SELECTED WRITINGS

“I perceive that scent from the young sweet-fern shoots and withered blossoms which made the first settlers of Concord to faint on their journey.” (Thoreau’s Journal, June 11, 1856) 

I can’t help myself. Each time I walk along the northern shore of Walden Pond, I have to reach out and squeeze a sweet-fern leaf. Then I hold my fingers to my nose and take a deep breath. What an amazing aroma!

During recent walks at Walden Pond and along the trails behind Thoreau Farm, I introduced fellow hikers to this habit. It bothers me that many folks sail right past this plant without giving it a chance to introduce itself.

Here are some facts. Sweet-fern isn’t a fern; it’s a shrub. Its scientific name is Comptonia peregrine, and it belongs to the bayberry family. If Thoreau scholar and botanist Ed Schofield were still here to expound upon this plant at length, he would tell you that sweet-fern is one of the few species that is able to “fix nitrogen.” This means – if I understand the science correctly — that it can take nitrogen from the air and redirect it into the surrounding soil, thus improving the quality of nutrients in the immediate landscape. But sweet-fern needs to partner with a specific kind of bacteria to do this. Ed would gleefully dig up a small sample to show you the nodules of the fungus that grows among the roots of the sweet-fern. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship. And this complex biology proceeds invisibly in the woods behind Thoreau Farm and also at Walden Pond, where hundreds of humans stroll past patches of sweet-fern daily.

I always got the impression from Ed that its heady bouquet was related to its nitrogen-fixing capability. But no print or online authorities I’ve located make this claim. I have learned that the Native Americans used the crushed leaves to relieve the itch of poison ivy, and that drinking sweet-fern tea could resolve a variety of medical maladies, from toothache to diarrhea. I’m not sure I want to dabble with these remedies any time soon. Getting a good whiff is enough for me.

What of its effect on early settlers that Thoreau spoke about? He must have gotten this story from reading Edward Johnson’s book, A History of New-England (also known as Wonder-Working Providence of Son’s Savior in New England), published in London in 1654: it was a book that Thoreau checked out of the Harvard library 200 years later. Johnson painted a scene of the early pilgrims walking from Boston to Concord in 1636, struggling across a land full of “ragged bushes.” The day was so hot that it resulted in “such a reflecting heate from the sweet ferne, whose scent is very strong, that some herewith have beene very nere fainting, although very able bodies to undergoe much travel.”

Well, I don’t think the sweet fern scent’s THAT strong. None of our hardy New Englanders or even out-of-town visitors have keeled over in recent days because of it.

On March 18, 1860, Thoreau noted in his journal: “The sweet-fern grows in large, dense, more or less rounded or oval patches in dry land. You will see three or four such patches in a single old field. It is now quite perfect in my old bean-field.” He was referring to his former garden at Walden Pond, of course. Now we know that sweet-fern grows best “in dry infertile soils” (according to www.bostonnatural.org) and “is among the first to colonize barren, nutrient-poor soils” (says gobotany.newenglandwild.org); this realization could explain why Henry chose not to plant a garden during his second year at Walden. The earth didn’t WANT to say beans. It was ready instead to sprout sweet-fern and oaks.

Nevertheless, and putting all science aside: The heady scent of sweet-fern is one that everyone should experience. Go out and find some and squeeze a leaf for yourself. Or stop by Thoreau Farm some day, and we’ll go walking. Let me know what you think.

READ MORE OF MY THOREAU FARM BLOGS.

1974:  I turned seventeen years old.  I was in twelfth grade at Hempfield High School.  Daddy was 45, and he worked as a research chemist at Armstrong Cork Company in Lancaster, Penna.  Mom worked as a nurse at a local clinic.  We lived on Dale Avenue in West Hempfield Township.  The #1 popular song on the radio on my seventeenth birthday was “Whatever GetsYou Thru the Night” by John Lennon with the Plastic Ono Nuclear Band.  Mom snapped this photograph. 

