It occurs to me to put together a little collection of these stories
about traveling down Old Tracks, Byways and Paths. Here's a re-post of
my First Frost piece. Are there any others such stories among us?


John
by hammer and hand great works do stand
by pen and thought best words are wrought

******
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

First up and gone before the family wakes. 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 below 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.

The poet Robert Frost lived and worked and wrote at this farmstead in
the ‘teens and ‘twenties. Now a few local folks operate the little white
farm house as a museum and 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, 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 recent 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?

********

--
To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>