To Live Deliberately . . .

10:49 PM Edit This 3 Comments »

"I went into the woods to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what is had to teach. . ." HDT

As a child of 12 or 13 I did not fantasize about the same things other girls my age did. At times, there was the reading of magazines and thinking of movie stars and sports heroes, but largely I spent my time reading books. I rarely read pop fiction (The Babysitters Club, Sweet Valley High); overall I read larger works Christy, and Little Women. I was still deep into Little House on the Prairie, probably immature of me but something about all these books drew me.

Flash forward 6 or 7 years to college, I found myself enraptured by Thoreau and Emerson, seeking out Frost. Another few years put me in graduate school in a class titled Literature of the American West. Again, I was engrossed in the literature reading and reading as hard as I could and loving every minute of it, wishing for some land, a sheep, freedom, and peace.


Today I went on a bit of a hike. It was brief but beautiful and woodsy. The trail led to a very gentle section of the Lamprey river. There were what I will call red pigmy squirrels, about the size of chipmunks with rose red tails; I am quite sure I have discovered this species, although some may disagree. A giant woodpecker caught my eye, the largest I've ever seen. He reminded me of a dinosaur, not because of his size but the shape of his head; I though of Darwin. There was a small graveyard of 10 - 12 graves the earliest date on the tombstones I could read was 1850, but I am sure the others were much older cracked and decayed. As I was hiking, I thought of Thoreau as I passed through the woods and Frost as I passed through the meadow.


As my husband and I entered the trail, a family came out a husband and wife about our age and their parents one set at least.
The mother cried "people, civilization, Thank Goodness! I didn’t think we'd make it out alive."
The father echoed by saying, "I hope you've worn bug spray it's horrific in there. They will eat you alive."
The younger couple laughed only agreeing that there were many mosquitoes. We not really having planned this venture had no bug spray. There were in fact numerous bugs, of which I have the marks to prove. These people didn’t seem to enjoy themselves at all they irked me.

I have been on a journey, a search for a very long time. I've been looking for the rawness of an untamed country. I have searched in vain. It is gone. I feel like Edward Abbey (read Dessert Solitaire). I will not have what Thoreau had; it is gone. I cannot forge a trail to some place special, because the special places are gone. I cannot live off the land, because no matter where I go there is at the very least a gas station full of "convenience" every few miles. I love my cell phone, car, and computer, but occasionally I wonder at what cost these things exist. I fear that we are becoming a people who have an impossible to fill nature cavity. I want to walk in a wood without trashcans or directions. I want to get lost. If the primitiveness is not there, I'm not sure that nature is the same.

Reflections on New England

4:56 PM Edit This 1 Comment »

Part 1

My neighbor plays jazz. Well, actually, he doesn't "play;" I suppose it would be more accurate to say he listens to jazz. He listens loudly. It's the type of jazz that you listen to at full volume, or at least he does; it's the type of jazz that has a bass, not a bass guitar, but a big bass. The type of bass that goes

"THOOM, THOOM, THOOM . . . THOOM THOOM THOOM."

The bass goes on and on never stopping, thooming it's way into your core.

My husband and I were carrying some boxes out on to the patio of our apartment. The neighbor pops his head out and says,

"Hey I see you guys just moved in."

Even an obvious statement said in a New England accent can be amusing. My husband speaks I would much rather listen than talk to a stranger.

"Yep we just moved in today." "Have you been living here long?"

"Nah I been here about a week. Where are you guys from?"

"Originally Rochester, NY but we just moved up here from Arkansas. We were going to school down there. Where are you from?"

"I'm from Mass. Seems like a nice place here."

I'm from Mass. What the heck is Mass? I process that he is from Massachusetts. Now Massachusetts is a long word but it takes no more time to say than Mississippi, California, or Oklahoma. I find his abbreviated state use preposterous to say the least. I keep an ear out for him for the next few days. Boisterous Spanish speaking woman come on his patio, an odd occurrence in the white out of New Hampshire. I realize that this gentleman neighbor of mine may only be the beginning of peculiar happenings.

Part 2

Rural New England is the America that America left behind. The people are friendly, but strange. The culture is costal whatever that means. All of the towns have historic and elaborate downtowns. The barista at the local coffee/book/icecream shop said to me,

"New Hampshire is cute, that's really the only thing you can say about it. It's just so darn cute. People say that Vermont is cuter, but it's not and honestly they're the same state anyway."

She's right, the barista. Everything about New Hampshire is picturesque, from the stone houses with red barns to the sprawling creeks and rolling countryside. It's beautiful.

If the government decided the whole state of New Hampshire needed to go back to buggy use and leave the cars, I think the people would agree, as long as they were allowed to use their cars to haul their kayaks and canoes. The cars seem almost odd against the countryside that time forgot. Since I've lived here, less than a week, I have seen Lama's, Horses, Sheep, and Cows. There are wineries and places that make their own wool and yarn. Seriously, who does that.

The pace of life is different here. It's not slow like the south but more of a meander. Possessions, work, destinations, they are all important, but life is important. Being outside and spending quality time with the people around you. It sounds like a Hallmark movie, but it is all true. The barista's name is Emily; she is 24 and has lived in New Hampshire her entire life. She enjoys browsing through the books at the back of the coffee shop. How many people know that much about someone they've met once.

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