The Sauntering Society

By TRINA BOICE

"It is a great art to saunter."  So wrote Henry David Thoreau over 100 years ago.  He used to saunter four hours a day, explaining that the origins of the term "saunter" comes from the Middle Ages, when wandering pilgrims would beg for alms to finance their journey to “la Saint Terre,” the Holy Land. Such people became known as saint-terrers, or saunterers.  I've known some people who consider a walk among the mountains as the equivalent of churchgoing. 

I remember the first time I learned of Henry David Thoreau and read his famous "Walden."  I had just graduated from college and was recovering from a car accident, stuck in bed with hours upon hours to read.  I was intrigued with his quest to discover the greater meaning of life and I admired his commitment to simplify his life by living off the land in quiet contemplation.  He built a tiny 1 room "house" where he LIVED for 1 year, 1 month, 1 week, and 1 day.  If I weren't so addicted to ice cream and movies I would do the same.

I tried to imagine myself next to him on his adventure and wondered if I'd even be able to withstand the solitude. I wondered if I would be creative enough to keep myself entertained and inspired or if my brain would start to hurt after the first day of attempting prolonged deep thought.

Some consider Thoreau to have been a hermit, although he sauntered into town and visited with friends every few days. Now that my days are filled with never-ending tasks and sounds, I envy Thoreau's stillness. Oh, to have time to sit and think in perfect silence! Unexpectedly this autumn, I found myself in beautiful Concord, sauntering around Walden! A business trip took me to Boson, only a stone's throw from Thoreau's beloved pond.  It was almost dusk, but my husband and I were determined to saunter.
 

Markers indicate the location where Thoreau's "home" stood, overlooking the pond he made immortal with his words.  For a brief moment in time, life was simple.  We walked and walked, taking in every breath of crisp, Fall air. 

 Ducks swam by.  The wind kissed our chilled cheeks.  The fallen leaves crunched under our feet.  It was perfect.

According to my family's pedigree chart, Ralph Waldo Emmerson and I are related.  Until I visited Concord, I never realized that the Walden property was actually owned by Ralph Waldo Emmerson's father.  I suddenly felt an even greater connection to this place.  Ralph and Henry were not only contemporaries, but good friends who shared a love for this very spot on earth.  Oh, to be a fly on the wall of Thoreau's home when Emmerson came to visit him!  Both inspiring writers found comfort and wisdom in nature and stillness...a reminder to me to turn off the TV and free my mind on a long walk outside.  

Thoreau says it best..."So we saunter toward the Holy Land; till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, so warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn."

Peek in the Past - The Old Prison Site

Another place from childhood memories of Knutsford, Cheshire, was the old Prison Site. This place conjured up the strangest imaginings in my young mind. I wasn’t old enough to understand the full extent of man’s suffering when freedom had gone, and all that was left was the monotony of four walls and memories of better times, but still, the old place had a feel to it that was creepy, yet compelling.

I often cycled over there on my black bike (a second-hand but repainted birthday gift from my parents), riding up and down the bumpy hills worn into uneven paths by years of feet taking a short cut to town.

The ground, which was about the size of two soccer fields, had been known locally as the “Prison Site” for so long that the words were more a title than a phrase, and the meaning forgotten—similar to the way Brits call a vacuum cleaner a Hoover, with no thought to the real meaning.

This aerial photograph of the prison dates from about 1930 before it was demolished. The four-storey prison was built in 1853 to hold a hundred women. It was known as the 'House of Correction' in 1860, when it held 273 prisoners, with a capacity for 700, according to Joan Leach in her book Behind Prison Walls. And David Woodley, in his book, Knutsford Prison: The Inside Story, says, “Over the years, as well as local criminals, debtors and offenders against the Game and Bastardy Laws, Knutsford Prison housed disaffected Chartists and those awaiting transportation. From 1886, until it was taken over by the Home Office as an Army detention barrack in 1915, nine executions took place on its scaffold.”

When we lived nearby, the old prison had long been knocked to the ground, leaving heaps of brick and rubble over which grass and weeds grew in wild abundance. No one ever questioned why the debris wasn’t removed. It stayed there until after we moved home when I was twelve, and provided secret caverns big enough for my hand to insert small treasures, buttons, and a bright-but-broken Christmas ornaments. I always closed the hole containing my secret booty with a brick marked with chalk.

