I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.
Henry David Thoreau
That’s nice.
I, on the other hand, went to the woods because I have a bad haircut. At least, that is one of the reasons. It is too short for me and won’t lay down without great amounts of hairspray and effort. I’ve already been mistaken for k.d. lang.
But while I was in a cabin in the piney woods last week, I had a chance to think and write. Thoreau crossed my mind, of course. Again and again I can read of his two-year experiment of living in the woods behind Emerson’s house in 1845. Walden is my favorite book, the book I have read more often than any other. Forget Graceland, I want to visit the cabin on Walden Pond.
I almost did. In the summer of 2001, I was staying in Cambridge, Massachusetts for eight sweltering weeks while I took two writing courses. On July 5, I planned an afternoon visit to Concord. There was so much to see! Author’s Ridge at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery; the houses of Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Ralph Waldo Emerson; and all things Thoreau were waiting for me — even Walden Pond! I was willing to take the long train ride and trek through the tiny town.
I walked my first block from the picturesque depot toward Ralph Waldo Emerson’s house, whispering under my breath the whole way. I wished I had never brought a backpack filled with journals and books. At that point, I could not even take off the backpack because I knew there would be a disgusting wet oval between my shoulder blades where I had sweat through my sundress. I plodded slowly onward, a miserable turtle.
After stopping twice for iced coffee, I finally made it to Emerson’s house. The museum-home was empty that day, so two knowledgeable docents led me from room to creaking room all by myself, sparing no detail. Afterward, I went to the Concord Museum across the street, in near euphoria to be standing within spitting distance of Thoreau’s splintery desk. The showrooms were cool, comfortable, and almost free of patrons. My legs trembled from exhaustion by the time I made it to the featured gallery. It was a replica of the cabin at Walden Pond, displaying Thoreau’s handmade bed, chair, and desk (topped with his handmade pencils — gasp!). I sat on a visitor’s bench to rest again. Two guests were talking with a docent, who was dressed like Thoreau. He really looked like Henry because he’d grown a wirey beard and mussed his hair.
The Thoreau-inspired docent (Shall I call him “the Thoreaucent?) wasn’t explaining the exhibit, however.
He was denigrating people from the South, laughing with the other guests and making jokes about how “stupid” we were. He had a special derision reserved for Texans. He even did a little impersonation of George W Bush. I didn’t get upset until he used the word y’all in reference to only one person. Now, that just puts me over the edge. I left the room, incensed.
Racial and religious discrimination are socially taboo, for the most part, yet regional discrimination is acceptable. Good grief. Are we not over this? It makes me so tired. If you are going to be rude, at least get it straight. Texas is not part of the Deep South. It is a southwestern state. *sigh* I did not bother to make this distinction to the Thoreaucent. He might have done something really intelligent, like shoot a spitwad at me with a straw.
I parked myself in the museum courtyard and scribbled off a four-page manifesto about the significance of place and how the only stupid person is the one who insists on seeing groups where he should see individuals. I used every multi-syllabic word I knew. I think I even made up a few. Before I departed, I asked the receptionist to hand my envelope to the Thoreaucent. Who am I kidding, he probably laughed.
I left the museum in no mood to visit Walden Pond, convinced that my dreamy trip to Concord had been ruined. As I walked back to the train depot, I ruminated over the verbal assault of the morning. I remembered something odd. “What was that he said?” I thought to myself. “Before he began his discriminatory tirade, he had said, ‘I have never seen it, but they have it in the vault at the library.’ Yes, I’m sure that’s what he said …”
The VAULT AT THE LIBRARY?! This was irresistible.
Moments later, I was leaning on the circulation desk at the Concord Free Public Library with a strange confidence.
“I am here to see it,” I whispered.
The librarian looked at me. “May I help you?”
“The contents of the vault. May I see it?” I repeated. As if under a magic spell, she stood and left the main desk unattended. I followed her, looking both ways. Was anybody watching this? Why had it worked? I decided that she must have been expecting someone important that morning, and I just happened to walk in at the right time and ask the right question. We ended up in the basement, and my heart started beating with a wild fury. There was a special room, which appeared to be for archival work. People silently handled documents with cotton-gloved hands.
My librarian donned her white gloves too. “Please wait a moment,” she said, then walked toward the vault on the opposite wall. There really was a vault at the library.
When she returned, she carried a dark book.
“This is the copy that Thoreau gave to Emerson,” she said, gently displaying the frontispiece of the first edition of Walden. Slowly and carefully, she turned the pages so that I could see the features of the book. There was an inscription:
R.W. Emerson
from HDT
I curled my fingers into fists, afraid I would reach out. Afraid I would breathe.
I wanted to declare that it was the most amazing thing I had ever seen, but I stopped. The significant events of any life are launched by questions, not declarations. I asked my second question of the day, “Is there anything else?”
She left with the book and handed it to someone standing in the door of the vault. Then she returned with another volume. “Here is where Thoreau began work on his essay, Walking,” she said, pointing to the script. “You will notice a change in penmanship here. When he became too ill, his sister took dictation.” I shook my head in wonder. From the 1800s, how few people had been within inches of Thoreau’s journal? Not under glass, not behind a rope. I felt the slight breeze when she turned the page.
Then the spell wore off. It was just too delicious to go on.
The librarian turned to me, suddenly aware that I looked quite unimportant in my purple madras sundress and monogrammed backpack. “I am sorry,” she scowled, “But … who are you?”
“I … um … I’m … uh,” my thoughts jumped to the onslaught of insults that morning at the museum. My lovely trip hadn’t been ruined after all. In fact, I needed to thank the Thoreaucent.
I couldn’t help smiling as I answered her: “I’m a Texan.”