Category Archives: Nature

Second Snow

Posted on January 10, 2016 by Sandy Stott | Comments Off

Of Fire, Water, Air, Earth in the Winter Mountains

For, as after a rain there is a second rain in the woods, so after a light snow there is a second snow in the woods, as the wind rises. Thoreau, Journal, 12/17/51

So too in the mountains…when the wind rises.

It is almost as if some fire were burning north of Franconia Notch. The north wind into which I point smokes over the ridges and courses down like its cousin water; it is a Niagara of variable white pouring toward me, flying by above. I edge into a pullout, grab my camera, step out and climb some feet up the bank; now I can feel the snow’s tiny grains ticking on my face, hear them on my quickly-inadequate nylon shell. I click off a few hurried shots and retreat to the car, where soon the fire of the engine is shunted back to me by the heater. Too elemental out there to tarry, I think.

Still, I look up into the coursing air, and in the thicknesses and thinnesses of the snows, in their flap and veer, I see the turbulent, liquid quality of air.

The snowfall now on the move again was, like all thus far this winter, a minor one, an inch or two overnight, and I brushed it easily from surfaces; the early morning world was a still-life. This second snow, however, this reshuffling, has a cold edge to it.

I have come north for contact with what Henry Thoreau called the “unhandselled globe,” (Ktaadn, The Maine Woods) and, in a minor way, I get it more than once while watching the wind stir this “second snow” and fling it like veils of dust across the mountains that rise above. Especially when I step out into it.

Within this snow and behind it the mountains are both substantial and in motion, and I am little, but in no little awe.

Much of the cloudcap blowing from the summits is “second snow.”

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Posted in Environment, General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Living Deliberately, Nature, The Roost, Thoreau Quote

Firstling

Posted on December 31, 2015 by Sandy Stott | 1 comment

It is, as the Roman god Janus is said to remind us, the time for looking backward and forward. And, for a two-faced god, or a weary human, looking one way inflects the other. In such a state it can be hard to inhabit the present. Resolution hotfoots it into the past or the future.

Enter the walking (or skating) man, Henry Thoreau, who lived the stuff of resolution – “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, and front only the essential facts of life…” – but who rooted that resolution firmly in the immediate. Reduced to a somewhat inelegant phrasing, Thoreau’s life might be contained by this command: Be here fully, now.

What, I wonder, did Henry Thoreau make of New Year’s day?

I pull out all the journals and align them chronologically; I make sure too that I have my buck knife, reserved on indoor days for the opening of still-joined pages, should I encounter some. Then, I begin to leaf through the years 1850 to 1861, years of prolific output and years when Thoreau attached his journal-writing firmly to dates. Specifically, I want to see those years’ endings and beginnings. How did Henry Thoreau ring out the old and write in the new? Did he even mention something as arbitrarily imposed as a “new year?” Or was the calendrical shift seamless, unmentioned as he opened his door on simply another day, which was simply another chance to walk out into and see the world?

Part of the scatter. With a bonus view of a piece of my step-sister Anne’s pottery.

Page-turning (and occasional page-slicing) ensues. I work my way through this marvelous decade+ of expression, getting sidetracked sometimes by a flash of insight, an apt phrasing, a shiver of recognition.

It is just as I suspected – there’s no ringing out of old or in of new; these years (and others) are fused as neatly as uncut pages. I draw my knife along one joined set, pulling its edge smoothly, carefully toward me; the pages part. I set aside the knife, and begin to read as 1854 becomes 1855.

Both days are river-days, which is to say too they are outside days:

Dec. 31. P.M. — On river to Fair Haven Pond.

Jan. 1. P.M. — Skated to Pantry brook with C.

And one offers a near-ecstatic wheel of color, a feast for eyes. The other has a slightly grumpy tone. Sounds like the present, like everyday life to me.

Here is each in its entirety:

1/31/54: On the river to Fair Haven Pond. A beautiful, clear, not very cold day. The shadows on the snow are indigo-blue. The pines look very dark. The white oak leaves are a cinnamon-color, the black and red (?) oak leaves a reddish brown or leather-color. I see mice and rabbit and fox tracks on the meadow. Once a partridge rises from the alders and skims across the river at its widest part just before me; a fine sight. On the edge of A. Wheeler’s cranberry meadow I see the track of an otter made since yesterday morning. How glorious the perfect stillness and peace of the winter landscape!
1/1/55: Skated to Pantry Brook with C. All the tolerable skating was a narrow strip, often only two or three feet wide, between the frozen spew and the broken ice of the middle.

