In spite of his outdoor, elemental life, Henry was not entirely healthy. His lungs had probably been weakened by his work in his father’s dusty pencil factory. Late in 1860 Henry was visited by his friend Bronson Alcott, who was suffering at the time from a bad cold. Henry caught the cold and it worsened into bronchitis, as his colds often did. He spent the winter housebound and weakened. He was still weak in the spring, and his doctor suggested that he go to a better climate, so Henry went off to—of all places—Minnesota. He spent two months there, studying the natural history of the region and, among other things, attending an Indian dance and ceremony. He was back in Concord by July, uncured, and that fall he was still in poor health. The problem by this time was not bronchitis but tuberculosis.
Henry had developed a more scientific interest in the natural world in his later years; he was studying and classifying trees and their history, and that winter, sick as he was, his work continued unabated. But it was not a good winter. The journal, the real work of his short life, ended in November with relatively light entries about the behavior of kittens and a storm.
January was cold that year, with high winds. An old man who was a friend of Henry’s and a source of much of the folklore of the town, died. Henry developed pleurisy and was confined to his bed. By the end of winter it was clear that he was dying.
His was not a quick death. He was so weak he could speak only in whispers; the ominous flush of tuberculosis tinted his cheeks. He was living at home at this time with his mother and his last living sister, Sophia, and he insisted on having his bed moved downstairs to the living room so he could enjoy the life of the household till the end. In spite of his weakness, he continued to work, and, as everyone who visited him at this period remarked, his spirits were good—high almost, some said. His former jailer, Sam Staples, commented that he never saw a man die in such pleasure and peace. Henry was on the brink of the next world, and true to form, he seemed curious to enter it; he was ever the explorer. He continued to be attached to the world of the living, however. A friend visiting him, a man who was not afraid to speak directly, asked whether he might perhaps be able to see the “other side of the dark river.” “One world at a time,” Henry answered. Another visitor asked him if he had finally made his peace with God. “I was not aware,” said Henry, “that we have ever quarreled.” This was not a man trembling in the face of dissolution.
Early on the morning of May 6, 1862, he and his sister were reading sections of the manuscript of A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers. It was a fitting project for a man whose life had, in some ways, been inspired and shaped by his relationship with his brother and their early years together. He was obviously preoccupied by events of that period of his life. Even on his deathbed, when Ellen Sewall’s name came up Henry said, “I have always loved her.”
Henry was too weak by this time to hold the manuscript, to read or make corrections, so Sophia would read aloud to him. She had come to the last chapter, the point at which Henry and his brother are approaching the mouth of the Nashua River, where it flows into the Merrimack. The narrative digresses at this point.
There is a pleasant tract on the bank of the Concord, called Conantum, which I have in my mind,—the old deserted farmhouse. The desolate pasture with its bleak cliff, the open wood, the river-reach, the green meadow in the midst, and the moss-grown wild-apple orchard,—places where one may have many thoughts and not decide anything. It is a scene which I can not only remember, as I might a vision, but when I will can bodily revisit.
She read on. Henry was still, his breathing ever more shallow.
“There is something even in the lapse of time by which time recovers itself,” she read.
It was a cool and breezy day on the Merrimack. The two brothers sat muffled in their cloaks while the river and the wind carried them along. They passed farms and homesteads where women and children stood on the bank, staring at them until they had swept out of sight.
The river rippled and bounded.
“We glided past the mouth of the Nashua, and not long after, of Salmon Brook, without more pause than the wind.”
Sophia stopped reading. The two brothers were carried ever downstream, and downwind to Concord, a wild, easy ride. Henry knew the narrative by heart. “Now comes good sailing,” he said.
After that he said something else. Sophia could not catch the full sentence, but Henry was somewhere back in Maine, somewhere in wilderness.
“Moose,” he whispered. “Indian.”
It was still early morning. Outside, spring was reawakening. The black and white warblers had returned, the flickers were whinnying from the distant wood lots, the smell of fresh soil filled the air, and the new leaves of the oaks and the maples made a lace work of the morning sky. Inside, the chronicler of such events was dead.
I saw Kenny Olsen that month. He was waiting in line in the post office. Slouched over, dressed in corduroy and flannel, he looked more like a local electrician than the president of a multinational corporation. He would be getting ready, I thought, for his annual trip to Maine.
Although he could afford yachts and exotic vacations, Uncle Kenny prefers to go canoeing in the North Woods of Maine, a region beloved by Henry Thoreau. There, for a week or two, while all around the world his computers continue their work, he roughs it in the wilderness, sleeping on the ground, paddling through placid lakes, dashing through the rapids of white-water rivers, and portaging through musky swamps and bogs. Uncle Kenny is a man of simple tastes; he prefers a low profile, keeps his horizons in sight, and, just to remind himself of his summer trips, keeps in his living room in Lincoln, Massachusetts, a stuffed beaver, a memory of the North Country.