[In order to protect the identities of the very real people in this story, I use letters here to stand for individuals.  Names of five boys/men are represented by letters from the beginning of the alphabet, A-E.  Names of six girls/women come from letters from the end of the alphabet, Z-U.  The two adult educators are identified by their real initials, for my classmates will recognize them anyway.  And it should be emphasized that I can report on these details only from my own view of them.  CHS]

The Spring of 1974 marked the second semester of my junior year at Hempfield High School.  My least favorite class then was English literature with Mrs. K.  She was the kind of teacher who expected and gave points for class participation.  I was an introverted adolescent who was loathe to offer my opinions and interpretations (and often, seemingly incorrect ones) in public.  She forced us to read and analyze Hamlet and Samuel Pepys’ diary and “That’s My Last Duchess on the Wall,” and I just didn’t get any of it.  I was a C student in her class, and I wasn’t alone.  Mrs. K. was a hot topic amongst us.  She taught two academic sections of English lit, so she had an impact on at least 50 of the 400 kids who made up the HHS Class of 1975.

One of those 50 was Z, who sat next to me in homeroom.  To make idle chit-chat one day, I asked her what she thought of a recent English test.  Our class had taken the test one day before hers had.  When I asked Z for her impression the following morning, her eyes got huge.  “Oh, Corinne,” she said, “Some people had copies of the test ahead of time!”  We looked at each other in naïve horror.  I know my jaw dropped to the floor.  How could such a thing have happened?  Neither one of us would have ever thought of cheating.  We weren’t sure we knew anyone who would.  But someone must have done the unthinkable.  This was certainly a disturbing development.

When our class walked into Mrs. K.’s room that morning, the woman was not her usual chatty, irritating self:  barking out page numbers or handing back corrected and sarcasm-laden assignment notes.  She waited until everyone was seated; then she picked up a piece of chalk and wrote seven digits on the blackboard.  A dash turned them into a phone number.  She laid the stick of chalk back in the tray.  “Something has happened,” she said quietly.  And she proceeded to launch into a long and rambling lecture, never quite nailing down the exact topic of her composed but passionate tirade.  “If you know what I’m talking about,” she said finally, “I would like you to call me at home” – she pointed to the numbers on the board – “and provide whatever information you can.  If you don’t know what I’m referring to, then you have nothing to worry about.”  We stared at our desktops or looked around the room in confusion.  For a teacher to give students her home phone number was unheard of.  This was huge, whatever it was.  I could feel my heart pounding double- and triple-time.  My worst nightmare was being accused of doing something I had not done and for which I could not prove my innocence.  Was just knowing what Z had told me enough to put me in the slammer?  I was shaking in my 4-inch cork-soled shoes.

A formal investigation was launched.  Someone had stolen the test and/or its answer sheet from Mrs. K.’s desk, and that someone would be found and punished.  One by one, selected members of my class were called down to the principal’s office over the course of the next few days.  I had never personally crossed paths with Mr. H., our principal.  But I was terrified that he might confuse me with somebody else and ask me questions under a bright and beady light, and I would cave in and sign a confession to an act I never committed.  I used to love going to school.  Now I got a queasy stomach each time I boarded the bus.

Eventually the official verdict came down from the authorities.  The culprit was A, they said.  He was suspended for a week and was made ineligible for early admission into the National Honor Society.  But the word throughout the hallowed halls of Hempy High was that A was not the test-stealer at all.  I wasn’t part of the in-crowd and so could not learn more details then.  While I was relieved that I had never been questioned, I always felt as if the real thief could still be walking amongst us, undetected and unpunished.  Maybe it was even someone I knew.

Decades passed.  One day in the 2000s, I was visiting with Y, a classmate I hadn’t seen in at least 20 years.  She had occupied the desk next to mine in Mrs. K.’s English class during our junior year.  Loving always to dwell on the past, I asked her the big question:  Did she know who stole Mrs. K.’s test back then?  I was hoping that she somehow had the key to the crime, even though she wasn’t part of the in-crowd then, either.

Unfortunately and unbelievably, Y didn’t know what I was talking about.  She didn’t recall anything about a stolen test, Mrs. K.’s plea for information, or A’s indictment.  All she remembered about that class was that B sat behind her and constantly jiggled a nervous foot against her chair the entire time.  What a let down!  I thought she might be able to give me at least a leading clue or a list of possible perps.  After all, she had once practiced as an attorney.

But for the next few days, I kept thinking about the incident.  If A didn’t take the test, then who did?  Now that Hempfield had published an alumni directory, I had contact information for most of my classmates.  If I asked the right people the right questions, I might be able to solve this decades-old puzzle.  I didn’t read all those mystery novels and watch Murder, She Wrote and Columbo reruns for nothing.

