Posted December 20, 2006 by JennyWren
I’ve been reading Walden, by Thoreau, which the library wants back (*sob*), and which is so good it’s almost painful to read. Every word that man wrote seems to “reverberate within my soul”. I find myself reading a page or two, and then putting the book down, not because of any lack of interest, but because his writing amazes me. Very few authors affect me that strongly. I have an inkling that Wendell Berry is about to be added to that list; I’m just waiting to get my hands on some of his work in actual book form.
I’ve had that nagging feeling that I should be blogging or posting something about the book; maybe it would help me better keep track of my thoughts on it, or just bring up interesting discussion on authors. I was going back to look up this sentence, which I ran across this evening: “How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book!” but instead ran across another passage that struck me, with a coincidence attached (which is in the quote at the end of this post).
Thoreau was writing on his once having almost “owned” a farm; in fact, he did, until the farmer’s wife changed her mind about the sale. His description of why he originally fell in love with the place is a perfect example of why I feel such connection with his words…he described precisely the notions I had about the place where we live now: “The real attractions of the Hollowell farm, to me, were: its complete retirement, being about two miles from the village, half a mile from the nearest neighbor, and separated from the highway by a broad field; its bounding on the river, which the owner said protected it by its fogs from frosts in the spring, though that was nothing to me; the gray color and ruinous state of the house and barn, and the dilapidated fences, which put such an interval between me and the last occupant; the hollow and lichen-covered apple trees, gnawed by rabbits, showing what kind of neighbors I should have; but above all, the recollection I had of it from my earliest voyages up the river, when the house was concealed behind a dense grove of red maples, through which I heard the house-dog bark. I was in haste to buy it, before the proprietor finished getting out some rocks, cutting down the hollow apple trees, and grubbing up some young birches which had sprung up in the pasture, or in short, had made any more of his improvements.”
We have no river bounding our place, but if you’ve seen it, you’ll know that I have a certain fondness for dilapidated buildings; they have character. I also remember a day last year, when the persistent rumble of bulldozers had me worried. I went out in the yard at different points during the day, the noise kept getting closer to our house. Early the next morning, trees on the neighboring lot (still for sale) were swaying, then cracking with that horrible dying sound that trees have. I was on the phone with the realtor, who kept assuring me that they were just “defining some of the property lines”, while trees continued to fall. A neighbor stopped by, and confirmed my fears that something more was going on than a little “defining”.
Beyond our house, and the next in line for improvement, was a completely wooded lot, with no “suitable” spot for a house or driveway. What would they do to the woods I already loved, the oaks and hickories and a secret little grove of pawpaws, where the trees were so thick there was not sun enough for brambles, and your steps were so quiet you could surprise a deer? What about the “waterfall oak”, where the leaves clung on determinedly through the winter, the sound of the wind blowing through them once causing my son to think we must be somewhere near flowing water?
I took one more walk, trying to make up my mind. I couldn’t leave the children for long, so I brought a two-way radio with me, and ran down through the ravine, hurriedly searching for the property lines, trying to get a more definite feel for the place, arguing with myself the validity of spending the money to “save” a piece of land. I looked at trees, I cut across trails; I was out of breath by the time I hit the top of the next ridge. I considered lumber values…could I justify years of extra payments with those, knowing that we would probably never cut a single tree? I ran through a clearing, pausing long enough to see that it was still the perfect spot for a hidden house…then down the hill…all the while, I could still hear those bulldozers. My shoes were soaked; the dew was still on the grass and weeds. Then I came to the old fence line. There are old oaks here that belong in some fairyland, the line runs across the remnants of what was once a farm. Below this line, there is a ravine that is dark, cool, and silent. The ground is covered in moss, and the tree roots provide homes for little folk, my daughter and I are sure.
All the way back up the hill, and toward home, I debated with myself, told myself how crazy it is to fall in love with trees. I came up with all of the practical arguments I knew my husband would have when - if - I called him at work. But then I took one last side trail, back into the trees that would certainly be the first to go…and saw the light there, the stuff they call “dappled” in the summer, and that as you go deeper into the woods takes on a mystical feel…am I a romantic? I had to make the call.
We now “own” that other piece, but we haven’t touched it, other than to gather hickory nuts and explore the trails. There may be a day when we build a house back in that clearing. Or maybe not. But at least it’s there. What is a clearing without the woods around it?
“To enjoy these advantages, I was ready to carry it on; like Atlas, to take the world on my shoulders, - I never heard what compensation he received for that, - and do all those things which had no other motive or excuse but that I might pay for it and be unmolested in my possession of it; for I knew all the while that it would yield the most abundant crop of the kind I wanted, if I could only afford to let it alone.”
