BENEATH THE SURFACE

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

I memorized this whole Robert Frost poem when I was in 8th grade. It was honors English and halfway through the year I got kicked out into the hallway. Not officially removed from the class, just placed out of the actual room. My teacher would leave the door open and make me sit outside, far enough away to not bother anyone, close enough to hear.

“I love you Adam, but you are not coming back into this class room…”

“Deal.”

I didn’t love literature or memorization when I was in 8th grade…but I did the work and now, years later, those words are in my bones. I was walking through some brush on my father’s farm a few months ago and all of a sudden the words percolated up through my being…. “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall…”

I even said out loud… “Where did that come from?”

Honors English. 8th grade. Mrs. Moore.

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same…

I wish I had been more a more serious student. I wish I had put my nose in a few more books. I wish my head had a bit more of the classics stuffed in and a bit less of everything else. I wish I understood how good my brain was in middle school, and how the things I received in those years would go with me the rest of my life.

I read The Yearling my freshman year and it shattered me. Would it still work on me in middle age? I have no idea, but I’m glad it did then.

My grandmother learned Latin in high school and read all the classics. I once asked her about Homer and she gave me a synopsis of the Odyssey while making a sandwich. She never went to college and spent her later years watching The Price is Right.

On the backside of my father’s land there is a spring that runs out of a hill. 600 acres are collected at that one point, filtered through limestone and sedimentary rock placed beneath the soil by Yahweh himself. The rain falls, waters the crops, disappears into the dirt, and goes quiet for who knows how long. Then one day they reemerge on the edge of a pasture where the sycamores stand tall and point the way to Pinch creek. I remember the afternoon I found that little spring, dammed up and walled off from the cattle by my uncle’s father. I reached in to feel the water and could not believe how cool it was. Relief in July. So I cupped my hand and took a drink.