In those days just before Facebook’s popularity, I could best use only e-mail to my advantage.  I sent a message to C, a classmate who lived a few hours away from me, and whom I ran into in person on occasion.  C’s reply to my question was eerie, for his reaction mirrored mine.  Without my prompting, he wrote that he too remembered Mrs. K.’s lecture vividly, as well as the fact that she had written her phone number on the board.  He too hadn’t initially understood the reason for her behavior; and later, he too had been worried about being called to the office.  He hadn’t been interrogated either, and he didn’t know who had really stolen the English test.  When it was announced that A had been suspended, C was disappointed because they were friends who performed in the same rock band.  But C never asked A about the issue later, and he had lost touch with our classmate over time.

 A, I thought.  I could e-mail A, the supposed thief.  But we hadn’t been friends back in school.  What was I supposed to say?  Hey, how are ya, it’s been a long time, who really stole that test when we were in eleventh grade?  I actually formulated a polite message to that effect, but the e-mail was rejected.  A could no longer be found at the e-mail address listed for him in the alumni directory.  His name didn’t come up quickly in an online search, either.  So I couldn’t go to the source.  I’d have to keep asking others to sift through their memory banks.

D was a classmate whose birthday was near mine.  We still exchanged birthday cards and Christmas letters.  But when I sent him a message, it bounced back from a full e-mail box.  Darn.

X, who was my lab partner when we were in biology in tenth grade, wasn’t much help.  “A did it,” she quickly replied in an e-mail of her own.  “He got caught and couldn’t get into NHS until we were seniors because of it.”  So X believed the official story.  Too bad.  I hadn’t pegged her as a party-line kind of gal.

I used to cross professional paths with W from time to time, over the years.  She had been involved in a lot of school activities and had served as one of our class officers.  I thought she might be a good source for the truth.  “I always thought C did it,” she wrote.  “That’s what I told Mrs. K. when she called me on the phone.  You might want to ask V.  Mrs. K. called her at home, too.”

This was indeed interesting and unsettling information.  First of all, C didn’t know how close he had come to implication.  And secondly, Mrs. K. had used V and W as informants.  Granted, they were both serious and trustworthy students back then.  But for a teacher to call her students at home?  This was a borderline surreal revelation for me.  Both for my high school days, and even for now.

Although W had given me a lead, I began to question my sanity over this issue.  Why did I care, so many years later, and why was I contacting people out of the blue about something that happened in 1974?  I had played my closest cards and had come up empty.  Maybe it was time to stop the madness before the rumor spread that I was crazy-gone-nuts.  I stopped my e-mail investigation and let the matter lie.

 In 2010, at our 35th high school class reunion, I spied V and her husband E, both of whom had been in my ill-fated junior English class.  I sauntered over to them; and above the din generated by the disc jockey at the other end of the room, I leaned in to V’s ear and yelled:  “I have a question.  Who stole Mrs. K.’s test back when we were in eleventh grade?”

V nodded, as if she had heard of my investigation and had been expecting my query.  “U,” she shouted back at me.  “But don’t say anything.  She has a really good job.”  

I shook my head in disbelief.  First of all, up to that point, I had been assuming that the test thief had been male.  This was a gender bias on my part, I guess.  U and I had been members of another organization together, and we had participated in meetings and events with one another.  We weren’t close friends, but we were not strangers.  Secondly:  If U once slipped a piece of paper from a teacher’s desk into her own notebook back in 1974, why should it matter to anyone, anymore?  It shouldn’t.  But as we well know, various celebrities and individuals in public service have been brought down by such similarly tame circumstances.  Or less.

No, I didn’t ask U if she did it. She wasn’t at the reunion that weekend.  And I have never contacted her to pose the question.  I hold no grudge against her.  But who knows?  Someday I may find myself traveling in her part of the country; and I’ll just happen to stop in and ask her what she remembers about having Mrs. K. for English. And I’ll get her side of the story.

 Why has this episode stayed with me over the years? I guess it’s because of its sense of injustice.  An innocent person was accused, found guilty, and punished; and all along the perpetrator went free and unnoticed.  To a naive teenager, this was a scary situation and a lesson learned.  If this could happen within the protected sanctuary of our then-safe school building, what kind of rules could be enacted in the world beyond those walls?

READ MORE OF MY ME AND DADDY BLOGS.

My sophomore English teacher started it.

