In 2013 I got drunk and wrote a short story concerning my cousin. Before 2013 I had ignored writing as though it was a waste of time.
The story is raw and at times tough to read. Descriptive in nature. The story is not fully edited and full of ridiculous errors I wouldn’t make now. However, it’s real. My wife, Megan, self published the book for me. I wrote the story hoping it would help my cousin. Though he loved the writing, I’m not sure that it helped in any way.
If you want to read a moving story about a man trying to handle his demons, loves dogs, but not himself enough, here –
I took the photo. Sugarloaf Mountain, South Dearfield, MA is on the right of the Connecticut river and Sunderland is on the left. This is where the story takes place.
This catapulted my mind back to where it belonged.
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost, 1874 – 1963
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–
I took the ones less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
While driving back roads in New England I often think of the second to last line, ‘I took the one less traveled by,’ and smile as I turn down a dirt road I do not know. And now, with Gavin and Megan, we are getting to know the back roads of Maine. We’ve just begun and my heart sings to learn where every one of them go.