Thoreau Farm

Okay, I had to wait until November 11th to send this, but have you looked outside? Have you walked out into the slanting light? Into the wakened air? No more sun’s sweaty palm pressing down on you, no more surfeit of light making you squint, no more panting dog of summer. The haze is gone; you can see.

November is the month of sight, and it is not just because of the cool, low-riding sun and the light’s nosy angles. The leafless trees wave their bare limbs; stonewalls emerge from hiding; the river shines with sky. The long view opens up, even as the days shorten. Once, someone said to me that living through November was like looking down a well — it was a dark place rimmed with stone, ending in watery reflection. I looked out my classroom window, toward the boathouse and the sedulous Sudbury, which had crept higher after summer’s starvation. One of the campus redtail hawks waited atop the hemlock, probably scouting for a snack; the air looked like the clearest water. If darkness were to be found it was in the hawk’s eyes — November is, after all, also the hungry season. “You’re crazy,” I said. “Why not take a walk?”

Taking a walk is often sound advice, but in November, it’s necessity. Only a little of the short day’s magic makes it through the window; you have to be out there to see it. Let’s go. Let’s leave the building, walking west into the afternoon’s lit promise; then we’ll turn north over the river and meander finally northeast along its banks.

Yesterday, after time’s slow hands slid south of four o’clock, the sun dropped beneath a western lid of clouds and the brightest light poured into the woods where I walked. I had been ambling along the Assabet River, making my way upstream and away from school in a dreamy fashion, my mind skimming the surface of one thought then another. Streaming light washed through the understory of the woods, even as the treetops lifted still into the falling dusk. It seemed that some impressionist had been turned loose with collections of pale leaves that he had wired to the spare branches of first this thin tree, then that one, stretching away to where they fused into a hammered gold backdrop. My back to the sun, I watched the leaves glow, saw light rise from the matted grasses and ricochet wildly through the limbs and out over the river. Suffused with light, like many before me, I felt lifted; affection brimmed.

And I thought of the work I’d walked away from for short sojourn amid the trees. There is always the grey-brown of routine laced with fatigue – it is always stereotypical November in some classroom, in the pages of some text, in our plodding minds. We read on, calculate odds, solve for our various Xs. Oddly, ironically, the same routine, the same November walking, brings us to flooding light, to moments when insight burns like lit leaves and the whole classroom or mind is bright. “Who knows when it will come?” I said, slipping easily into the long habit of self-address. “Surely tomorrow,” I answered and turned again toward November’s school.

Coda: November happinesses I left out:

• Thanksgiving, the year’s best holiday, the only one imagined from food and talk.

• First snow – thought crystallized

• Cold air laced with woodsmoke

• Russet and magenta show of the oaks

• Reading in a pool of lamplight in the early dark

November’s first cold days have arrived with their light that makes me want to look closely at what’s close by. I like these slow days of short, clear light.

Still, a recent announcement from The Concord Free Public Library about the formation of the Concord Seed Lending Library made me look up and forward.

And, of course, it furrowed my brow a little. What, I wondered, is a Seed Lending Library? What do I borrow? What do I return? And, given my habit of slow use, can a seed be overdue?

A quick trip on the Web took me to concordseedlendinglibrary.org, and there I found the new group’s mission statement and their intent to open for business next spring.

Here’s their purpose: The mission of the Concord Seed Lending Library, an initiative of the Concord Free Public Library, is to increase our community’s capacity to feed itself wholesome food by being an accessible and free source of locally-adapted plant seeds, supplied and cultivated by and for area residents. The Concord Seed Lending Library promotes biodiversity through the time-honored tradition of seed saving, nurtures locally-adapted plant varieties, and fosters community resilience, self- reliance, and a culture of sharing. The Concord Seed Lending Library strives to fulfill its mission by establishing a depository of open pollinated seeds held in trust for members of the community and by providing education and instruction about proper seed growing and saving methods.

That makes wonderful sense, I thought. A central collection of seeds could promote a sort to agricultural literacy akin to the reading literacy traditionally advanced by a library. And, of course, seeds do fit in conveniently compact spaces; such a lending library could be extensive and tiny at the same time.

There’s more, as you may imagine, much more to be learned, and I’ll return with further thoughts. But for now, those who want to learn more can attend an informational talk with the library’s Co-Coordinators Enid Hart Boasberg and Kitty Smith, and with Debbie Bier, a board member of the Thoreau Farm on November 10th at 3:00 pm at the Concord Free Public Library’s Fowler Branch, at 1322 Main St.

Not that I or any other seasonal characters want to rush the daily constellations of light and cold and cloud and…perhaps…snow, and arrive at spring too soon. But seeds, as Henry Thoreau knew, are dreams too. And promise of spring seems good seed for winter dreams.

by Corinne H. Smith

One fall morning, a family of four from the Worcester area arrived at the Thoreau Farm Birthplace. I welcomed them by speaking mostly to the parents. Their nine- or ten-year-old daughter was clutching a book. Her slightly older brother lagged behind, trying to blend into the background, looking awfully uninterested in the whole affair.

Their mother quickly explained their arrival. “We’re here because of this,” she said. She grabbed the book out of the girl’s hands and held it out to me. It was a copy of The Fledgling, a middle-school-age novel by Jane Langton. I recognized the author’s name. She still lived in nearby Lincoln. Some years back, I had read the majority of Langton’s Homer Kelly mystery series for adults, many of which are set around Concord. I had not known of this one, however, which was the fourth installment in The Hall Family Chronicles, an eight-part fantasy series for younger readers. These books were based on an eccentric family who lived in an equally eccentric house on Walden Street in Concord.

As I quickly paged through it, I could see why the family standing before me had made the trip, no doubt at the daughter’s insistence. She had probably wanted to confirm for herself that the people, places, and magic in the story were real. (I borrowed a library copy of the book a few days later so that I could read and understand it, too.)

In this series, the Halls are a blended family headed by Frederick and Alexandra Dorian Hall. Their three children are Eleanor, Eddy, and Georgie. Freddy and Alex teach at their own Concord College of Transcendental Knowledge and are thus big fans of the local authors. A white marble bust of Henry David Thoreau stands in their front hallway. Similar ones of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Louisa May Alcott flank the parlor fireplace. The Halls make every attempt to live according to the philosophies of their heroes. They even talk to Henry as they walk by his statue.

In The Fledgling, little Georgie wants to fly. She meets a large Canada goose who takes her up into the sky and flies her around Concord and Walden Pond each night. Eventually the passage of time leads to a Puff-the-Magic-Dragon-like problem, as Georgie grows too big for the goose to carry her. You can probably imagine the ending, which comes during hunting season. The book may be aimed at middle-schoolers, but it’s peppered with hints and metaphors of Transcendentalism.

Our visitors walked through the house and read the text on every panel. I could tell that the daughter longed for more. With her father nodding his approval, I took her aside and chatted about being awake and aware, and being true to oneself. She stared at me with eyes wide open, absorbing every word. This one is a keeper, I thought.

When the rest of the family headed toward their car, the son still loitered. He was the only one who took the time to write something on one of our “living deliberately” cards. After they left I read this: “I don’t watch television or play video games. I try not to use electronics (although I do like my I-Pod.”

We never know what circumstances may draw a person to Henry David Thoreau, nor at what age this phenomenon can happen. I have a feeling that Thoreau’s life and words made an impression, if not an outright impact, on both young people that day. These human fledglings still have some time to grow before they leave the security of their nest. I’m betting that they’ll be well prepared for the flight.