This blog entry is a place-holder until I have time to write something more--perhaps a poem in the style of Frost, if I can pull one off. Some drafting must ensue.
Mostly, though, I had to link this to the blogs I've been writing on Cowboys and Indians, because reading "The Gift Outright" in the context of the readings I've done for that class is bizarre, to say the least. The land was ours? Really?
And yet I love Frost's Thoreauvian love of wood-cutting in "Two Tramps in Mud Time," which feels very Idaho to me.
I'm all conflict tonight: I, too, am the English-descended immigrant who loves chopping wood (preferably Tamarack, though--I've decided oak isn't actually flammable) and yet as deeply as I love this *land*, can I really profess it to be a gift, given its murderous history? The colonization and everything seems a tad over-simplified in this last poem of our selection.