Fortunately, I LOVE to travel. I don't like crowded airports very much but that has just been the cost of doing business lately so I've learned to just tolerate the lines and crowded security checkpoints etc., I've re-defined the word patience and embraced the entire concept more dearly.
Alternatively, I've had the chance recently, to jump in the car and do a bit of driving around the "Good Old USA." That has been quite fun indeed. You get a completely different flavor driving through the heartland of America and seeing things at a different pace and up close and personally. I'll certainly cherish my memories from a Truck Stop in northern central California just last week. I'm not sure I've ever seen so many tattoos in one place at one time. But the coffee sure was good! And boy did I have to pee. I can't tell you the things I learned while standing at the urinal in the bathroom and listening to a few truckers. (I'll eventually get around to throwing some photos on the blog from my travels)
Driving on the open road was quite nice. For me, there's something a bit romantic about throwing a few bags in the car, strapping a vehicle to your back, popping in a few tunes and then hitting the open road. I just love the freedom of traveling that way. No schedules, no time crunches, no dead-lines.... It's just you and the road.
Anyway, all this driving got me to thinking about poetry. In particular, a piece by Robert Frost popped into my head and it's been roaming around there for a few days. You ever get a song stuck in your head? No matter what you do, the song keeps spinning around in your brain until finally you threaten to kill yourself and in the interest of self-preservation your brain finds something else to think about. Well that's kind of where I am with the Frost piece. I'm hoping that if I put it down on paper, well in this case - on Blog - I'll be able to move on to something else.
Robert Lee Frost (March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963) as you may know, was an American poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech. He is a very popular and frequently-quoted poet. Frost was honored during his lifetime and actually received four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry.
Here's the poem that's stuck in my head:
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.