A Saturday in June

Do you know this man? He speaks to my soul. I can never read his poetry without crying. I went to college where he once spent quite a bit of time. There is a beautiful little white painted house there where he stayed. It's the Robert Frost house. Who does not know "The Road Not Taken" or "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"? He is, by far, the New England poet. Perhaps that is partly why even now he speaks to me. I keep a book of his complete poetry beside my bed. He talks about choices and consequences and people we know. He talks about being who we are and being happy and content with the choices we have made that have made us who we are.

This Saturday in June I awoke thinking about my favorite poets and authors and I came up with the old ones (besides Stephen King who, if you know me, is a given). I thought of Robert Frost. Sara Teasdale. Emily Dickinson. Edgar Allan Poe. Nathaniel Hawthorne. I want to walk in the House of the Seven Gables again. I want to go back to Salem and feel again the shame and pain of all those women burned as witches. I want to stand at Plymouth Rock and see the huts the struggling Pilgrims lived in. I was a big history buff when I was younger, partly because of my dad and partly because I had access to all those wonderful places where a lot of the history of this country happened

I have stood in Gettysburg and cried at the graves. I have seen the cannons at Fort McHenry and walked the deck of the USS Constitution. I have stood at Plymouth Rock. I have been to Monticello and Mt. Vernon and looked at the ground in Concord, Massachusetts where so much blood was spilled by the "redcoats". I looked at the horribly little buildings where the soldiers huddled and died at Valley Forge. I have stood in a house where my relatives were born in Massachusetts and died in Maine without ever moving an inch.

And this morning I feel so sad for having forgotten so much of it. For thinking how most people under 30 have no true sense of what our nation's history is like. They do not understand real poetry, real history, real life. They only know how to download music to their ipods or upload messages to MySpace. They can tell you where to buy meth because marijuana just isn't strong enough these days. They can explain how a 13 year old can get ahold of drugs, cigarettes and all the booze they want. But they can't tell you how to be faithful to family, God and country. They aren't willing to look beyond their own noses. History doesn't matter. Poetry is stupid.

Well let me be stupid. Let me read the poetry and re-learn the history. Let me FEEL. I know that when my generation dies, a lot of the wonderful things we know and enjoy and which really add meaning to life will fade away.

That makes me sad this Saturday morning in June.

Robert Frost wrote:

"The Objection to Being Stepped On"

At the end of the row

I stepped on the toe

Of an unemployed hoe.

It rose in offense

And strucke me a blow

In the seat of my sense.

It wasn't to blame

But I called it a name.

And I must say it dealt

Me a blow that I felt

Like malice prepense.

You may call me a fool,

But was there a rule

The weapon should be

Turned into a tool?

And what do we see?

The first tool I step on

Turned into a weapon.

I am going to have more coffee and spend some time with someone from my past.

I wish you well this Saturday morning in June. I wish you happiness and joy and love. Wherever you find it. And please, if you can, do not forget the past. Know that it matters. To you. To me. To everyone. Even the 19 year old plugged into his ipod.