A Robert Frost Parody on Our Stormy Week in the Northeast

Saturday—Jeff

As some of you may know, I’m a big fan of Robert Frost, and often turn to his work for inspiration on setting mood. This time I turned to one of his less known poems, “The Need of Being Versed in Country Things,” to explain what we’ve been through—and are still experiencing—out in the wilds of Northwest New Jersey.

I love it out here, if only for the adventure each day—and passing storm—offers in the form of new challenges. At times, though, there are unexpected surprises, and they can be costly. So here’s my tale of what it means to be versed in country things.

 

To Farm we’d gone to be again

Beneath clear skies far away from woe.

But first came ice then snow heavy on the wood

Like sugar candy glass brightly aglow.

The trees stood poised along the way,

To bear the weight or fall in shame

Should a dancing breeze add wind to the heft

To break their stiff backs and end the game.

Alas some lost and fell to their end

Most deep in woods or close by a road

But one did find to land upon our roofs

Another took down our power load.

Lines still lie that once flew through the air

And our propane supply is quite thin.

But the tree’s off the house we can sigh

Thanks to chainsaw and rope in my bin.

All this week there’s been continuing grief

Searching for fuel to keep up the fire  

Hemmed in by power lines crossing the way;

Plus down trees blocking all beyond each wire.

Yet, more was to come to make me sad.

Rejoiced when down to the farm workmen crept,

Then learned our boiler had died, poor thing.

Now heat’s back…along with great debt.

If a tree falls in the forest and you happen to be sitting....

here, you definitely hear it!

Plumbers to the rescue

The costly culprit

Ah yes, the joys of being versed in country things.

By the way, here’s Robert Frost’s original version.

 

"The Need of Being Versed in Country Things"

The house had gone to bring again

To the midnight sky a sunset glow.

Now the chimney was all of the house that stood,

Like a pistil after the petals go.

The barn opposed across the way,

That would have joined the house in flame

Had it been the will of the wind, was left

To bear forsaken the place’s name.

No more it opened with all one end

For teams that came by the stony road

To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs

And brush the mow with the summer load.

The birds that came to it through the air

At broken windows flew out and in,

Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh

From too much dwelling on what has been.

Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf,

And the aged elm, though touched with fire;

And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm;

And the fence post carried a strand of wire.

For them there was really nothing sad.

But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept,

One had to be versed in country things

Not to believe the phoebes wept.

—Jeff