When I saw him there in the post office, it occurred to me to go up and introduce myself. I would tell him about my interest in his business, tell him about my “conversion” on the plane trip back from Puerto Rico. I might even tell him about my quest to get inside his plant. I glanced at Uncle Kenny—possibly I fixed his eye, since he looked up and nodded seriously—but in the end I simply returned his nod and moved out the door. I watched him through the plate glass window of the post office as he slowly and obediently shuffled forward to the counter. I could see him almost apologetically negotiating with the clerk as he posted his small, carefully wrapped package.
None of this modesty keeps Kenny from building large plants, of course—that is an essential part of his business—and that spring, as promised, work began on the second wing of the great city on the hill, an exact replica of the first wing. When completed the structure would double the number of employees working at that facility, and would, in a single sweep, substantially increase the size of the daytime population of the town.
Late in May I happened to see my friend in the cowboy hat getting into his Saab in the Digital parking lot. I stopped to ask him what progress he was making on my request to visit the plant. He had actually returned my phone calls, and we had been chatting on and off for a number of weeks. We talked some more in the parking lot and then went across the street for a drink.
We sat at an outdoor cafe that had opened recently, one of many new businesses that had sprung up because of the presence of the Digital employees. I liked the cafe. From the terrace I could not see the monster plant. What was left of the pear orchard was just across the street, and just beyond, a great copper beech tree obscured—for the most part—a new gas station that had been built off the town common to serve the new highway. We sat there watching the sun set over the pear orchard while the computer man told me about innovations in networking and superconductivity and what all this would mean for the future. I became lost early on in his speech. I was thinking of the big barn that used to stand beyond the orchard. It would have made an excellent frame for the dying sun. Somewhere in the midst of his explanation of networks I heard him say that I could see this system when I visited the plant.
“You mean it’s okay to come?” I asked.
“Yes, I just said that. I think it’
s okay. You’re clearly not an industrial spy.”
“Ah, but I am,” I answered truthfully. “Of the worst sort.”
“So am I,” he said. “Fifth Column.”
The sun dipped below the ridge of high ground—the same ridge on which my little cottage sat. We set up a day and a time for my visit; I paid for the drinks and we parted.
June tenth of that year was a day so rare, so precious, that to lose even a minute of it by going indoors seemed sinful. Out in my garden a few days earlier the yellow day lilies had come into bloom; the indigo bunting had returned, and everywhere the world was lush and green. I was up very early that morning, and I went down to scythe the meadow and listen to the rolling dawn chorus. There was not a single cloud; the sky had assumed a deep aquamarine color, a translucence that caused the grasses, trees, and rocks to stand out in brilliant detail. The air was so clear that perception of distance was diminished; everything was wet and close and sharp. I scythed for a while and then walked around the meadow and the garden looking at the little foaming clusters of spittle bugs, sniffing the morning air, and searching for new seedlings. The sun gained; the shadows shortened and darkened; the air began to dry; and out on the main road, the tidal flow of commuting traffic began to swell. In the distance, in the clear air, I could hear the dull roar of its passage.
I began to regret that I had agreed to meet my new acquaintance at the Digital plant at four that afternoon. Working in the knee-high grasses, swinging the scythe, I remembered asking a friend of mine who has a good job at Digital what he feels in the parking lot on a lovely spring morning, just before entering into the closed world of computers.
“Anxiety,” he answered without deliberation.
I scythed some more. The first cutting of the year is always the best. The grass is water-filled and tender and clips off neatly with the slightest stroke. Row by row I proceeded, cutting up from the lower end of the meadow toward the garden and the western wall. The day was invigorating, and some flow or spirit in the air kept me working. The indigo buntings spilled out their long, bubbling music; the scent of fresh grass rose in almost visible lines, shimmering; and as I cut, little sprays of retreating insects flew up ahead of me.
Megan Lewis would be outdoors today. I had seen her a week or so earlier in a garden center in the nearby town of Lexington. She was making pronouncements on the stock, and she was clearly back in form. She seemed to have settled into a comfortable existence as a widow-gardener.
“Ever so boring, don’t you think? They never seem to be able to import anything that is in any way interesting into these nurseries. You have to send away to the catalogues, or grow it yourself, which takes years.”
“You have time,” I said.
“In fact I don’t. I turned seventy this winter, I think you should know. But I’m planting trees anyway. It’s the least one can do.”
The ridge and its people had all managed to adjust in one way or another. About a month before Higgins had showed up at my cottage and begun pacing around my terrace; after a while he told me, gravely, that for some time he and Jane had been in counseling together.
“Oh no,” I said. “Problems?”
“No. We’re getting married. The therapist said it’s okay.”
Emil and Minna were getting by. With their nest emptied, they had become even more dedicated to their self-sufficient way of life. They seemed to have adjusted to the presence of the Digital plant. Once I saw Minna standing on the town common staring at the building.
“Quite a change, isn’t it?” I said.
“So quickly you get used to it,” she answered sadly.