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Monday, December 4, 2006
Impressions
Posted December 4th, 2006 by JennyWren
I seem to have given the wrong impression in my last post. No, I promise you, I am not about to go to the nearest bridge and throw myself and everything I’ve ever written over the edge. It was just a disclaimer; I set it up in advance, so that I wouldn’t need to clutter up every post with an apology. It’s also there for critics, shoulder-riding demons, and close relatives. :) Besides, I don’t fancy the idea of chasing soggy pages down an eighteen-inch-deep river.
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I sometimes worry about giving people the wrong impression. For example, those close to me would obviously perceive me as a bit of a stoic. Now, while it’s true that I daily bear all sorts of insults on my person, barely mentioning the discomfort caused by such inconveniences as the soup’s being cold or the mail’s running late, still I would hate to leave someone feeling inferior, next to my admittedly intimidating ability to endure, and so I’ll often make a fuss over some minor thing that would normally not draw a peep from me, in order to keep up an approachable appearance. This is why one may occasionally hear me yelling in an exaggerated manner over a typically (for most people) serious injury like falling out of bed, or taking a gulp of coffee before it has had time to cool. It is a rare occurrence, you’d be lucky to catch it; normally you couldn’t be sure that I was home, the house is so quiet. The neighbours may claim otherwise, but there, you see, is proof that my theory is highly accurate and and most certainly necessary; the neighbours are a particularly disadvantaged and inferior lot; in truth, most of these displays are put on specifically for their benefit. Including, and especially, the incident involving the rake, the cat, and myself.
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Moving on…
It was interesting to be out shopping yesterday, something I normally wouldn’t dare during December. I survived it by observing other harried shoppers; Spastica’s dialogue exercise had me listening to their words:
"Didn’t he break the last one we bought him?"
"I don’t know why I’m here; I’m getting really frustrated."
A couple considering a toy:
"I don’t know. He’s ten…"
"Well, does he act ten?"
On the way home, a friend talking to her son on her cell phone gave me a classic line to remember:
"Yes, we’ll be there soon. We’re just now passing the underground house. You know, the one where Uncle Tooter had a wreck."
She had to clarify which wreck, to assure him that we were close to home, but once she hung up, I asked her about it, and got the story. It involved a tractor-trailer (I’m still not sure who was driving it), a pond, and so much damage the cops couldn’t tell what had really happened. Anyway, I’m sure I will forever remember the landmark.
Then we were slowed down, apparently behind her aunt’s pick-up truck, and chatting about her friends and relatives who lived in houses we were passing. I still find it amazing, that anyone born and raised around a small town seems to know or is related to everyone. And has a relative who at some point lived in your house.
The contrast between this small-town, rural area, and the large store we had just been to, in a city 45 minutes away, was hitting me in an interesting way. While shopping, I saw people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine or television screen. They were wearing clothes and hairstyles that I’ve never really seen outside of a movie. They looked like celebrities or dolls, I’m not sure which, with new outfits and hair colors. I felt like Dorothy, straight out of Kansas. Either I don’t get out enough, or maybe life in the country is slower than I thought. That’s okay, it helps me with my time-avoidance strategy.
Anyway, it’s Monday now. Back to the grind, as they say. That means coffee, right?
I’ll take tea.
I seem to have given the wrong impression in my last post. No, I promise you, I am not about to go to the nearest bridge and throw myself and everything I’ve ever written over the edge. It was just a disclaimer; I set it up in advance, so that I wouldn’t need to clutter up every post with an apology. It’s also there for critics, shoulder-riding demons, and close relatives. :) Besides, I don’t fancy the idea of chasing soggy pages down an eighteen-inch-deep river.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I sometimes worry about giving people the wrong impression. For example, those close to me would obviously perceive me as a bit of a stoic. Now, while it’s true that I daily bear all sorts of insults on my person, barely mentioning the discomfort caused by such inconveniences as the soup’s being cold or the mail’s running late, still I would hate to leave someone feeling inferior, next to my admittedly intimidating ability to endure, and so I’ll often make a fuss over some minor thing that would normally not draw a peep from me, in order to keep up an approachable appearance. This is why one may occasionally hear me yelling in an exaggerated manner over a typically (for most people) serious injury like falling out of bed, or taking a gulp of coffee before it has had time to cool. It is a rare occurrence, you’d be lucky to catch it; normally you couldn’t be sure that I was home, the house is so quiet. The neighbours may claim otherwise, but there, you see, is proof that my theory is highly accurate and and most certainly necessary; the neighbours are a particularly disadvantaged and inferior lot; in truth, most of these displays are put on specifically for their benefit. Including, and especially, the incident involving the rake, the cat, and myself.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Moving on…
It was interesting to be out shopping yesterday, something I normally wouldn’t dare during December. I survived it by observing other harried shoppers; Spastica’s dialogue exercise had me listening to their words:
"Didn’t he break the last one we bought him?"
"I don’t know why I’m here; I’m getting really frustrated."
A couple considering a toy:
"I don’t know. He’s ten…"
"Well, does he act ten?"