During our first week as tenth graders, Mr. Sachwald told us we each needed a thesaurus to help us with our writing assignments.  What was a thesaurus?  I had yet to see one and certainly had never used one.

 That weekend my mother drove me to the bookstore at the brand-new suburban mall. While she looked for mysteries and romances, I stood in front of the reference shelves andsurveyed the possibilities.  Sachwald had given us two criteria:  the name “Roget” -- a funny word that didn’t sound at all like it was written -- and a preference for an edition that listed key words in alphabetical order.  Armed with those guidelines, I scanned the shelves.  I took so much time that I’m sure my mother interceded, impatient and ready to pay for her own purchases.  A hardback copy is too expensive, she would have said, especially if you need the book only this year.  I settled on a small, cheap, yellow and turquoise paperback, The New Pocket Roget’s Thesaurus in Dictionary Form, printed that year (1972). It met both my teacher’s and mother’s requirements.

Wouldn’t you know it, Sachwald was right.  That thesaurus helped me find more powerful words to put in the many American literature papers I cranked out on the family typewriter that year.  I continued to consult it whenever I had reports to write for my junior and senior teachers. 

Why use interesting when engrossing went a step farther?  If explain was too common, then elucidate could take its place.  And if a character had to laugh, he might even guffaw. The book also came in handy to spruce up the unrequited-love poems that I churned out ad nauseum during my teenager-hood. Some of that verse even made its way into the school literary magazine, Whispering Minds.  The worst of the bunch were submitted under an alias to protect the guilty author.

When I went off to college, I was armed with my old thesaurus and two graduation gifts: a typewriter of my own, and a hardback, letter-tabbed Webster’s New World Dictionary of the American Language. Armed thusly, I felt as though I was indeed embarking upon a noble educational experience.

I learned much during the next four years, including the technique of typing with carbon paper or on dittos so that my masterpieces could be distributed to classmates.  Those were the days of hand-held correction tape and typewriter eraser sticks with wild hairdos of plastic bristles.  Choosing the best words to type was the easiest part of the process.

Sometime during its second decade of coming to my rescue, my thesaurus needed some help of its own.  First the back cover fell off, and then the front. I repaired the damage badly, using masking tape because it was all I had at the time.  When I finally had thick clear tape to reinforce the spine, even the masking tape was crumbling with age.  I taped over it, rather than run the risk of further ruining the cover. Appearance didn’t matter; it just had to hold together. The pages were fine and none were missing.

 On a drive through central New York in the 1990s, I stopped at a used bookstore. The musty backyard shed was crammed to the rafters with all kinds of books.  Since I was the only customer and had walked down a long driveway to reach the place, I felt an obligation to buy at least one item.  Quite frankly, I didn’t see anything I’d want to touch, let alone buy.  Just when I thought I’d have to aim an idle thanks at the proprietor and walk away empty-handed, I caught a glimpse of a familiar yellow and turquoise cover. It was a copy of my thesaurus that was in much better shape than the one I had.  I had never considered that other copies might exist. My mind debated against itself.  I already had one, why would I need another? Mine was worn out, that’s why.  But I’d never have the heart to throw out or recycle the book I bought in high school.  It had sentimental value.  Maybe it would be nice to have two thesauruses.  Thesauri?  Whatever. I gave the man a dollar and felt good doing it.

 I saw a copy of my thesaurus again a few years later at a library book sale, and I bought it.  By now it had become a habit.  To date I own four copies of that Roget’s New Pocket Thesaurus.  The original sits with my dictionary next to my computer.  Another copy is on a shelf in my unplugged writer’s garret.  One is in the car, and the last one is in my desk at work.  I have the luxury of knowing that wherever I am, my thesaurus is probably nearby.   Whenever I have times of sudden inspiration to write, I don’t have to worry about reaching a point where the right word doesn’t come to mind.  My trusty thesaurus will give me appropriate alternatives.

 Truth be told, I don’t use the book much anymore. It’s no longer the crutch it was in high school and college.  When I do get the urge to leaf through it, my thesaurus is a tool that feels comfortable in my hands. I even consulted my tattered paperback several times while writing this article.  Which words originated in my brain, and which ones needed a little prompting to reach the printed page?  I’ll never tell.  But I noticed that the cover needs additional taping.