Sometimes, the contents would disappear by the time I next visited my hole, and that’s when I invented stories about prisoners still in dungeons below the ground, who took my gifts to perk up their days. Of course, they were always innocent prisoners, wrongly captured for crimes uncommitted, and there was always a fair maiden (me) waiting for the right moment to rescue the rugged hero. Actually, my heroes all looked like Cornel Wilde, an actor in a movie I saw with my mother. He was a trapeze artist in the 1952 version of The Greatest Show on Earth.

That was the first movie I ever watched, and it marked the beginning of an enchantment with the silver screen and all things connected. In England, trips to the cinema were called “going to the pictures.” As I grew older, I added stage musicals, concerts, and pantomimes, and invariably became so absorbed in the tale that the end always came too soon and it was a shock to find the world around me hadn’t changed.

By the way, in more recent years, the old Prison Site became the home of Booths Supermarket, and I understand there are reports of paranormal activity by local residents. Oh, for the time to write more. There has to be a good story in there, somewhere.

Back in two weeks. Oh, and if you'd like to read the latest review of Famous Family Nights, hop on over to author Sherry Ann Miller's blog by clicking HERE. Her first sentence says, "Famous Family Nights . . . is one of the best books I've ever read on Family Home Evenings." Thank you, Sherry Ann, you made my day. And I have to add, all credit for it being that good goes to the 91 participants who sent in their fascinating stories. Hats off to them all.

Famous Family Nights Winner – and Peek in the Past - Over the Garden Wall

Congratulations to Derisada, the winner of Famous Family Nights! Derisada, please send me a message by clicking on my website contact page HERE. I’ll pop a signed copy of the book in the mail as soon as I know your mailing address.

Many thanks to everyone who entered comments for this give-away. I read every entry and wish you could all receive a prize. May all your family nights be happy!

My last post on this blog ("The Bottomless Pond" for those who forgot already or never saw it), can be found by clicking HERE. Today’s flashback is to the same era. I know that sounds prehistoric, but it’s vividly current in my head :-) So here we go . . .

There was an old brick wall at the end of our garden (yard) in Knutsford, Cheshire, England. It was, of course, a magic wall leading to the mysterious world beyond. The top layer was weather-worn and crumbly, with several loose bricks. A few falls, scrapes, and scratches eventually taught me to take care when tripping along the top from one corner of our garden to the other. To me, it was a lookout post on my castle parapet.

When giant dogs or a handsome prince approached (or one of several boys on whom I had a crush), I jumped back down to the safety of our veggie patch, taking my giddy heart into the blackcurrant bush for refuge.

On the other side of that wall, the road curved in majestic sweep, and its surface was as smooth as stainless steel. It was my favorite place to roller skate. But I could only use it when no enemy was in sight.

When all was quiet, I tossed my skates over the other side, and scrambled after them, dropping from a great height onto the grassy ledge between tall beech trees. I clipped the skates to my shoe bottoms and turned into a skating champ.

I swooshed round that bend on one leg, on two legs, arabesque style, squatting, jumping, or flying backwards. Oh, for the confidence of youth. These days, the best I can do is stand on one leg while brushing my teeth.

More in two weeks. Tata for now.

PS
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Peek in the Past - The Bottomless Pond

There were many places in and around our home in Knutsford, Cheshire, for a child to wander. And wander I did. In those days, it never entered my head there might be danger lurking. Besides, I had my super-charged horse, right? On days when I felt like exploring beyond our street, my old bike became Snowball (see previous post) and together we were either invincible, or invisible. Sometimes both.

I tied rope to the handlebars and pretended it was reins - hanging onto the rope instead of the handles. Until one day, the front wheel hit a rock and I flew off, landing on bare knees. Oh, the agony for weeks. It didn’t stop me from doing it again, though. It’s not funny how some children have to learn the hard way. Now, when I see someone riding a bike no-hands, I cringe for them.

A favorite haunt was several narrow lanes away, past the field, past my little country school, out through the village and down the never-ending hill to neatly hedged farmland. That hill was a dream to ride down, and a nightmare to ride up. Near the hill’s end was a field with a bottomless pond. Adults warned that children drowned in its creepy depths. Maybe that's why I was always alone there.

That pond was dark mystery; home to weird water creatures; a place where fish talked, horses drank, and I never dared paddle.

I still recall the sweet smell, though. Today, if I walk past a field of wheat stubble with its earthy grass scent, memories of that English field and the scary pond come flooding back. In those days, when more farming was done by hand, even the stooks (swathes of cut grain stalks) were fuel for the imagination. They looked like wigwams to me, and made good homes for pretend Indian mice. And the haunting shrill of plump-bellied Skylarks added a tuneful backdrop to my fantasies.