On the way home, a friend talking to her son on her cell phone gave me a classic line to remember:
"Yes, we’ll be there soon. We’re just now passing the underground house. You know, the one where Uncle Tooter had a wreck."
She had to clarify which wreck, to assure him that we were close to home, but once she hung up, I asked her about it, and got the story. It involved a tractor-trailer (I’m still not sure who was driving it), a pond, and so much damage the cops couldn’t tell what had really happened. Anyway, I’m sure I will forever remember the landmark.
Then we were slowed down, apparently behind her aunt’s pick-up truck, and chatting about her friends and relatives who lived in houses we were passing. I still find it amazing, that anyone born and raised around a small town seems to know or is related to everyone. And has a relative who at some point lived in your house.
The contrast between this small-town, rural area, and the large store we had just been to, in a city 45 minutes away, was hitting me in an interesting way. While shopping, I saw people who looked like they had stepped out of a magazine or television screen. They were wearing clothes and hairstyles that I’ve never really seen outside of a movie. They looked like celebrities or dolls, I’m not sure which, with new outfits and hair colors. I felt like Dorothy, straight out of Kansas. Either I don’t get out enough, or maybe life in the country is slower than I thought. That’s okay, it helps me with my time-avoidance strategy.
Anyway, it’s Monday now. Back to the grind, as they say. That means coffee, right?
I’ll take tea.
Saturday, December 2, 2006
Chapter V: Where the Writer has a Sobering Thought...
Posted December 2nd, 2006 by JennyWren
Yesterday, life was like the weather, practically balmy, albeit dull. But sometime during the night, the winds came, bringing cold. At first it was exhilarating; even the horses felt that last rush of warmth in the air; they kicked up their heels and tossed their heads, actually playing with the wind. We watched them for a while from the window, and knew we had to get out and enjoy it, too.
Then later, ice, and a phone call.
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Well, I apologize for my last post. I was a bit delirious. I was fighting a fever, and was up too late, a combination that should not be allowed near a keyboard.
The fever had me convinced that I was at the peak of heightened awareness, full of grand plans and brilliant thoughts, my senses keen. But I sounded like a drunken idiot; it doesn’t take much more than a lack of sleep to make me slap-happy.
Hmm…maybe I’ll become the Drunken Blogger. *hic*
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I’ve been thinking about it, and I suppose that if I want to make a go of this, I’ll have to set up a regular habit of "blogging." This will probably need to coincide with me keeping a "journal" of sorts on my computer. I find it amusing that I worry about computer files being wiped out, when I won’t even write with an ink pen because it’s too permanent. The general idea is that I want to be able to refer to my own thoughts (narcissist that I am), but I don’t want them to stick around much longer than I do.
I should probably pause here, to insert a universal disclaimer:
Anything I write/post in this blog will be garbage…or worse.
There, that was surprisingly easy! I avoided all the trouble of explaining my weaknesses, assuring the world that I am aware of the awfulness of it all. :) So, if, Dear Reader, you come across something that is eye-scaldingly bad, you musn’t say that you haven’t been warned. Because, of course, everyone will naturally want to begin at the beginning, and will see this before anything else. Oh, that previous post? That was to scare off those with a weaker stomach. ;)
Well, there it is. And so our adventures begin…
Yesterday, life was like the weather, practically balmy, albeit dull. But sometime during the night, the winds came, bringing cold. At first it was exhilarating; even the horses felt that last rush of warmth in the air; they kicked up their heels and tossed their heads, actually playing with the wind. We watched them for a while from the window, and knew we had to get out and enjoy it, too.
Then later, ice, and a phone call.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Well, I apologize for my last post. I was a bit delirious. I was fighting a fever, and was up too late, a combination that should not be allowed near a keyboard.
The fever had me convinced that I was at the peak of heightened awareness, full of grand plans and brilliant thoughts, my senses keen. But I sounded like a drunken idiot; it doesn’t take much more than a lack of sleep to make me slap-happy.
Hmm…maybe I’ll become the Drunken Blogger. *hic*
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I’ve been thinking about it, and I suppose that if I want to make a go of this, I’ll have to set up a regular habit of "blogging." This will probably need to coincide with me keeping a "journal" of sorts on my computer. I find it amusing that I worry about computer files being wiped out, when I won’t even write with an ink pen because it’s too permanent. The general idea is that I want to be able to refer to my own thoughts (narcissist that I am), but I don’t want them to stick around much longer than I do.
I should probably pause here, to insert a universal disclaimer:
Anything I write/post in this blog will be garbage…or worse.
There, that was surprisingly easy! I avoided all the trouble of explaining my weaknesses, assuring the world that I am aware of the awfulness of it all. :) So, if, Dear Reader, you come across something that is eye-scaldingly bad, you musn’t say that you haven’t been warned. Because, of course, everyone will naturally want to begin at the beginning, and will see this before anything else. Oh, that previous post? That was to scare off those with a weaker stomach. ;)
Well, there it is. And so our adventures begin…
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