THE PATH LESS TRAVELED
        
              Those who have ever traveled across the northeastern states
        like Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire, or even the Poconos,
        realize that these areas have nothing over our own postage stamp
        of land, Forest County.
              On Thursday, my birthday, I rode home from work the longest
        way I could find just to enjoy the azure skies and fiery forests
        of red, orange, and amber.  I sensed that this would probably be
        the last day I would be able to ride in just shorts and shirt. 
        Any day now the surface of the earth would be frozen until spring
        time.
              Crossing the field near the Tenneco Pump Station, I spooked
        a flock of foraging turkeys.  Some flew right away, but the
        others just stood there and watched me as I rode past.  They knew
        I meant them no harm.  
              Each Autumn, I am amazed how October 6th, 7th, and 8th are
        so full of beauty and then by the 9th and 10th, the weather
        changes and the oranges become muted and burnt umber dominates
        the raw ones.  In a short week or two, all the colors disappear
        and the earth is reduced to black and white and shades of gray.
              It then becomes "November in my soul."  Herman Melville
        began the most famous novel in American literature, Moby Dick,
        with this invocation:  
              "...Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth;
        whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I
        find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and
        bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially
        whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires
        a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping
        into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off-
        then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. 
        This is my substitute for pistol and ball.  With a philosophical
        flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to
        the ship.  There is nothing surprising in this.  If they but knew
        it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish
        very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me."
              It's not November in my soul yet.  October is still too much
        with me.  Apples are on the bough.  Have you noticed the
        extraordinary supply of apples we are gifted with this year?  In
        five minutes tonight, I picked a bushel basket of Jonareds.  They
        are especially sweet this year.  So sweet in fact, that even my
        son asked for one today.  
              This autumnal mystery never ceases to amaze me.  I
        understand it biologically.  With less light present,
        photosynthesis stops in plants, and genetically, each species
        magically colors the earth with its own innate hue.  We are
        treated then to the brilliant crimson of the Silver Maple, the
        blood red of the Sugar Maple, the deep yellow of the Black
        Cherry, and the burnt sienna of the Oak.  
              Driving home from Coudersport on Saturday, I watched the
        transition from brilliance to the soft hues of the impending
        November foliage.  Even in the overcast, rainsoaked twilight,
        God's hills lifted my spirit.  Pumpkins were already off the
        vine.  I stopped and purchased nine large ones so Cheryl could
        complete her fall decorations.  They sat in the back seat and
        kept me company.        Walking down the path near my home this
        evening, Robert Frost's poem about yellow woods played through my
        unconscious:  
              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;  
        
              ...I shall be telling this with a sigh
              Somewhere ages and ages hence:
              Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
              I took the one less traveled by,
              And that has made all the difference.
        
              This autumn will come and go.  Like the squirrel, I shall
        put away as many nuts away as possible in anticipation of the
        winter just ahead.  Given the amount of apples on the trees, the
        plethora of black cherry seeds on the forest floor, the good mast
        crop of acorns, and the long black ring on the wooly worm, I'm
        sure we will have a good, old-fashioned winter.  
              Have your heard the one about the skydiver whose parachute
        did not open after he leaped from the airplane and plunged to the
        runway from 1000 feet and lived.  When the air traffic controller
        heard that the man was still alive, he was heard to ask, "Hey,
        what religion does that guy belong to.  I think I'll join his
        congregation."  Strange what it will take for someone to find
        faith in their life.