One time, I lay on my stomach and reached out with an empty jam jar from my saddlebag for a dollop of floating frogspawn, rescuing it from the jaws of the Loch Ness Monster’s daughter.

Thinking about it now, ominous shapes beneath the murky water were probably shadows of passing clouds. But to me, Miss Nessy was down there and she had an alarming appetite.

So I scooped as much slippery frogspawn as I could reach, into the jar, covered it with a once-white handkerchief and secured this with a rubber band, then set it upright in my saddlebag—which wouldn’t buckle up. Precarious, really.

I wobbled back up that hill with my slimy treasure, being extra careful to avoid bumps in the road, and sneaked my booty down cold stone steps into the cellar below our house. Growing tadpoles was great fun, especially when they turned into frogs. But more about that another day. I must return to 2009 and do some writing.

PS
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Peek in the Past - Watling Street and Old Aggie's Wisdom Tooth

In my last post, I mentioned a scary incident where one of my stories diverted family attention from disaster. More about this adventure today.

In 1950s England there were no motorways (freeways), and little old English roads wandered here and there through villages and towns in whimsical fashion. And still do, by the way. However, ancient Roman Roads connected larger cities with straight/ish lines. Most Roman Roads now have new roads built over them, such as the A5.

The A5 is a major road in the UK. It was also the first Roman built road in England hence the name Roman Road. It runs for about 260 miles from London to Holyhead, Wales, following in part a section of the Roman route which the Anglo-Saxons name Watling Street.

Although the A5 was an improvement on minor roads, in the 1950s it had many bends, bridges, and narrow places. It was on one of these winding, tight roads that our family drama took place. I still remember details to this day.

My Mum and Dad were in the front seats, with Dad driving. I was in the back, sandwiched between my twin siblings (no seat belts in UK then), telling them a story. I was about 8 and they were 5½. We were returning home from a visit to our aunt and uncle who lived in Watford, Hertfordshire.

My story had reached a gripping moment (Minny the Tooth Fairy, who lived in old Aggie’s wisdom tooth, was about to be slaughtered by the dentist), when both my parents gasped and my Dad let out a scary yell. And nope, they weren’t engrossed by my zany tale. The horror was on the road ahead.

We had crossed a narrow bridge and were about to round a blind bend. I looked up and saw a massive lorry (truck) coming at us, using most of the road. By some miracle, Dad managed to flip the wheel and take us up the embankment, teetering along the edge before lurching back onto the road the other side of the fiercely hooting lorry.

Fortunately, because they were still living in my fairy tale, the twins didn’t panic. They were low enough in the seat to miss the drama, and simply poked me to carry on with the story. I’m sure my voice must have trembled. I can’t remember how Minny escaped from Aggie's tooth because my brain still clings to reruns of the near crash.

Looking back, and knowing what I now know about angels, I think one must have been helping us that day. Come to think of it, I've had more than a few narrow escapes on British roads. Another incident much later in life was equally frightening. But more about that another day. And yes, it was writing related :-)

PS
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Peek in the Past - Igloos, Tigers, and Friendly Giants

Today, I’d like to delve into childhood some more—when time seemed to last forever, and responsibilities consisted of remembering to feed my rabbit in the hutch I built from boxes; take Gyp the dog for walks; and collect runner beans from the garden for mum to cook for dinner. And the sun always shone. Well, maybe not. England isn’t known for sunny days. But in my memory, there was plenty of sunshine. Imagination can work a magic of its own no matter what.

Snowball (see last post) often left the attic and followed wherever I went - on foot, bike, or roller skates - my invisible friend was all the protection I needed back then. These days, I’d be worried sick if my granddaughters wandered alone.
A favorite place for make-believe was across the road from our Victorian semi in Knutsford. There was a large field occupied by an ancient carthorse, and beyond the field, down an embankment was the railway line. When I walked the length of the field and climbed a fence at the far end, I could jump onto the embankment and edge my way along the top until I came to a gap in the shrubs. Once through, I slithered halfway down the steep slope to the next ledge. There, Snowball and I stretched out on the grass and watched for trains.

It was a quiet place until a steam train clattered past. The occasional bumblebee droned and drooled over pollen in scattered wild flowers, and spectacular clouds formed igloos, tigers, and friendly giants overhead. It was the perfect spot for my fairy people who lived among the matted roots. Their adventures occupied space in my mind for many years.

One story eventually popped out at a traumatic family moment. More about that in my next post. I have to gather photographs for Famous Family Nights right now.

PS
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