Category Archives: Living Deliberately

What Edward Emerson Knew

The following is Lucille Stott’s original letter to the editor, an edited version of which was published in this week’s New Yorker, the 11/9/15 issue. Lucille is a charter board member emerita and former president of The Thoreau Farm Trust.

Henry Thoreau as Remembered by a Young Friend

 

“In attempting to offer a provocative rereading of Henry David Thoreau’s life and work, Kathryn Schulz has instead succumbed to hackneyed stereotypes and common wisdom. A closer, more sensitive reading reveals a complex man deeply connected to family and community; an eccentric, to be sure, but a passionate man of genius, without doubt.

One of the lesser-known realities of Thoreau’s life was his warm relationship with the children of Concord, who gathered around him in his prime and brought him gifts on his deathbed. Edward Emerson, the son of Ralph Waldo, became concerned by the misconceptions that surrounded his friend, the kind that Schulz perpetuates in her unfortunately titled essay. He might have been writing directly to her when, in his 1917 book, Henry Thoreau: As Remembered by a Young Friend, he calls Henry “the best kind of an older brother.”

Emerson says he felt compelled to write about Thoreau “because I was troubled at the want of knowledge and understanding, both in Concord and among his readers at large, not only of his character, but of the events of his life—which he did not tell to everybody–and by the false impressions given by accredited writers who really knew him hardly at all. When I undertook to defend my friend, I saw that I must at once improve my advantage of being acquainted, as a country doctor, with many persons who would never put pen to a line, but knew much about him — humble persons whom the literary men would never find out, like those who helped in the pencil mill, or in a survey, or families whom he came to know well and value in his walking over every square rod of Concord, or one of the brave and humane managers of the Underground Railroad, of which Thoreau was an operative. Also I had the good fortune to meet or correspond with six of the pupils of Thoreau and his brother John, all of whom bore witness to the very remarkable and interesting character of the teachers and their school…. I wish to show that Thoreau, though brusque on occasions, was refined, courteous, kind and humane; that he had a religion and lived up to it.”

Schulz has done us something of a service, I suppose, in demonstrating that the transitory buzz of “gotcha” criticism can never erode the lasting pleasure and value of deep, contextual reading.”

Here’s the link to all 5 of the letters to the editor; Lucille’s letter is the 5th: http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/11/09/the-mail-from-the-november-9-2015-issue

Lit Days

For me, it’s that month: even as many of us have grudgingly pushed the hour hand back a notch and adopted a hunch-shouldered shuffle to get across the icy months, I find November the month of transcendent light. True, that’s often a tough sell, but let me explain, in words, and also with some photos of remembered Novembers.

Low-angled sun opens expansive vision

Low-angled sun opens expansive vision

Just yesterday, when the whole region seemed afflicted by the form of jet lag that is the time change, I went out into the gathering dusk of 4:00 p.m. A lid of stratus had slid over the low sun, and only the rusty oaks held still their leaves. The few dog walkers I met had indeed pulled in their necks like retreating turtles, even as their dogs knew the real story: they were bounding about open mouthed, sniffing the day’s many messages. But we’ll leave the dogs for another story.

As seems to happen often at this time of year, the clouds had left a low slot of open sky on the southwestern horizon, and when the sun slipped into that slot, the light rushed through it and across the fields, finding there a fringe of oaks. The oaks, all muted russets and yellows, lit suddenly like flares; their light flew up into the sky and back into our eyes.

A few yards away, I heard one dogwalker say, “Whoa! Look at that!” And the canid tribe broke into general exclamation. And their necks stretched out from their upturned collars.

So it is in this season of clear light, which hurries through the thin-branched woods and catches every scrap of color that hangs on or floats in the wind. Its short days emphasize the need to go out, to extend yourself.

Thoreau, of course, was often out in November, sampling its light, stretching its days.