 As I keyed this text into my computer and checked my word count in the word processing program, I noticed that the software had a built-in thesaurus. I opened it, entered a simple word, and eight similar words popped up on the screen. I was given the option to Lookup, Cancel, or Replace.  Replace? 

No thanks. I’d rather flip through the worn pages of my favorite old Roget’s.  Some things just shouldn’t change.

Fall 2005

READ MORE OF MY NONFICTION.

Background facts: J. E. H. MacDonald (1874-1932) was part of the "Group of Seven:" Canadian artists who painted landscapes of their countryside and created a feeling for their own brand of nationalist art. MacDonald lived in a small town north of Toronto. The Tangled Garden is based on what he saw in his own yard. The painting was exhibited in Ontario in 1916, and the critics hated it. MacDonald defended it, but was never able to sell it. Members of his family donated the painting to the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa seven years after his death, in 1939. There it remains, on display. 

I met him, you know. What? Have I never shared that story with you, my friend? Here, please, pour yourself another cup, and I'll tell you about my remarkable encounters with the man.

I moved into this neighborhood in the spring of that year, as I recall. By late summer, I had established a daily routine of which I was especially fond. After attending to the usual obligations that each morning required, I then made a point of setting out to saunter along the gritty sidewalk, for a distance of perhaps say, oh, a half kilometer. (I employ the term "saunter" here, as it appears to be the local alternative to "stroll," which I soon discovered was an activity that far too few of the residents practiced.)

My destination was the most delightful eatery you could hope to find, in a town such as this. The tea was always piping hot, the pastries were as rich and as luxurious as they would be in any similar shop in London, and the very air carried a delicious veil of flour, sugar, and admirable spices. I say, it was a marvelous room in which to sit and spend time with the Times, so to speak. There were precious few tables and chairs arranged in that tiny space; but the generous owners always allowed me a chance to reside there for an hour or two each day. And yes, I'm afraid I've unfortunately used the past tense to describe the place. The couple that ran it back then -- she in the kitchen, he at the counter -- put all they had into the business, and none into the production of progeny, you see. When they passed away years later, just days apart from one another, and without a single heir to come forth and take command, the barristers locked every door and window. I admit that I rarely pass by that block now. I believe the storefront has since been turned into some sort of apparel shop for women. Pity.

Nevertheless: back then, it was their fine tea and pastries that I sought. I strode along in those days with my wonderful walking stick at hand -- yes, yes, that’s the one, you see it over there in the corner! Bring it here so that you can get a closer look at it. That's a good man. I had purchased it a while earlier from a talented old woodcarver in a small village up in the Alps. Haggled a good deal before he and I came to an agreement on the price for the piece, too. It seems the man not only had the gift of craftsmanship, you see, but also the ingenuity of commerce. Uncommon to find such perception in that remote location, but there you have it. Of course, that was a trip I could only have made in the days before Germany and France – well, you know. I sometimes wonder what fate might have befallen the chap in the interim.

What? Oh, no, no, no. The land around here is as flat as the crown of my old silk hat, as you can fairly see. The walking stick was merely used as an accompanying adornment, of course, and never for support in scaling any mountains, for we have none here. What? Oh, no, no, no. My gait at the time was as regular as the second hand on a tightly-wound pocket watch. I required no additional assistance for any lengthy sojourn. It's been only in recent years that this leg of mine has given me a bit of trouble. I will say, however, that although this has always been a relatively pleasant and quiet area in which to live, one never knew when some stray mongrel hound might nose its devious way through one of the alleyways and lunge out at one with its teeth bared, without provocation. I believe it is always best to be thusly armed. Besides, I cut quite the striking image back then, I should say. A resplendent cane could make all the difference in the announcement of a gentleman.

My route in those days was a circuitous one, you see. It was full of left turns, right turns, and more left turns in order to arrive at that baker’s heaven. My return trip followed another set of streets that eventually led me back here. I found it to be a more interesting method of traversing the town, you see, and one that provided a fuller examination of its activities. There was forever a change of scenery, of course. No need for one to see the same sights going out, as one did coming back. It was for me a far more memorable journey, when conducted in that fashion. I soon grew so accustomed to the pattern that I could have navigated it blindfolded, should I have ever had the need to.

