I like the word Ramble......
The dictionary says that the word ramble means to take a leisurely walk in the country, to talk or write without much direction, to meander. But it means a lot more than that to me.
So I give Ramble my own definition: to wander on without direction, wherever the road may take you. To be a gypsy of sorts.
I use to think that my husband was The Rambler... like in this old song.
He couldn't stay put for more than a few minutes. And I just went wherever he went. We moved a lot in our first 10 years of marriage. Ten times, actually. We started out in Nyack, NY, moved to Wisconsin and moved from town to town, and then moved to New Hampshire, meandering around that exquisite state. For the past 6 years we have been stuck in North Carolina. I say stuck because we can't move anywhere. We tried. Multiple times. Blame the economy, blame fate, blame Providence. Whatever. This being stuck in limbo has brought the realization to myself that I like to ramble too.. I like change, a new town, unpacking and discovering new places and meeting new people. Am I unAmerican for that? There are many people who would like to live in the same house their whole life. To have the type of stability of knowing everyone in town, being close to family, knowing what to expect.
Anyway Led Zeppelin's Ramble On speaks to me:
I will end with part of a poem by Robert Service, one of my favorite poets. His poems were about death, war, and the desolation of brave explorers of a time past. He doesn't write about false love, but other desires that push a man to make his mark.
Men Who Don't Fit In
There's A race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far,
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
The dictionary says that the word ramble means to take a leisurely walk in the country, to talk or write without much direction, to meander. But it means a lot more than that to me.
So I give Ramble my own definition: to wander on without direction, wherever the road may take you. To be a gypsy of sorts.
I use to think that my husband was The Rambler... like in this old song.
He couldn't stay put for more than a few minutes. And I just went wherever he went. We moved a lot in our first 10 years of marriage. Ten times, actually. We started out in Nyack, NY, moved to Wisconsin and moved from town to town, and then moved to New Hampshire, meandering around that exquisite state. For the past 6 years we have been stuck in North Carolina. I say stuck because we can't move anywhere. We tried. Multiple times. Blame the economy, blame fate, blame Providence. Whatever. This being stuck in limbo has brought the realization to myself that I like to ramble too.. I like change, a new town, unpacking and discovering new places and meeting new people. Am I unAmerican for that? There are many people who would like to live in the same house their whole life. To have the type of stability of knowing everyone in town, being close to family, knowing what to expect.
Anyway Led Zeppelin's Ramble On speaks to me:
I will end with part of a poem by Robert Service, one of my favorite poets. His poems were about death, war, and the desolation of brave explorers of a time past. He doesn't write about false love, but other desires that push a man to make his mark.
Men Who Don't Fit In
There's A race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far,
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove, What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move Is only a fresh mistake.
And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.
He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.
My dad would quote that poem to me several times over the course of my life!! Can't believe you know it...our 'cut from the same cloth' similarities continue.
ReplyDeleteToo funny, Carrie! My dad would read Robert Service's poetry to us all the time :)
ReplyDelete