November sunrise at Walden Pond

November sunrise at Walden Pond

 

November forest light detail

November forest light detail

Parisians greet November in the Luxembourg Gardens, 11/1/14

Parisians greet November in the Luxembourg Gardens, 11/1/14

Ferns and More

By Corinne H. Smith

“In the Lee farm swamp by the old Sam Barrett mill site, I see two kinds of ferns still green and much in fruit. … To my eyes they are tall and noble as palm groves, and always some forest nobleness seems to have its haunt under their umbrage. Each such green tuft of ferns is a grove where some nobility dwells and walks. All that was immortal in the swamp’s herbage seems here crowded into smaller compass, — the concentrated greenness of the swamp. How dear they must be to the chickadee and the rabbit!” ~ Thoreau’s Journal, October 31, 1857

I like ferns. I think they invite good vibes and happiness. You can’t stay in a bad mood when you look at a fern. So when a pair of beautiful specimens started growing in the shade of the north side of the house last year, I was pleased. They stayed green and leafy for the entire summer. And they grew. And they grew some more. By the time fall arrived, the ferns reached the windows. I could look out and admire them from my very own bathroom. I marveled at how tall they’d gotten. Sometimes I got the urge to cut one of them down, grab it by its thick woody stem, hold it high, and wave it back and forth as I paraded around the neighborhood. But that would have meant the sad end of it afterward, too. So I let the ferns alone. And what about their woody stems? I should have considered them an important clue.

When small

How the ferns began

 

My ferns lost their fronds in winter. They looked like twin palms standing naked in the snow. I noticed that a third and smaller one stood nearby, too. I worried about their survival. I shouldn’t have. Spring brought them all back again. This time, they had fewer fronds along the bottoms of their trunks and more at the tops. And they began to grow even taller.

When several people came by to help me with lawn clean-up, my first piece of advice was to let the big ferns alone. Don’t cut them down, I said. The workers looked puzzled. I knew they would understand as soon as they walked behind the house and saw the fronds. And they did. No ferns were harmed in the taming of the yard. And still they grew.

 

Detail

Beautiful fronds

Scientists tell us that ferns were once the main and largest plants on the planet. Their growth, death, and decay contributed to the formation of coal deposits during the Carboniferous era. One source I found said that their fronds were “clustered at the top of a treelike trunk, sometimes 30 or 40 feet in height, rather than growing directly from the rootstalk.” Well, this described my backyard ferns exactly. And now I was finding smaller versions of them on other parts of the property. Was I growing Ur-Ferns here? Were these individuals part of a species left over from ancient times? If so, how and why had they parked themselves behind my house? Were they going to take over the place?

I found an answer of sorts one day during my early evening neighborhood walk. As I sauntered along the sidewalks, I kept my usual eye out for squirrels, rabbits, and birds. But I noticed some of the greenery, too. Four blocks away from my house, I saw something so powerful that I had to stop. A large tree I had walked past for months suddenly demanded my attention. I could barely believe my eyes. The “leaves” of this tree looked exactly like my beautiful ferns. I stared at them as my brain processed this new information. Evidently my big ferns weren’t ferns at all. They were young trees. They could even be related to this one. What a revelation! My saunter slowed to a thoughtful trudge as I turned around and made my way home.

The Fern-tree down the street

The Fern-tree down the street

“It is only when we forget all our learning that we begin to know. … If you would make acquaintance with the ferns you must forget your botany. You must get rid of what is commonly called knowledge of them.” ~ Thoreau’s Journal, October 4, 1859

I guess I forgot my botany, Henry. Ferns wouldn’t have woody stems. They wouldn’t grow as high as the house. I got out my guidebooks to identify them. It turns out my ferns may instead be mimosa trees. They’re all going to keep growing taller. Soon, I’ll have to pull out the smaller ones popping up behind the shed and along the fence. But the twins behind the bathroom window? I’m going to leave them there. I’m going to assign their fate to a future caretaker of this property. And I’m going to keep enjoying them while I’m here.

The twins today

The twins today