fun when I was little and my zipper bags were full of graham crackers instead.
“Come here, Gianna.” Nonna points to a big wooden sign at the trailhead:
Robert Frost lived and worked within a mile of here. The fields and forests were inspirations for his poems and are mentioned in many. A leisurely half-hour walk will acquaint you with Frost country and some of his works that are located in appropriate settings. To enjoy this trail, please take your time and leave nothing but footprints.
“Let’s go .” Mom squeezes past us. “There are a lot more trees once we get in a little ways. Hurry up. It’s almost five. It’s going to start getting dark soon, and we still need to fix dinner for the boys.”
We left Dad and Ian playing Star Wars LEGO Attack. Dad kept watching to see when Mom left. I bet he’s already brought out the hidden potato chips. Somehow, he and Nonna both deal with Mom better than I do. We’re just so different.
I watch her power-walking along the boardwalk. I stay back with Nonna. Mom doesn’t stop to read the first poem posted along the trail, but Nonna does.
“Read it out loud, okay?” I ask, and she leans in to read the neatly typed verse, posted at the edge of a marshy clearing.
It’s called “The Pasture,” and it reads like an invitation. A guy going out to rake leaves from the spring in the pasture invites somebody to come with him. Maybe it’s his wife or his son. “You come, too,” he says, like there’s no hurry at all.
“I bet that guy doesn’t have a leaf collection due on Friday,” I say.
“No, I’d imagine not.” Nonna squints off into the woods as Mom disappears.
“Look, another one right here.” I set my shoe box and leaf key down on a weathered wooden bench and step to the railing at the edge of the marsh. I had to stretch up on my tiptoes to see over the top last time we were here. I was only six or seven, but I remember the electric blue dragonfly hovering over the swamp grass. Everything was so green and bushy then. It must have been July or August.
Now the plants are all brownish and rustly dry, like they’re whispering secrets. The poem posted there is called “The Secret Sits.” It’s about how we humans have to go around guessing at everything while the world keeps its secrets.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t get it.”
“That’s what it means,” Nonna says laughing. “That there are things in this world we just don’t get.”
Nonna walks on down the boardwalk, but I stay and look out at the whispery marsh again. I try listening harder. Maybe the tall grasses know Nonna’s secrets about getting away from earth. I wish they’d tell me how to keep her here.
“Gianna!” Mom’s hiking boots clunk on the far end of the boardwalk, so I jog ahead to meet her.
“Where are your leaves?” she asks.
“I haven’t got any yet. We were just reading the poems.”
“Where’s the box?”
“Oh. Back there.” I whirl around to run and get it from the bench, but I don’t go quickly enough to miss hearing her sigh.
When I catch up, we cross a wooden bridge that looks like it ought to have trolls under it and then walk up a steeper part of the path into shadowy trees.
“Are you doing okay?” Mom asks, and she slows down to wait for Nonna.
“I’m fine, Angela. I hiked this trail with you in my arms plenty of times. I think I can hike it now.”
“Could you still do it carrying Mom?” I ask, and even Mom laughs.
She helps me identify a gray birch, a red spruce, and a hemlock, and labels them with neat block letters in permanent marker on the plastic bags. During breaks, Nonna reads us poems: “The Road Not Taken,” “Going for Water,” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
“That’s the only one that doesn’t fit,” I say.
“How so?” Nonna asks.
“Well, the place, I mean. The poem about the road less traveled is right where a trail splits off. The one about mowing is in a low area with lots of
“Come here, Gianna.” Nonna points to a big wooden sign at the trailhead:
Robert Frost lived and worked within a mile of here. The fields and forests were inspirations for his poems and are mentioned in many. A leisurely half-hour walk will acquaint you with Frost country and some of his works that are located in appropriate settings. To enjoy this trail, please take your time and leave nothing but footprints.
“Let’s go .” Mom squeezes past us. “There are a lot more trees once we get in a little ways. Hurry up. It’s almost five. It’s going to start getting dark soon, and we still need to fix dinner for the boys.”
We left Dad and Ian playing Star Wars LEGO Attack. Dad kept watching to see when Mom left. I bet he’s already brought out the hidden potato chips. Somehow, he and Nonna both deal with Mom better than I do. We’re just so different.
I watch her power-walking along the boardwalk. I stay back with Nonna. Mom doesn’t stop to read the first poem posted along the trail, but Nonna does.
“Read it out loud, okay?” I ask, and she leans in to read the neatly typed verse, posted at the edge of a marshy clearing.
It’s called “The Pasture,” and it reads like an invitation. A guy going out to rake leaves from the spring in the pasture invites somebody to come with him. Maybe it’s his wife or his son. “You come, too,” he says, like there’s no hurry at all.
“I bet that guy doesn’t have a leaf collection due on Friday,” I say.
“No, I’d imagine not.” Nonna squints off into the woods as Mom disappears.
“Look, another one right here.” I set my shoe box and leaf key down on a weathered wooden bench and step to the railing at the edge of the marsh. I had to stretch up on my tiptoes to see over the top last time we were here. I was only six or seven, but I remember the electric blue dragonfly hovering over the swamp grass. Everything was so green and bushy then. It must have been July or August.
Now the plants are all brownish and rustly dry, like they’re whispering secrets. The poem posted there is called “The Secret Sits.” It’s about how we humans have to go around guessing at everything while the world keeps its secrets.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I don’t get it.”
“That’s what it means,” Nonna says laughing. “That there are things in this world we just don’t get.”
Nonna walks on down the boardwalk, but I stay and look out at the whispery marsh again. I try listening harder. Maybe the tall grasses know Nonna’s secrets about getting away from earth. I wish they’d tell me how to keep her here.
“Gianna!” Mom’s hiking boots clunk on the far end of the boardwalk, so I jog ahead to meet her.
“Where are your leaves?” she asks.
“I haven’t got any yet. We were just reading the poems.”
“Where’s the box?”
“Oh. Back there.” I whirl around to run and get it from the bench, but I don’t go quickly enough to miss hearing her sigh.
When I catch up, we cross a wooden bridge that looks like it ought to have trolls under it and then walk up a steeper part of the path into shadowy trees.
“Are you doing okay?” Mom asks, and she slows down to wait for Nonna.
“I’m fine, Angela. I hiked this trail with you in my arms plenty of times. I think I can hike it now.”
“Could you still do it carrying Mom?” I ask, and even Mom laughs.
She helps me identify a gray birch, a red spruce, and a hemlock, and labels them with neat block letters in permanent marker on the plastic bags. During breaks, Nonna reads us poems: “The Road Not Taken,” “Going for Water,” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
“That’s the only one that doesn’t fit,” I say.
“How so?” Nonna asks.
“Well, the place, I mean. The poem about the road less traveled is right where a trail splits off. The one about mowing is in a low area with lots of
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