The Road Not Taken

One of my favorite poems is "The Road Not Taken" by Robery Frost. He was a stoic old New Englander, and there isn't an ounce of self pity in this poem-- just a reflection on a life, if you happened to take the road "less traveled." Here's a charming thing about the aging mind: you begin to remember what happened when you were six more vividly than what you did last Tuesday afternoon.

This is an old picture of the Pennsylvania farm where we lived until I was about seven. It is still there, the field stone houses were built to last in those days, although most of the out buildings are probably gone. My parents worked hard to make ends meet with dairy cows, chickens, pigs, ducks and of course an enormous kitchen garden for Mom's canning and freezing. On Friday nights, we drove to the A&P in Quakertown to buy flour, sugar, salt, coffee and other staples, but that was about it. Just about everything we ate, and the animals ate, was grown on the farm. If you've read the wonderful book "Omnivore's Dilemma" you know this is called poly-culture farming (as opposed to mono-culture) and it has become environmentally trendy indeed. But back then, this was just how small family farms were run.

In those days, most kids didn't have scheduled activities except school, and we were sent outside to play in the summer. My sister, brother and I invented a make-believe world of our own on the farm, and had no trouble amusing ourselves. I was a tomboy and always loved animals, so I spent more time underfoot in the barn than the house. Somehow we managed not to get trampled by a cow, fall out of the hayloft, or drown in the creek! And I'm sure my strong immunity to this day has something to do with toddling around a cow barn. Another favorite poem, "Fern Hill" by Dylan Thomas, captures the absolute magic of childhood spent on a farm.