The Road Less Traveled

In the summer of 1961, at the end of the school year, my friend Marsha and I decided to camp our way around the United States. I had my pink '57 Plymouth with the tail fins and a large trunk. We loaded up sleeping bags, a pup tent, a Coleman stove and a Coleman lantern, cooking utensils, clothes and other useful items, and set out.

We planned to start by heading east for Pennsylvania and beyond. We wanted to see historic and literary places. We wanted to see those places we had read about and pictured in our minds' eye. We walked the battlefields at Gettysburg and took the chocolate factory tour in Hershey. We were surprised to find so many people swimming in Thoreau's Walden Pond, but his cabin site was intact. We toured the House of Seven Gables, photographed the "rude bridge that arched the flood" guarded by the Minuteman statue, and explored the scenes of Little Women. We camped at state parks and wherever we could feel safe. Once, in a small village in Massachusetts late at night, we pretended we didn't have any money and asked the police if we could sleep in a cell. They sent us to a friend's boardinghouse where we were given a bed and breakfast for a dollar. And made friends even though we talked "funny."

By the end of June we had made our way to Middlebury, VT., where we found beds in a youth hostel. But our goal was Ripton and a farmhouse on the road to the Breadloaf School that we learned about from the locals after many inquiries. Yes, that was where Robert Frost stayed in the summertime. Few would speak of it, a well-kept community secret. We were young and brazen and determined. The Homer Noble Farm mailbox located, we turned into the narrow road and drove right up to the large woodframed farmhouse. An attractive older woman came out to meet our car and asked if she could help us.

"Yes," we said. "We've come all the way from Indiana to see Robert Frost."

Unruffled, she smiled and asked for more particulars, We told her of our journey, our plans to see the USA, and she said he might be interested in hearing about our adventures.

"Call me tomorrow at 10 and I will let you know," she smiled, and we drove off in a daze.

We found a place to camp near a fast flowing stream of icy mountain runoff, pitched our tent, hung our one skirt and blouse outfit apiece on tree branches to shake out the wrinkles, and waited for tomorrow.

Promptly at 10 the next day we found a pay phone in Ripton, and called the special number we had been given.

"Yes," answered Kathleen (Kay) Morrison, he would see us at 2 that afternoon.

The real significance of this opportunity hit us as we drove to the Noble Farm, and we were a bit shaken. When we arrived, a man was on a ladder painting the window frames of the farmhouse. He descended at his own pace and greeted us.

"Ted Morrison," he said, with extended hand. "He is waiting for you at his cabin. Just follow the path up the mountain and you'll find him. Try not to stay long and tire him," he concluded and climbed back up his ladder.

I don't remember how far we climbed or how steep and long the trail. I only remember seeing Robert Frost standing in the screened doorway to his porch, looking down the path for us. He led us in and seated us in wicker chairs on the porch overlooking the Green Mountains. He nodded encouragingly and asked us to tell him our mission, our purpose, and our dreams. He was delighted that we were traversing our country and applauded our plans for a working and traveling year. He talked about the Kennedy inauguration and how cold it was and windy. He said the sun was so bright in his eyes that he couldn't see to read his poem, and he recited "The Gift Outright" changing the last line to "such as she will become." As he spoke to us in that cadence that was so like his poetry,"just talk" he might have said, his voice seemed to fill that room and ring out over the mountains. His head bobbing so near seemed too big for his narrow shoulders, and his wispy white hair framed that expressive lovely, loving face. It was a moment in time for me.

As we were taking our leave, he rather slyly inquired if I wanted an autograph. I had all but forgotten that I was clutching a well worn copy of The Complete Poems of Robert Frost 1949 which I had brought along for just that purpose. He wrote "Robert Frost to Constance Renaker, portable copy for her circumnavigation of her country, Ripton, Vrm't of July 1, 1961." It is my most prized possession.





























Little Women.