We are searching for
Henry.
My sister and I spend a
hot day outside, starting at Walden Pond, not swimming (like we probably should,
due to the humidity) but hiking, jogging, and exploring. Neither one of us has ever been to Walden
Pond, though both of us have passed by its sign on the main thoroughfare dozens
of times. Today, we’re going to find
Henry David Thoreau, or, at least, his remainders, his remnants, his resonance.
We check the trail map and
decide to stay on the main Pond Path because it is an easy and direct shot to
the site of Thoreau’s famed cabin, and we also decide that 2.5 miles in this
heat is probably more than enough to start our long day of adventure. The cabin site is cordoned off with granite
hitching posts and rope, allowing an entry to the small area to explore where
the chimney had been, where the door had been, and on.
The reverence for this
literary site is shattered as we start back on the trail and I whimsically
wonder out loud if Henry David Thoreau swam naked in Walden Pond. I don’t know why I wonder this because,
judging by the man’s portraits, he’s not much of a looker, to me, anyway. Okay, he has interesting and unusual eyes,
but the rest of his face is super-creepy.
If I ever stumbled upon him in the woods --day or night, any season, him
clothed or not – I’d probably run screaming for the nearest exit.
On our way back to the
parking lot, we stumble across a replica of Thoreau’s cabin along with a statue
of old Henry, himself. It is early
morning still but ungodly hot and steamy, and the line to get into Walden Pond
stretches far down the street. We tell
one car that we will be leaving in a moment, if they would like our space. The gratefully accept, and as we are pulling
out of the lot, we see that there is no more line inside the gates, for they
have been locked. The new line forms on
the street. 9:40 a.m. and Walden Pond is
already full. Thank goodness naked Henry
isn’t swimming today; he’d have quite an audience.
We decide to visit the
nearby Concord Museum, inside of which are artifacts, history, and a baseball
exhibit. Outside of the museum is
another exact replica of Thoreau’s Walden cabin, except this one is more
historically sparse and more modernly functional: A table full of brochures
adorns the room, brochures I am certain of which there were none in Henry David’s
day.
We watch a thirteen-minute
film on Concord’s history through the ages, and are startled to hear every
narrator pronouncing Henry David’s name differently than we do. All the years, all the teachers, all the
professors, all the book store clerks, the name has always been Henry David
ThorEAU. These voice-over actors are
pronouncing the last name as THOReau.
Wow. Do we feel like dumbasses.
I mean, we only grew up
around here. Have we all been saying
poor Henry David’s name wrong all these years?
Did he change its pronunciation to separate his literary self from his
naked-swimming Walden Pond self? Was he
travelling incognito? “No, I’m sorry,
but I do not swim in the nude. I’m not
THAT Henry David. He’s ThorEAU. I’m THOReau.
Dreadfully sorry for the mistake, you disobedient civilian.”
After being shamed by our collective
verbal ignorance, we head off in a couple of other directions (Old North
Bridge, Minuteman National Park…) before I direct my sister (the driver) to
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. This is not THE
Sleepy Hollow Cemetery of Washington Irving fame; that’s out near Tarrytown,
NY. This is the literary Sleepy Hollow
Cemetery of New England writers’ fame.
Author’s Ridge is a short
walk from the parking area. Before this entire acreage was a cemetery, it
was considered a nature preserve by the local transcendentalists. Now, though, many 19th century local
authors/transcendentalists are buried here.
We pass by Hawthorne, Louisa May Alcott, and Emerson before we stop to
say hello to Henry David.
Awkward moment.
We have been searching all
day for Henry David ThorEAU, but we may have found Henry David THOReau. We’re not sure anymore.
Oh, well. Doesn’t matter. The sky is dark and foreboding; rain is
certainly in our immediate future and we still have Sudbury to conquer. We wave a quick goodbye to Henry and the rest
and trot off to visit the Grist Mill.
Grist Mill. See? Easy
to pronounce. No problems. Unless we’ve been saying that wrong all these
years, as well. At this point in our
search, nothing would surprise me anymore.