Now along the way, I would pass a certain residence, one street over and several blocks down from here. You may be able to find the place later, if you wish; though, of course, there must be a new owner there by now. Perhaps even the man's son, for all I know. The house itself was rather nondescript, as I recall. Fairly similar to those built throughout the rest of the neighborhood during the same decade. Toward the rear of the property was a brown clapboard carriage house, left over from the old days. You know the kind, I'm sure. People seem inclined to fix up such outbuildings these days and rent them out to paying tenants. I must admit that the same thought has occurred to me from time to time. I wouldn't mind the additional income that such an arrangement would bring. An ad, carefully placed, might even lead potential renters fairly clamoring to my front doorstep and ringing the bell. But where would I put my collections, then? What? Oh, yes, yes. They're all still set up in the attic over the garage. Yes, of course, I would be more than happy to show them to you again. Perhaps on another visit, my friend, when my leg is more up to the challenge that the stairs seem to present today.

But back then: what made this other property most noticeable was the magnificent garden that had been hoed and planted in the half acre plot that reached from the street to the stable. And as summer became autumn, I noticed the differences almost daily during my walks. We had a good season then, I should say, with enough rain and sunshine to cause every green and growing thing to climb as wide or as high as it possibly could, toward the very clouds, if it wished. And this garden grew fuller and more colorful as the weeks went by. What? Oh, mostly flowers, as I recall. Mere ornamentals. No vegetables to speak of: at least, none that I could recognize. I especially remember seeing a number of sunflowers, however; and they grew taller and taller until their heads became so heavy with seed, that they had no option but to lean over the rest of the plantings, with their heads fairly parallel to the ground. Other than a few birds, though, I never witnessed anyone harvesting their fruit.

In any case, I had once heard that an artist lived in that house. Can you believe it, sir? An artist, here? The structure was certainly big enough that it could have held a garret under the eaves, where I supposed an artist might want to work, to some effect. My informers had never mentioned what sort of artwork the man might be attending to, you see. I assumed that whatever his tasks might entail, they were ones that took precedence over his duty -- or his wife's, for that matter -- to see to the needs of the garden. For at its height, perhaps in the week before the children were due to head back to their desks, the plot had become rather unruly. I for one would have been hard pressed to tell what was weed and what was not. Then again, I consider myself to be neither a farmer nor a botanist. But some authority surely was in need to take charge of the thing.

That was about the time when, one morning, I came upon a man standing there on the sidewalk, looking back at the property. I assumed he was a fellow saunterer, as was I, and that he had been temporarily sidetracked by that fanciful lawn. So I nodded a "Good day" and stepped around him to continue my journey. But when I made my usual turn at the next corner, I glanced back and saw that he had not budged one meter since I had passed him. He merely stood and stared at the sight. It was as if the flowers had somehow mesmerized him, and had cast a certain spell upon him: one that he could not or would not easily shake off. I have to say that I was both slightly amused and momentarily worried. Nevertheless, the tea and pastries beckoned, as they always did, and I continued on my way.

The following morning, the same man was there again, at that very spot. This time he held a notepad and a pencil in his hands. I thought then that he might be a journalist, assigned to write one of those gardening features that occasionally appear in our local sheets. I don't read such columns, of course, since I have no need to. I do notice such articles in passing, however, whenever I page through the news. They appear to be aimed at a more feminine audience, being as flowery in their descriptions as in the topics at hand. In any case, I again nodded to this stranger and made my way around him. And once again, when I turned at the end of the block, I saw that he had remained rooted in place. Over my tea that day -- oh, I can still summon the flavor of the wonderful blend that was served in that establishment! -- I considered that the man might instead be a surveyor. Perhaps the artist was indeed starving, as I hear such men often are, and the entire property would soon be put up for auction. I might even have been interested in placing a bid on it myself, then. Real estate investments were not among my usual occupations, you understand, but they were not outside the realm of possibility. I alerted myself to watch for a posting.

By the third day, the man and I were no longer unacquainted. I approached and nodded in his direction. His demeanor seemed to acknowledge my presence kindly, but without any noticeable demonstration. Granted, he'd not spoken one word to me up to this point, you understand. We were merely two ships on a narrow sea, passing by each other at a scheduled hour, with no similar trade to engage in. But this time, my curiosity caused me to stop. Unabashed, I peered over his shoulder and deigned to peek at his open page. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it contained, not paragraphs or measurements or calculations, but drawings! Sketches of the garden as a whole, and of many of the plants in particular. The sunflowers, the other bushes and weeds and whatnot, had been accurately mirrored by this man's own hand. He was the artist after all, you see! It was his garden! He had grown his own landscape, to be later depicted in oil on a canvas. Quite ingenious an arrangement, once you think on it.

