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Small Mind at Large Pond
Each April 15th I wonder whether I should move into the woods and philosophize when my check to the IRS bounces. I thought about Thoreau out of season this July, or more accurately about how little I know of him, on a pilgrimage to Walden.
Walden is a clean pond, a lake by Midwestern standards, where a loon swoops down for fish amidst oaks and pines if it is not too put out by a Sunday crowd of recent immigrants on the beach. A black-eyed woman with a phenomenal ass and her tattooed, potbellied mate were shivering at the water's edge, angling for a spot of sun in the part of this country that's shaded by rain clouds or snow clouds or lengthy trees for the majority of the year. Massachusetts is a shady state.
Judging from the languages spoken, I assumed that the beach goers knew nothing about Thoreau's works. But they have an excuse, whereas I speak English as a first language and have studied under a state-funded educational curriculum all the way through graduate school. All I learned was that--and this might have been all I was interested in knowing--Thoreau didn't pay his taxes.
How do you get away with not paying your taxes? Can we all of us not pay our taxes and see what happens? (I read later that Thoreau's aunt paid his taxes for him.)
But never mind, because Walden is stunning, and you don't have to read Civil Disobedience to appreciate its beauty. You can say Thoreau is staked to the area--and far more effectively than if he had merely owned a piece of the property, which he never did--by default of Walden being a part of him. Then you can infer that every visitor is staked to Walden, whether or not the loon is spotted or the acorn on the path is symbolically pocketed or the legal status of the visitor is verified.
By the parking lot you'll find a replica of Thoreau's cabin, and inside it you can sign a guest book. I always sign the guest book in case I'll need an alibi and proof of my whereabouts. This was enough for me, but the others decided that we should pay homage to the homely little man (as described by a life-size bronze) by making the short trek to see the real deal, the site where a hearthstone was found deep in the woods in the 1940's.
I transported my daughter in a plastic no-terrain stroller, purchased for its one advantageous feature of being disposable. The friends and relatives took off ahead while my baby girl enjoyed the bumpy ride in her fringe-less surrey.
The wheels refused to function as the path became rockier, so I tucked my daughter under one arm and the folded up stroller under the other. The narrow heels of my sandals kept getting wedged in between river rocks and mud. Every time a shoe got stuck, I had to drop the stroller, lift my foot out of the stuck shoe, and while balancing on the other leg and embracing my daughter tightly in one arm, dip down to yank the shoe free.
When I finally caught up with them, the rosy-faced kinsfolk were cheerfully taking photos of the sun dappled clearing and the small towers of rock piles left by truer worshipers. “Look,” I said, “I don't know how much farther you plan on hiking, but I've got Bugaboo to carry and my feet are in spasms.” Somebody important asked “Why? Why are you wearing those shoes?” Five pairs of eyes pointed down at my feet, and no one felt sorry for me.
It's a travesty, I left Walden Pond with nothing more spiritual than a plan to purchase as soon as possible some ugly therapeutic footwear and a fancy perambulator.
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