Mr. Thoreau Goes to Boston

Mr. Thoreau Goes to Boston

Ah, I have penetrated to those meadows on the morning of many first spring day, jumping from hummock to hummock, from willow root to willow root, when the wild river valley and the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as would have waked the dead, if they had been slumbering in their graves as some suppose.  There needs no stronger proof of immortality.

Walden, A Life in the Woods

Henry David Thoreau

It was early spring in the New England woods and snow lay on the ground in the shadows of the pine, maple, and cedar.  In the mornings, the brown thrasher, red mavis, and whippoorwill went about their work of gathering seeds and building nests and a red tail hawk could be seen circling overhead riding the air currents with nary the movement of a wing.  The mornings were brisk, but if one sat in the sun under the blue sky, a warmth would spread through the body like a fresh cooked meal settling comfortably in the stomach. 

In a copse of pines on the edge of a small bog bordered with hedgehog, wormwood, and millet grass, a woodchuck pause on the ground, and then in a flash, scurried away. The ground began to move and undulate.  An object, like a sprouting plant caught on time lapse photography, pushed up through the soil and emerged on the surface.  But it was not the sprout of a cattail, meadow grass, or even a sapling pine, but the boot covered foot of a man. 

First one foot emerged and then a second one.  Then a buckskin covered arm and then another.  Seconds later, a head emerged topped with a coon skinned cap and adorned with long brown locks, a straggly beard, and mud stained face.  It shook itself while making a gurgling sound . . . bubblbblebbble like an incipient being.  It pushed itself up, brushed itself off, and slowly rose up onto its feet. 

The fellow began to speak—but having a difficult time getting words out, cleared his throat . . . umohurrrrroh . . . .  He then spoke to the trees as much as to himself, I must have fallen asleep. . . I’ve been out for a long, long time.

The man walked slowly at first . . . and then picked up a normal pace.  After a while, he recognized land marks in the woods: a towering elm, a clump of boulders.  He was now on a familiar path.  He thought to himself, I’ll be glad to get home—a soft bed, a warm room, a good meal.  It seems like it’s been ages.  He walked and walked through the forest, but when he was near what he thought was his cabin, it was not there.  So he continued walking through the night and into the morning. 

The man known as Mr. Thoreau came out of the woods and entered an area of short mixed grasses of similar height as if they were shaved close to the ground like a man’s beard or the coat of a short-haired dog.  There were trees sparsely scattered throughout, a concrete path that was easy to walk on, and a small pond in its midst.  The man looked up at the sky line, but instead of seeing trees and the gables of a village, he spotted what at first looked like shear granite cliffs. 

There was a wide paved pathway in front of the cliffs with dark ominous objects rushing by on it.  They belched an unpleasant odor and made a strident roaring sound as they went by.  He said to himself, Iron horses . . . but each is separate from the other and they run on no track but on a road.  And they are powered from within.  As he neared the road he realized that the granite cliffs had windows and doors and were man made.  They were buildings like none he had seen before.  When he stepped onto the road, there was a loud honking and then a screeching sound as a car skidded to a stop a few feet in front of him.

The driver shouted, Watch where you’re going, Buddy.

Mr. Thoreau ambled over to the Duck Pond in the Public Gardens of Boston Commons.  He took off his boots and socks and let his feet rest gently in the water.  There were people sitting on the lawn reading newspapers, books, and chatting with friends and eating lunch.  Occasionally, a shopper or corporate employee rushed along a path.  Mr. Thoreau laid back on the grass and rested for some time and finally fell asleep. 

When he woke, he sat up, looked at his hands, and then his reflection in the pond.  He immediately jumped up, went behind a bush, took off his clothes, and slipped into the water.  A group of twenty women with cameras and video cameras were attending a business conference in Boston and were strolling along the far shore of the pond.  Several of them pointed towards Thoreau and whispered to one another.  The cameras made sharp turns in his direction. 

Using his reflection in the pond, Thoreau scrubbed his face, hands, and body with the water, and shaved using his hunting knife.  When he got out of the pond and dried himself off, there were loud plaudits from the entourage across the pond.  Behind Thoreau, there was the chirp of a cell phone when a man called 911 and reported the incident to the police. 

Mr. Thoreau began to feel the pangs of hunger which were accentuated by the smell of cooking meat.  It had indeed been a long time since he’d eaten.  The redolent odor seemed to come from a bright, shiny, red, metal cart with a crimson umbrella on the path across the pond.  Thoreau walked over to it.  There was a sign that said, Hot Dogs . . . $3.00, Hamburgers . . . $4.00, Cokes . . . $1.00. 

Thoreau asked the man, What’s a Coke? 

The man said, All right, smart ass, get out of here! 

Thoreau said, Let’s see, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin, I’ve got a half-dime, will you take that . . . and I’m a vegetarian, do you have anything without meat?

