I was in North Liberty with Old Man Bud,
Old to the point where he just sat there
Looking out the window of his house.
He asked me, 'What's the date today?'
I said, 'March 19.' He said, 'What year?'
I said, '1971.' 'Eighty years ago today,'
He said, 'I shot my first duck.' We were
Silent for some moments, each keeping
His own counsel and it was so quiet
That through the half-opened window
You could scarcely hear the whoosh of
An occasional car passing on the road
Or discern the wheeze and whoosh
Of Old Man Bud's uncertain breathing.
What peculiar impetus or inspiration
Led me then to speak to Old Man Bud
Concerning Robert Frost's celebrated
Poem entitled 'The Road Not Taken'?
This was a sort of frisson whereby
I found myself calling into question
The whole collective enterprise of
Metaphorically interpreting the poem
To embrace instead a determinedly
Bland reading in which a not-bright
Rustic simply reports on a shortcut
That saved him a few minutes getting
From where he was to where he went.
Then through the kitchen behind us
And passing into the front room
A bear-like man in his fifties appeared
Who I knew as Old Man Bud's son,
Willard was his name, a car mechanic
Serving North Liberty and the rest of
St. Joseph County. Albeit his father
Was well within earshot Willard said,
'There is a groundhog case for you
'If ever there was one. I've seen
'Too many of them, I've moistened
'Their lips, I've put a cold cloth on
'Their brow and I've felt their hands'
'Go all clammy at the very end.'
He continued, 'I'd rather keel over
'In the trees tomorrow, or in the
'Duck blind, or in the winter when
'Some of us like to go ice fishing.
'I have tried to be a good man.'
Tears welled up in his eyes and
I averted my gaze to spare him
Any embarrassment. Thus it was
Exactly fifty years ago today that
I amended my understanding
Not only of 'The Road Not Taken'
But equally of 'Stopping by Woods
On a Snowy Evening,' both poems
From the pen of Robert Frost.
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