My astonishment at both the revelation of the man's identity and the quality of his sketches had rendered me speechless, I'm afraid. But he knew that I knew, for he turned toward me, and some sort of exchange was now necessary. Decorum of the day required at least some politeness on my part. I could hardly ask the man why he permitted his yard to bear more resemblance to the jungles of Borneo or to those forests overhanging the Amazon, than to any habitats found in this quiet town, or even to any others on the entire North American continent. Nor could I offer any judgment on the quality of his paper tracings, naturally; for as we all know, I have never sought employment as a reviewer or a critic. Yet I knew that I had to choose my words wisely. I would not want it to be later said that I had a hand in dressing down or stifling the creativity of a burgeoning and perhaps, eventually, noted artist. No, no, that wouldn't do at all. But my mind and my tongue seemed to be disconnected at that very moment. The best response I could come up with was to wave my walking stick in the direction of the flowery mess and quip, "I say, it's all a bit tangled, wouldn't you think?"

The man turned back toward his home, and to the garden; and I saw a sly smile begin to lift one edge of his mouth. Soon his eyes began to sparkle, and he nodded in agreement and excitement. "Indeed!" he fairly bellowed at me. "Indeed, it is! Thank you, sir! Thank you!" He clutched his notepad and pencil to his chest with his left hand, and held out the other for shaking purposes. I, in turn, switched my cane to my left, and took the offer. His was a firm and slightly moist grip, and I still remember that it was brimming with energy. I'm not sure I have ever met with a more enthusiastic person, before or since. I found myself drawn to him, and comfortable in the knowledge that I liked this artist immensely. An artist! Can you imagine that, my friend? And yet, he'd been a complete stranger to me, not ten minutes earlier. We'd no time to even introduce ourselves properly. I never gave him my card. That, I know.

Alas, some bad weather descended upon us, soon after that meeting, I believe. And it was not long before I took ill with some unknown malady. Was in bed for a full fortnight, and was still housebound for yet another. By the time I felt strong enough to resume my pedestrian ritual, that man's garden was essentially dead. We'd had a frost or two in the meantime, you see, and the air had chilled. Everything had withered. Where those sunflowers had been standing, and where the other striking flowers had grown in their shadows, there was now simply a pulpy organic mass, covering the entire plot. No vibrant colors remained. All was dusky green or moldy brown. It was as if Old Man Winter himself had come and stolen not only the beauty, but also the very breath that had been holding everything up. He'd pulled the plug on the whole scene, as one might do with the tire on a bicycle or on an automobile. It was raw devastation, right in front of me. I could not quite get over it. I remember changing my stride and walking on the other side of the street, along that block, until the snows came. I had to avert my eyes from the horror. And never again did I come upon that man -- the owner, the artist.

Later -- and from this distance of time, one never knows how many months might have passed in the interim -- I heard of a sizable art exhibit going on, down in the city. And one of the entries was a remarkable painting called The Tangled Garden. Well, that name got my immediate attention, I can tell you! It called me back to the very day when I met that artist: when I used that very term to describe his property. What? Oh, no, no, no. I unfortunately had no opportunity to attend the exhibit myself. You see, other obligations drew me away and elsewhere for a span of a few weeks. Today I cannot recall exactly where I was needed back then. But before I withdrew, I ensured that all of the papers would be kept for me as usual, in my absence. And when I returned, I scoured them for news about the event. I was not disappointed in that task, though I grew to regret overall, the fact that I had not witnessed the display in person.

Of course, I speak of MacDonald, the man and the artist. He had evidently taken the few outlines I had spied and had transformed them into a tremendous work in oil, on a canvas nearly as large as the original plot itself, it was said. Now, as I've told you, my eyes were unable to rest upon the finished piece. But from what I gleaned from the stories I both read and heard -- for the news had this town a-twittering, after the local gallery visitors had recognized the genesis of the work -- I believe he must have documented quite faithfully that view from the sidewalk. I shall never forget the words of one critic, who described his work as "an incoherent mass of colour." Well, I must tell you, sir, I had a chuckle or two over that line. An incoherent mass of colour, indeed! You should have seen where it came from, my boy! In fact, I averred that the artist might have had to take Nature's first hues and tone them down a bit. I cannot imagine that a similar scene, depicted merely on a flat board with the help of heavy pigments, could do justice to the sight that I came in contact with daily, in a real world requiring three full dimensions. If he succeeded in that? Well then, I must tell you, he is indeed the genius that some say he is. Was, rather. I understand that the man has since passed on, a few years back.