The man picked up the coin, looked at it, read the date of 1854, and said, What are you an immigrant or something? You dress funny and I’ve never seen a coin like this.  Are you from Switzerland or another foreign country?

Thoreau took his coin and walked back to the pond.  His mouth watered while the geese and ducks swarmed around several pieces of bread. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long hemp cord.  He then walked over to the bread, picked up a slice, and walked back to the pond.  He broke the bread into several small pieces and rolled them into balls.  He then put one of the balls on a hook on the end of the hemp twine.  He tied a small stone onto the line near the hook and threw it into the water.

He sat down and waited.  He watched the people strolling by and the children playing on an unfamiliar metal and wooden structure. Everyone seemed to be carrying small black objects in their hands and staring at the luminescent faces. He occasionally heard a beep or a melodious chime.  He began to realize that something had changed.

He felt a familiar tug on the end of his line and slowly pulled in the hemp cord.  There was a fourteen inch trout on the end.  He used his knife to cut the trout from head to tail; he spread it open and eviscerated the entrails and as much of the skeleton as he could. 

He walked to a wooded area, collected an armful of branches and twigs, and then returned to the shore where he sat down next to a large flat stone which looked like a table.  He found two heavy branches that had forks at one end and trimmed them to an equal length with his knife and then trimmed the opposite ends to points.  He pushed the pointed ends into the ground eighteen inches apart.  He took a thinner branch of hard wood, cut off the shoots, and whittled one end to a point.  He skewered the fish through the mouth from head to tail, moved it to the center of the skewer, and then set each end of the branch on one of the vertical forks.

Thoreau generously piled twigs under the fish.  He took another stick, removed the branches and bark, cut it to a 12" length, and carved a point at one end.  He cut shavings from other branches and made a pile of them on the stone slab. He then sat on the slab, placed the point of the stick firmly against the rock surface and near the pile of shavings, and twisted the stick rapidly between his hands. After a few minutes, the point of the stick began to smoke.  He gently fed shavings and dry leaves around the smoking tip of the stick.  The shavings began to smoke and then burst into flames.  He fed more shavings and twigs onto the fire.  He transferred several burning sticks to the pile of twigs under the fish.  The twigs caught fire and the fish began to cook. 

Several cell phones chirped near the pond and five minutes later, sirens were heard and grew rapidly louder.  A police car, a fire engine, and a rescue vehicle screeched down Boylston Street. Thoreau placed his hand over his ears as if he were in great pain.  He looked up into the sky for the sound as if it were coming from a giant bird descending on the park.  The police and fire vehicles bounced over the park curb, on to the grass, and skidded to a stop near the fire and Thoreau. 

The policeman said, "OK, Mr.?

Thoreau.

You’re under arrest . . . building a fire without a permit, catching a fish without a license, using a  Boston  Commons  tree  for  firewood, not  to mention indecent exposure.

In the mean time, while the officer was talking, Thoreau was distracted by the police vehicle . . . the flashing red lights and purring engine.  He walked over to the car, peered into the plastic casing that contained the flashing lights, and through the windshield at a second policeman.  He got down on his hands and knees and looked under the car, felt the hood, and quickly removed his hand because it was hot. 

The policeman continued, You have the right to remain silent . . . Thoreau.

What?

Stand up and put your hands behind your back.  Now turn around, I’m going to handcuff you.

I take it you’re a representative of the city of ?

Boston.  I’m a policeman and you’ve broken the law.

Does that mean you’re a Polish man from the Eastern European Country of Poland?

No, I didn’t say Polish, I said police.

So you’re the militia come to enforce the law.  Well in that case, I profess that I have done nothing wrong.  I was simply cleaning my body in order to be more socially acceptable and satisfying my basic need to eat.

You’ve broken several laws.  And is this hunting knife yours?"

Yes it is.

Then I’ll add to those charges: carrying a concealed weapon without a permit.

The policeman signaled to his partner who exited the car. 

The first officer said, Armed and dangerous.

I still maintain that I have done nothing wrong and shall sit here until you’ve let me go about my business.

With that, the two officers handcuffed Thoreau and led him to the police car and closed the door.

The second officer said, Where’s your I.D?

Thoreau said, ID . . . .?  If you mean idea, I’m full of ideas.  One of those ideas is on civil disobedience . . . when any government engages in activities that prevent a man from pursuing his God given rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, non-violent action must be taken to ensure those rights.

So you’re a protester as well; maybe I’ll add that to your charges.  That should keep you in prison until you’re too old to do any harm.

The other officer said, Where’s your identification so I knows your Thoreaus who you says you is. . . .

I was born Henry David Thoreau in Concord, Massachusetts and still reside in Concord.  I was born in 1817 in the Virginia House, home of my parents.  The record of my birth was recorded by the attending physician and is on file in the city.

What are you crazy or something?  What do you think of that, Jeb . . . thinks he was born in