On hearing Robert Frost’s The Road Not Taken.
It reminded me of the time, back in 2000, when I decided to drive down from where I lived near DC To Manassas. A small township. The rains had started overnight, and low clouds hung over the land, a constant drizzle drumming on the roof of my car. The wipers were turned on full blast as I made my way down Highway 1. Yes, there is a Highway 1 on the East Coast - not the famous Pacific Coast Highway in California. I was still using Rand McNally’s road maps in those days - didn’t have or want a GPS in the car.
The Manassas battlefield is one of the lesser known battlefields of the American Civil War. I parked the car in an empty parking lot and walked onto the field. The Blue Ridge Mountains were invisible in the haze. Green undulating fields surrounded me, corpses of dark green trees breaking the rolling monotony. A low stone wall ran alongside the path. Split log fences marked some boundaries. I walked further afield - alone in a grey world, dripping droplets clinging to my jacket hood. The further I got the quieter it got. An occasional swoosh from car tires on the road behind was the only indication of humanity around. A single canon chained off in a small square stood silent - as if it wondered where all the fire had gone. I perched on the stone wall, my feet dangling off the ground over the dip on the other side.
Sitting, I let my senses roam freely. There was only the sound of the rain pattering on the grass and stones. The green smell of wet grass. Cold wet stone pressed into my palms. I looked over at a small wood about three hundred feet from where I was. It was dark beneath the trees. Thick ground foliage made it impossible to see further than a few feet in.
I could almost hear the sound of thundering canons.
Of rifle fire.
Of cries for mercy.
Of shouts to rally.
Of shouts to rally.
Of frenetic activity as soldiers ran around, engaged in the business of death.
Did each one of them believe in the cause he served? Many would never see their families again. Many would see the last light of life in another’s eyes - be it friend or foe. There would be no time to mourn or stop. The only instinct would be to survive. Survive at any cost. Would the rain have hindered the firepower ? Guns jammed? Powder wet? Looking up to see a bayonet coming towards your chest? What would that moment have been like?
The rain still fell as I sat there lost in thought. Finally I stirred myself. I wandered some more, reading the plaques set in memory. Finally I returned to my car. Three hours had passed - and I had not seen another soul. Only the ghosts of memories past.
My stomach rumbled. I needed sustenance. I needed to go home.
