The Ghosts of Henry and Mary

Walden Pond

A couple of weeks ago, I headed to Concord, MA hoping to meet the ghost of Henry David Thoreau. I had expected to bump into him, as I often have, on my hike from his friend Emerson’s house in the center of town to the small plot of land on Walden Pond where Henry had built his cabin in 1845. Not finding him anywhere along the path, I continued past the pond, over the railroad tracks, and onto another series of trails to the Sudbury River, a place he often wandered to. Even brought a few thick slices of freshly baked Treacle (Molasses) Bread to share. I knew from studying Thoreau in college, and later in grad school, that he was fond of molasses.

I visit Henry a couple times a year just to chat. We have a bit in common. His two-year-plus social experiment at Walden, blending experience with theory (his spiritual thoughts and self-reliance among other themes), has always inspired me to live outside the constraints of modern society - unlike what many people today practice: blending Walden theory with ideology (fancy language for only talking a good game but not actually experiencing it).

Even though I knew of Henry since my teenage years, I didn’t consider him my friend until 1982 when I met him outside the walls of academia. In late spring of that year, I lived in a toolshed in Maine, cutting cordwood for minimum wage. During down times, I’d often read from my collected works of Thoreau. Then at twilight, when the worldly noise softened, I’d sit at the open door of the shed and eat rice and beans cooked on my backpacking stove, and drink black tea sweetened with a little molasses, the same way Henry liked it. A dove called out fifteen minutes before dark every evening from a thick stand of trees - it was so regular that I could set my watch to it. I was sure Henry had heard similar Nature sounds when he ate from his own cabin door. Then I’d fall asleep, exhausted, in my sleeping bag. Nine hours later, I’d grudgingly crawl out of my bag on the hard wooden floor to make a quick bowl of oatmeal before lugging the chainsaw, gas, and splitting maul a couple hundred yards back to the cutting area.

Sketch of the cabin I stayed in. Taken from my journal page dated June 07, 1982.

*

On my hike a couple weeks ago, it took a while for Henry to show up. I was on my way back to my car with two more miles to go out of this thirteen-mile round trip when his ghost found me back on the shore of Walden Pond. Maybe I just needed to be on the tired side, letting the council of monkeys who constantly chatter negative thoughts in my head to become silent so that I could hear Henry’s voice call out to me. Or perhaps Henry was just being Henry, only showing up when he wanted to.

“I’ve got a slice of Treacle Bread for you,” I offered.

Henry shook his head. “No. Spirits don’t eat,” he said, then took a big whiff of my offering. “Wish we did as that bread smells so delicious. I appreciate the gesture, though.” Then he asked what I was doing.

“Admiring these pebbles in the water,” I said. “See how they sparkle in the bright sunlight? Look at the earthy reds and whites from the different minerals within them. Others glow brown or dark olive in their native watery world. But when I pick them out of their environment and dry them, they take on a dull countenance.”

Then Henry told me for the thousandth time in my life, “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.” (1)

Those pebbles, a physical metaphor, now dull, died in my hands, only to come back to a beautiful vibrant life when returned to its natural state in the water. I thought about all those times I have allowed myself to be taken out of my own natural state to be what someone else wanted me to be. Each time that I followed the beat of another drummer, rather than that of my own, a little bit of me died. And every time, dullness supplanted sparkle.

Henry laughed. “How many times have I had to tell you this since we became friends during our time in the Maine woods?

“Yeah, I listened to you.” I said, “It’s just that…”

Henry interrupted, finishing my sentence: “‘It’s just that’…you really need to take care of that council of monkeys in your head. You need more space for the important stuff in that noggin of yours.”

Then he was gone. Typical Henry with his French exit whenever we meet - just disappearing when he’s done talking without any goodbye. I ate the Treacle Bread and drank some water while thinking about our conversation.

Refreshed, I turned my way north on the trail toward Concord center. About a mile in, I stopped at Fairyland Pond - which, to me, is more of a large puddle. I first caught sight of the blazing red leaves of a maple tree at one end before noticing a couple mallards dabbling among the nearby duckweed, and in the middle, a gray slate-blue colored heron stood statue-still in the tall reeds while cautiously watching me. I felt the beauty of that scene pour unabated into my silent noggin.

Fairyland Pond along the Emerson-Thoreau Amble

 “Eh-hem.” I heard a woman’s voice behind me and turned to see the ghost of the poet Mary Oliver. “Where have you been?” she asked. “We used to be so close, but now you hardly read my books anymore.”

“Well…I…”

“Save it,” Mary said. “You’ve been selling yourself short. Is that a nose ring I see there? The kind one used to pull cattle around with?”

I dodged her rhetorical question of a figurative nose ring. “You’re a bit far away from Provincetown, Mary,” I said. “What brings you to haunt these Concord woods.?”

“Well, I was talking to Henry a few minutes ago. He’s still worried about you.”

“Tell him I am okay, Mary.”

“Really?” she replied. “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” (2)

“I think the first thing I’m going to do when I finish hiking today is eat a pizza.”

“Typical male!” she said. “Always thinking about your stomach.”

I laughed. “Actually, I sense some distant drumming. I’m off to see what it’s about.”

“I don’t hear it,” Mary said. “I think you’re just bluffing to avoid another hard conversation.

“Mary. Mary. Mary. Au contraire!” That drumming is only for me to hear, not for you…”

Mary’s eyes sparkled over her effortless smile. “Right answer!”

I left Mary at the pond; she was now enamored with the blazing red maple leaves across the water. And I, untethered once again, followed the sound only I could hear along a path only I could see to find my way home.

(1) From Walden by Henry David Thoreau. 

(2) From Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day.”