"My sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane."
from My November Guest by Robert Frost
A friend set this poem to music fifty years ago. I sing it in a poor imitation of the great folksinger Martin Carthy as I tramp the sodden lanes in November gloom.
The trees are not yet bare. The ginkgo in my garden still has some bright yellow leaves, though many have fallen onto the grave of my beloved canine friend, Taz, who is buried beneath.
I visited the Robert Frost homestead in New Hampshire years ago. And, even better, the Emily Dickinson place in Amherst. But oh the embarrassment. A group of us were led around by an immensely knowledgable and charming guide. I said that I'd been an ED fan for many years so she asked me what was my favourite Dickinson poem. My mind went blank. Decades later the awkwardness is still vivid.
On that holiday we hiked in the White Mountains, where we visited an acquaintance and marvelled that her garden was frequently visited by bears. My garden has resident foxes - I'd love some friendly bears. And we walked up Mount Megunticook in Maine, not knowing until a few weeks later that my heart was barely fit for purpose.
It was in September 2001, just a week after the terrible events of 9-11. Tourist numbers were much lower than usual so we were cherished and feted. I wonder how tourist numbers are doing now? I hope they are managing - the owners and staff of quirky guest-houses and 1950s-style diners; the guides and curators at museums; the vendors of witch-related t-shirts in Salem (my friend still wears one she bought there 24 years ago).