Sunday, December 27, 1998

Country girl and magic of Robert Frost

By Sharon Randall

I woke this morning as the sun was rising and the air was so cold I could see my breath.

I pushed the cat off my pillow, put the pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. Couldn't. So I started reciting poetry to the cat.

Some days I barely remember my own name, so don't ask me how I could remember a poem I learned 30 years ago. Or why I'd recite it to a cat.

The poem was Robert Frost's "To The Thawing Wind." Goes like this:

"Come with rain, O loud Southwester!

"Bring the singer, bring the nester;

"Give the buried flower a dream..."

Da duh da duh da duh da

"Burst into my narrow stall;

"Swing the picture on the wall;

"Run the rattling pages o'er;

"Scatter poems on the floor;

"Turn the poet out of door."

The da duh das were mine, not Frost's, filler for the part I forgot.

The cat didn't care. She thinks I'm crazy, anyway. The more I thought about that poem, the more I wanted, like Frost, to be turned "out of door." I had a column to write, but I could take a walk on the beach first, couldn't I? Maybe even write about the walk.

My hopeless-romantic side said, "Hit the floor, fool." My 50-year-old-sensible-woman-side said, "If you go out there now, you will freeze off your poetic license."

So I waited until mid-morning. It was still cold, but I didn't see my breath. Thought I might also drop in on some folks, readers who'd written offering to adopt me. They mentioned cookies, so it seemed worth a visit. But I couldn't find the letter with their address. And I didn't recall their names. I don't often get such offers. Hope they write me again.

It's an easy walk from my house to downtown and the beach. Going home, it's all up hill. I stopped at the post office to mail a letter, then ducked in the bookstore. Big mistake. Bought more books I don't have time to read, cards I'll likely never send.

Went by the barbershop to say hello to Gene and Gordy, my favorite barbers/movie critics. They don't cut my hair, but they're always good for a laugh or a movie review. Sign in the window said they'd be back later. Maybe. Barbers are a lot like columnists.

By the time I hit the beach, my face was so cold I could barely feel the Arctic wind blowing in from the Gulf of Alaska, frothing breakers like meringue on a pie.

The bay looked like a big blue wash tub, sloshing and foaming, threatening to spill.

I walked the shore trail a mile or more, then sat on a rocky cliff watching waves explode 30 feet in the air, salt spray stinging my eyes.

Half an hour later, wet, cold and entirely content, I went home to write this column.

All my life, I've tried to be the good country girl I was reared to be -- to live right, work hard, be responsible and fry a decent chicken.

Usually. But early this year I lost my husband to cancer, survived my 50th birthday and realized that my children aren't children any more.

Since then, I don't "try" quite so hard. If I want to go to the beach, I go. The work still gets done. My friends still like me. The same sun still rises and sets.

I'm no poet. I'm a survivor; a good country girl who's been turned "out of door." And I'm not turning back.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards. Her column regularly runs on Sunday.

Scripps Howard News Service