The Road Not Taken

One of the most misunderstood poems is Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” We read it as a tale about individuality, independence, “taking the road less traveled.” But, that’s not what it is about.

Here are the key passages:

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.

According to the poem, “And both that morning equally lay.” No one path was “less traveled” than the other. In fact, as an undergraduate, I learned and read that Frost had a walking buddy who would often choose one path or another, and then, he would spend the time lamenting not being able to walk both, wondering if he had made the “right” choice.

“The Road Not Taken” is about rationalization. It is about the choices we make in life, and how, often, in order to make peace with those choices, we tell ourselves—“I took the one less traveled by,/And that has made all the difference.”

Last night, I experienced small town Iowa. I went with a friend to the town (village?) of Jewell. I don’t know what the population is in Jewell, but it is the typical Midwestern small town.

On the main street, they had a memorial library with a cut out of Big Bird in the window. There was a bar called the Malibu Lounge—a name I have to applaud, considering Jewell and Malibu don’t exactly seem like sister cities. The stale smell of smoke seeped from the opened screen windows, and when my friend and I stepped inside, all of the patrons were huddled around the bar, laughing, talking. This seemed a typical Saturday night ritual, and when we walked in, we were definitely the “stars of the show.” All of the patrons turned their attention to us. It felt like a movie. I could not hide my large smile. This has been one of my favorite Iowa experiences of all-time.

We were actually looking for food, so we asked for where we could eat and were directed down the street. Of course, it wouldn’t be “across town,” or maybe it was. But, as with so many small towns in America, Main Street was where most things were located, and it was hopping on a Saturday night.

Down the street was a nice restaurant. On the wall, they still had a huge placard with the 1965’s high school ladies’, I think, basketball tournament. The sense of pride was strong, even as the white had faded yellow and dust grayed the edges.

I could not decide if they were trying to mimic the chain restaurants like Applebee’s or Cracker Barrel with their “diner” and “down home” décor. Instead, I think the big chains were trying to evoke the feelings that Michelle’s simply already possessed. Knotty wooden booths felt more like bark than a seat. Still, it was comfortable enough to enjoy my $5 hamburger and fries.

Finally, we went down to the bowling alley. It seemed like an old bank from the outside—stern, reverent brick. On the inside, though, we found about eight lanes, a bar area which was just as large as the bowling alley, and bowling prices so low, I wondered if we had stumbled into a time warp.

And, here is where my blog really starts. The people we met were surrounded by the swirling energy of at least two children each. Some couples had brought in more. In any event, the number of children was more than that of the adults.

The people I spoke with had been born and raised in Iowa. They were living not far from the town where they grew up. In some cases, they still lived in their hometowns. I sat there, fascinated to hear about their daily lives and pursuits. These were truly the backbone of Iowa. They carry on its traditions, its culture, the strength of what Iowa is.

I felt so much younger than the women with whom I spoke. In some cases, I felt several years younger.

I was their age.

I imagined that these couples probably married in their early twenties, as it often seems the case in Iowa. They had three or four children. They go to church each Sunday. And for the last decade, they have supported their husbands, children, and put their own lives and ambitions on hold. These are the women who made The Bridges of Madison Country a run-away bestseller.

These women are the same age that I am. I tried to put myself in their shoes. How must that feel?

How often do you drive through small towns and wonder what it must be like to live there? Not drive through but walk down that main street, no longer than probably ten or fifteen buildings, and see the familiar comfort of home.

When I was little, well, and probably now, too, sometimes, I would walk or drive through a place late at night and glance into people’s open curtains and see the flicker of their television sets. I tried to imagine another life. I tried to imagine what it must be like to be sitting in that room, watching that television, and I would wonder what thoughts the person was having.

Last night, I was reminded of Robert Frost’s poem.

Those women probably looked me, too, and saw a parallel life. One that did not include marriage or children. One with slightly fewer worry lines (and maybe even laugh lines). I could do as I wanted, when I wanted, and with whom I wanted.

I might’ve folded my arms and told myself that I “took the road less traveled.” I did not envy those women. I truly believe that if I had wanted to have a husband and children, I would’ve made those choices in life. But, I simply didn’t.

And, yet, I didn’t blaze any trails or do anything individualistic or empowering. They didn’t choose the path of the most contentment and satisfaction, either, I’m sure of it. We simply made choices.

We rationalize our choices. We have to. We don’t get to hit the “reset” button on life. There are no do-overs. You make a choice, and it has ramifications.

I like to say that “the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence…until you have to mow it.”

We choose our paths. The point is to enjoy the path we’re walking because once we make a choice, we can’t go back and walk the other.

So, inhale the fresh air and enjoy your path—at least we’re still walking and we can savor the sweet anticipation of the next fork in the road.