Not long after seven o’clock an executive helicopter flew over. It had probably taken off from southern New Hampshire, where a cluster of computer companies, including the ever-present Digital, had built new plants, and it was no doubt headed for another cluster somewhere along Route 128, near Boston. The economy was changing around here. Henry Thoreau, passing through this area in June, would have seen gangs of scythers moving slowly across the hay fields, whole teams of men and boys silently swinging in the early light of the morning while the dew was still heavy on the hay.
I rested for a while in the garden, drank some cold water, listened to the birds, and then went back to work. I had cut a large section already, more than I usually do in a morning, and since I was making good time and had no other responsibilities that day—except my Digital appointment—I decided to cut over the whole meadow. I went back and began at the south wall. A chestnut-sided warbler was singing madly in the oak tree behind me. I moved down the row, cutting evenly, pacing myself and listening to the fine, watery swish of the blade. A slow-moving garter snake wriggled up a bundle of fallen stems and halted for a second or two, eyeing me and flicking its tongue. I moved and it disappeared, the exquisite stripes and dots merging with the greens of the meadow.
Where is Prince Rudolph today, I wondered? It was the type of day he loved, the kind of clear, dry weather that put him on the road to someplace other than where he happened to be. I had seen him a week or so earlier on a similarly brilliant day, striding west on Route 2, his battered suitcase in hand and his ever-present winter coat thrown over his right shoulder. There was a bounce in his walk that suggested he might be in a better mood than he generally was, and I pulled over to ask if he wanted a ride.
“No thanks,” he said with unusual friendliness. “I’m walking.”
Then he seemed to recognize me. “Me and a buddy are going to get one of them trailers and head west. We’re going to Tucson. They got a good park there by the rail line. What do I care? Know what I mean? I’ve had it with winters up here anyway. This one nearly took me down.”
“Well, good luck.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Good luck.” He snorted, tossed his head cynically and walked away.
About eight-thirty, the dull roar of the commuter traffic quieted and then ceased altogether. The sun warmed, climbed above the oaks on the lower fields, and then began to edge across the meadow. On the other side of the valley, in the great plant, the workers would be reading their electronic mail, punching up numbers on the screens, sending memos and jokes to one another across regions and continents. The light in their cubicles would be uniform, a white, unshadowed fluorescence.
My friend Susan, who had worked at Digital for five years before quitting to spend more time with her daughter, used to say that sometimes when she was working at her terminal she would become so consumed by the lighted screen, the quick flashes of numerals and words, that she would lose track of time and forget to eat. One day she forgot to leave work on time to pick up her daughter at day care. When this happened a second time she arranged for a vacation. She rented a cabin on a hill in New Hampshire and spent two weeks trying to do nothing. She was edgy during the first week, but by the weekend she had become comfortable in the place. By the end of the second week, while she was out picking blueberries, it struck her that she could go on in this manner for a long time, picking blueberries with her daughter and feeling the heat of the sun on her back. She gave notice when she returned.
I stopped scything again halfway up the meadow and sat down in the shade of the hickory grove.
With the end of June approaching, and the upcoming anniversary of a year in the cottage, I had been spending more and more time thinking about what to do.
The idea of the cottage had begun as a temporary solution to a housing problem. But even before I began building, I knew that it was more than that. Quite apart from a commitment to my children, the decision to build was the result of an attachment to a place. This ridge, with its mysterious hollows, its hemlocks and hickory groves, was not especially remarkable, but for me the land provided a quiet center in the midst of a noisy world. And anyway, as Sanferd said, a place is what you make of it, not what it really is.
Yet there were certain economic realities about the region. The ridge was located at one of the technological crossroads of America, and the elements of the land
that I had come to appreciate—the forest, the historical landscape—were probably doomed. I had been thinking recently about that part of the ridge that twentieth-century legal documents tell me I “own.” I had placed my cottage on what is known in the trade as a buildable lot, which meant that if I ever sold the land and moved away, someone could come along and put up a house in “my” meadow. Given the current architectural tastes of the developers and contractors in the area, I had to assume that whatever appeared in the meadow would detract from the existing landscape. The alternative, of course, would be to beat them at their own game and put up a house of my own—a proper one, in the style of Andrew Jackson Downing, something that would suit the nature of the ridge.
I doused myself with water and went back to the meadow to continue mowing. In the clear, hot light of late morning the woods beyond the stone walls had darkened to black, and the air over the field was nearly white. The indigo buntings were singing madly, the garden flowers were coming into bloom, and there was nothing in view to indicate that this was the bitter end of the twentieth century and we could all be living at the end of time.
By noon the Digital workers would be streaming out of their plant and walking down the roads of the community. Flowers and strawberries and asparagus had been set out in the farm stands along with what was left of the rural roads beyond the plant, and whenever the weather was nice, the workers would pick up bouquets and fruit or vegetables and after lunch walk back with this locally grown produce to work at their terminals. It seemed that a fairly rational balance had been achieved in this spot. The fields and the orchards were still functioning, and relatively clean, nonpolluting industries had been fitted in among the natural areas and the housing. Even the wildlife seemed to be holding its own. Earlier that month I had seen an otter on Beaver Brook, not two hundred yards from a small computer company.
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