistas in the
periphery, rusty guard rails snake by in sharp focus.  Up and over the ridge
at Kancamagus Pass and the road uncoils down into the Pemigwasset Valley
with switch backs and sweeping curves through the forest of golden red and
green. With a stolen glance I soak up the quilt of colors spread out before
me. A stop at the scenic outlook is tempting, but I press on--places to go
and people to meet.



I catch the on-ramp, ripping north on Interstate 91, joining the roar of
cars and trucks. Even this massive onward rush of concrete and steel traces
old pathways once traveled by Lafayette along the banks of the Pemigwasset
River. A slight dip into the Basin of ponds and deep woods, then the
vertical granite of Franconia Notch. Sheer gray granite lost from sight in
gray clouds far above. Down here I concentrate on gray pavement. The
interstate drops me out of the notch and I land in the village of Franconia.



Quiet streets lined with maple trees and fine old houses. I stop to ask an
elderly gent for directions. "Left at the yellow school house with white
columns, mile and a half, turn and over the bridge." I leave the pavement
behind for a crunchy gravel road winding slowly half way up the other side
of the valley, under the quilt of colors I had seen from the ridge above,
tires now muffled by a thick mat of leaves on the road less traveled.



One more turn, around the curve, and I spot the old red mail box on the
right with red letters hand painted, "R. Frost."



People to meet.



Frost was here in the 'teens and 'twenties. Now a few local folks operate
the little white farm house as a centre for the practice of poetry. I'm up
the foot path to the house and it's good to see familiar faces once again.
Keisha, Donald, Jon and the others have been doing a good job of taking care
of the place since I was here a year ago. The mason has rebuilt a stretch of
the field stone foundation, looks a lot better than the tumble-bumpin' pile
I recall. The roofer has come and gone, leaving behind a 3-tab asphalt job
that could have been better, but in that probably matches Frost's own
approach to the job in 1917-adequate to the need. As we survey the work with
a casual walk about the place the frustrations and questions of the day
arise: Do we have to get everything perfect in our zeal to restore and
preserve? Can good enough still be good enough?



John Leeke

by hammer and hand great works do stand

by pen and thought best words are wrought

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