This is Buzzy's Country Store blog designed to keep you apprised of what's going on at the Store. Buzzy's is a general store located in St. Mary's County, Southern Maryland near Pt. Lookout State Park. Buzzy and Jean Ridgell purchased the Store from Jean's father Harry Raley in 1953. Buzzy operated it until his passing in 2009. His son J. Scott Ridgell is the current owner.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Twofer Tuesday: Robert Frost and Out Out

Over the course of these past 4 weeks, Robert Frost has crossed my doorstep twice, once on a good occasion and once in a not-so-good way.

First the good.  A recent article in the Washington Post (click here) discussed the Trump inaugural committee's efforts to secure celebrities to perform at the event.   (Quick aside joke - rumor has it that George Michael's last words were "I'd rather die than perform at Trump's inauguration.")

The Post article mentioned various artists and celebrities who had appeared at inaugurations thru the years.  Robert Frost's appearance in 1961 at JFK's swearing in was mentioned.  I was 10 years old at the time but I remember something about Frost not being able to read the poem he had written for the occasion and then something about podium catching fire (click here.)  All in all it was a little bit of a cluster-you-know-what.

But then again my second "Robert Frost Moment" also involved some unforeseen complications.  After I fell, broke my hip last month and was sprawled out on the ground, I did what I usually do when confronted with a messy situation:  I thought "what is the worst that can come of this?" 

My worst-case-analysis brought me to "Go into shock and die here on the ground."  I next thought about a morbid little story that I had encountered in some American Lit class many, many years ago.  It was a Robert Frost poem titled "Out, Out" about a boy who had had an accident, went into shock and died.  Mind you, I had not thought anything about this poem nor about Robert Frost in close to 50 years and yet there I was laid out on the ground in front of my Dad's former apartment and thinking about it.  Talk about a sobering experience.  

Here then is the Frost poem I was thinking about.

Out, Out
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside them in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if to prove saws knew what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap—
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy's first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all—
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart—
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off—
The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!”
So. But the hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright.
No one believed. They listened at his heart.
Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.

Fortunately for me, Brian Barnhill was nearby to contact the Ridge Rescue Squad and help divert my worst case thoughts.  I sure am glad he was there.

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