Just so life: one day stopped with exclamation; another day threading the tolerable between the spew and broken ice. Always present.

Best wishes to you for the immediate.

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Posted in Arts, Environment, General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Living Deliberately, Nature, News and Events, The Roost, Thoreau Quote, Walden

Finding Thoreau in Suburbia

Posted on December 28, 2015 by Sandy Stott | 3 comments

By Corinne H. Smith

I was invited to a holiday dinner by a pair of new friends. They live in an expanding housing development that just a few years ago was still a field standing tall with corn. They gave me explicit directions to their townhouse. I was to follow Elmcrest Boulevard to Cobblestone Drive and then their street, Oak Leaf Drive. If I reached Field View Drive or Green Park Drive, I would have gone too far.

Although I had seen this neighborhood from a distance, I had never driven through it. I already suspected that I would see neither elm trees nor oak trees, and that I would not be able to drive or walk on cobblestones. And the “field view” wouldn’t be of a “green park.” It would offer the pleasing sight of endless garages and rooflines, or of mud and machinery and of other houses being built to fill in the empty spaces. I knew I wouldn’t like it. But if this is where these folks wanted to live, so be it. They were my friends, and they were nice enough to invite me to dinner.

When the time came, I made my way to the entrance of Elmcrest Boulevard. It wasn’t as grand as it sounded. And it had nary a straight stretch. Not even one inch. It wound through the place like a drunken sailor: first this way, and then that. Other cross streets turned off at each bend. I drove slowly and focused on the names on the signs, hoping to finally spot Cobblestone Drive. But when Emerson Drive showed up on my right, I started laughing. Really, THE Emerson? Ralph Waldo Emerson? Here in suburbia, almost 400 miles away from Concord, Massachusetts? I glanced at the clock. I had time. I could inspect how Mr. Emerson’s legacy was interpreted here. I made the turn onto Emerson Drive.

As I suspected, both sides of Emerson were filled with houses that were too close together. They were neat and tidy, and they all looked the same. Then Alcott Drive turned off to the left. I laughed again. I could picture poor Bronson shaking his head at the sight. The next left was Thoreau Drive. Of course! It had to be. I turned left. Here I was, driving along Thoreau. It looked just like Emerson and Alcott. Interpret this statement as you will.

Obligatory stop at junction of Emerson and Thoreau

The literary theme continued. The streets leading off Thoreau were James Way, Dickens Lane, and Hemingway Lane. Then Emerson showed up again. It had circled around behind the rest. I turned left to get back to where I needed to be. I expected to see Alcott Lane again on my way back. But no. Hawthorne Lane had sneaked in ahead of Alcott. It turned out that Alcott and Hawthorne twisted around each other here. Interpret this statement as you will.

Emerson Drive soon became Walden Way. Really now, this was simply too much.

But to the developers’ credit, the road was just a short pass-through back to Elmcrest Boulevard. The only structure on Walden Way was a common building that fronted a pool and a series of tennis courts. Behind it loomed a small but muddy retaining pond. Once I passed these, I could make a turn and get back to where I needed to be. It took only a few minutes more to find my friends’ house.

Walden water?

The dinner was great, and so was the conversation. We all ate too much. Soon the sun dropped behind the bulldozers parked behind my friend’s backyard. Clouds moved in. I thanked my hosts for their hospitality and headed home.

It wasn’t too dark yet. So I followed the Transcendental route again, this time in the opposite direction: Walden Way, Emerson and Thoreau, with a glance at Hawthorne, Hemingway, Dickens, James and Alcott. This time, I took pictures. I almost wanted to know who had named these streets and why. Were the choices meant as a true tribute to the authors? Or were they merely names to fill up signs? Did the residents know who their streets were named after? I was torn between feeling validated in my love for these writers and being appalled.

And even though it would be a great address to have, I knew I would never want to live along this version of Thoreau Drive. I’d rather live in a house on a street that’s older than me. One that has some character in its framework, and with mature trees towering over it. Many years will pass before you will be able to say this about my friends’ neighborhood. (If ever.) Still, such a discovery allows us a chance for a vicarious visit to the legacies of the Transcendentalists, in a place you’d never expect to find them.

Whether they’d be gratified or not, it turns out that the Transcendentalists are everywhere.

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Posted in Environment, General, Henry David Thoreau, Literature, Living Deliberately, Nature, The Roost