A Visit With Henry

Well over a decade had passed since my last serious sojourn to the pond so, when wandering nearby, I couldn't help but stopping to inquire whether memories of past visits remained valid. As you know, a long and thoughtful rumination at the site isn't as easy as many think and most, except for that obligatory trek as first year college students, talk about tramping so far from town rather than really slogging through the woods.

Much sooner than expected, I found myself tiptoeing along the right of way peering across the short reach of the pond toward the house and helloed. As to everyone, the occupant was most welcoming to this pilgrim.

The journey was not made in order to compare my life in Virginia near the seat of government in Washington with his in New England but such weighing was inevitable, doubly so as people abiding within shouting distance of the pond are considerably closer in habit to me than him. As you well know, his opinions were more than a little strong when he penned them and how things were proceeding near the Capital, or in Concord for that matter, this day might well have been upsetting.

His view that man needs no more than a savage's wigwam to satisfy his need for shelter is compatible with my own - at its most basic level. That his neighbors' houses, thought immodest by the Henry's standards, have since he commented trebled or quadrupled in size and in the number of rooms to make way for half the number of offspring would have caused consternation, but all was put easy when it became clear - at least to me - that his thesis that we enslave ourselves to our dwellings remains alive and valid.

Just think of how he might react to the thought of village women transporting their miniscule number of children in self propelled wagons with the power of more horses than the train engine that passed by his house each day?

There was little need to shatter his world concerning the news that still drives the universe beyond the wood. He observed that the need to know of another crime in Concord was of no use to anyone. For me to agree but then to double the ante by describing the present mantra of, "If it bleeds, it leads," would have been too much to swallow. At that moment, a jet flew overhead but it seemed to make no impression on anyone but me.

Needless to say, if the changes in our customs of housing might create havoc with the thinker's pondering, how could I ever explain to him or anyone the latest in apparel? The solid common sense prescriptions in clothing that he espoused were timeless, and I had a difficult time picturing him at ease on Casual Friday. The subject was dropped even from my mind as the possible outburst might well have shaken the house off its foundation and created apoplexy in my host.

Shifting to the natural world, I felt my thoughts on what had transpired since his observations would be both interesting and not unsettling. That woodchucks still attack town gardens and foxes are prospering even more than when he penned his lines would certainly be of great interest. I skirted the issue of how deer had virtually taken over the woods and the gardens since their enemies had been routed and that some of his neighbors seemed more concerned for the safety and freedom of these ruminants than for the balance of nature which had long been toppled in these parts.

Henry pointed out that deer had been exterminated from the woods around Concord. Obviously, he would have little difficulty in understanding that we'd persecuted their enemies to extinction and our mark on the land had favored the deer more than other species. But knowing his respect for hunters and woodsmen he would have had no difficulty in having them culled to reasonable levels. Since my host had little qualms about dragging pouts from their place at the bottom of the pond and filleting them for the skillet, I have no doubt that his support would have been with the hunter rather than those intent on protecting what have become vermin of our own creation.

Pouts, now that's a term. Like Henry, I fished for horned pouts as a boy in Massachusetts and never heard them called anything else, but they're bullheads or catfish now. I wondered if he'd recognize these names but soon relaxed, knowing that he knew both the proper and common name of every species that ever swam, flew, or walked these parts.

He walked the roads to town and trekked the dark paths through the woods in all seasons. As the miles passed, he observed and watched and thought and set the stage for his great gifts to me - and you. And back at the house in the quiet of the evening he made sweet music on his flute, notes that gave him ease from his labors. I wonder what he would think of today's practice of passively listening to music, heads bobbing like shore birds to the heavy beat as lives fritter away.

You know he considered Irishman with more than a little prejudice concerning their religion and its impact on their thinking process, and I wondered if he would have suffered some guilt on learning that more than a few of the descendants of these shanty dwellers were intent on understanding his lessons. After taking my leave, I concluded that he was more than flexible enough to cope with such changes.

Pondering the changes in Concord since first learning of his adventures, had I truly simplified my existence? Had I thought? Most important, since, "in the long run men hit only what they aim at, therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something high." Had I aimed high? As to the first question, perhaps not so much as I should have. The second, I hope so, but, obviously not as deeply as I should have. And the third, yes, emphatically! In my writing I do aim high. Whether the target has been struck matters far less than having joined the contest intending a bull's eye.

Imagine a man less than half my age wrestling with the questions that have challenged the best of our species and inviting us all to join him in his walks. I’m retired now and freer because of it. Perhaps I should moved to a garret years earlier, but that's the past and, as we all know, even God can't change that. My house is not immodest and my car coughs and sputters, but I could have done with less and gotten on with writing. On the other hand without these visits each decade or so, I might be an even greater tool of my tools.

I took my leave of Henry and his Walden Pond and placed the volume back in its cherished place and wondered if our paths might cross again? What was my gain this time? Oh yes, "Simplify, simplify, simplify."

Epilogue

Without conscious knowledge that 2004 is the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the publication of Walden, I plucked it off my bookshelf. Naturally, within ten minutes I was, like a Walden pout, hooked.

As I neared the end of the book, I happened to catch Diane Rhem's show on National Public Radio celebrating the anniversary of the publication. Her three guest were wonderful and described many things about Thoreau that either I didn't know or had failed to remember.

Most importantly the highly qualified panel described how much Thoreau had influenced their lives and how influential the book had been on many who had long forgotten its words. As I was in the process of such an epiphany, I was disappointed that the show had to end, ever.

I cannot begin to describe how so many of Henry's observations - even though their source had long faded from my active memory - had become part of my own thought process. This book is as influential as its admirers say. If you have never read it, read it! If you read it long ago, read it again!


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