What? Oh, no, no, no. I never revealed myself as the originator of the title. I cannot say that the thought had never crossed my mind, of course. For I had no doubt that it was my chance remark that caused MacDonald to bestow that particular title upon the piece. But I did take the time to study the situation. I followed the various threads of the idea and contemplated what ramifications might come about as a result. It would not matter if I merely stormed up to his doorstep, or if I instead filed a formal claim and launched an attack in the press. Such matters of ownership in this regard are tenuous at best even today, as you well know. Back then, no one gave much consideration to that sort of thing. It certainly would have been difficult to attach a monetary value to a simple word now, wouldn’t it?

What? Oh, no, no, no. As I mentioned earlier, I never saw the man again. And when I pondered my possible options, I asked myself, "What would be gained?" And gradually I came to realize that the answer was, "Nothing. Nothing at all." In fact, as you and I both know, a full series of retributions would undoubtedly have arisen with the institution of such a complaint. And before you could have said, "Bob's yer uncle," the fingers would no longer have been pointing at him, but at me. I surely could not bring that kind of distress down upon this house now, could I? I must admit that, in the end, I found myself somewhat pleased with keeping the delicious secret, you see. The conversation had taken place with just the two of us, and no additional witnesses. I determined that if he could keep the issue quiet, so could I.

As for MacDonald: he showed them all that he was made of stronger stuff. Though the critics hammered him, he still had the considerable vigor to fight back. Wrote a letter to the editor and proclaimed the benefits of what he called "a living Canadian art." I believe that was the wording. But you can read all of those articles for yourself, if you wish. I clipped and saved them all -- for what reason, I cannot even say that I know for certain. Each column -- from the critics, to MacDonald himself -- has been carefully preserved and archived in one of my record books, back in my collections. I can have that volume retrieved at this very moment for you, if you wish. What? Oh, no, no, no. It would be no inconvenience at all. Let me call it up. What? Oh, very well, then. Perhaps another time. But can I tell you? I still recall the grip of that man’s hand, and the power that appeared to simmer behind it. It did not surprise me in the least that he had what it took to face his accusers, head on.

Do you know? I'd heard that he placed a $500 price tag on The Tangled Garden at the time. Five hundred dollars, man! Can you imagine? Oh, no, no, no. Naturally not! How could I possibly summon up that sum for such a purchase? Now, of course, I cannot say that the thought had not crossed my mind a time or two. First of all: if I were to acquire the piece, and have it hung in the hallway, it would be as if I were walking to the bakery, every day, in any weather or in any season, without even leaving my home! Some joy and satisfaction could be found in that activity, wouldn’t you say? Indeed, the image would have also reminded me of the artist himself, and of our exchange that day, and the very fact that a certain amount of wildness could be fostered on what was previously a relatively unusual, in-town lot. An intriguing idea, that.

Then again, I had something else to consider. And it was this: would such a work complement the rest of the household décor? You've had time to admire the other pieces I've got around here, haven’t you? The few in this room alone represent only a partial number of procurements made over the course of my extensive travels. Here I can sit and be reminded of journeys to two or three continents, simply by turning my head one way or another. What would be the effect on the entire ensemble if I added a local landscape to the mix: one that in reality was just several minutes away? In the end, I could not come to a proper decision regarding the painting, and whether or not I should ever bid on it. And of course, there was the problem of the price, as well.

In any event, it is my understanding that The Tangled Garden -- the painting, of course, and not the parcel itself! -- was never sold to a private owner. I suspect that explains why it has landed at the National Gallery. Alas! When it was exhibited in a hall just an hour away from here, I had no chance to see it. By the time I had rallied myself to make the trip, you see, the show was over. You have done well, with your plans to include the museum in your forthcoming visit to the capital, my friend. You will then have the benefit of the thing that I never had. What? Oh, no, no, no. I could not possibly get away this week. Far too many responsibilities have saddled me here, I'm afraid. And then there is the matter of keeping up with the news from Europe, since Germany and France are once again – well, you know. I thank you indeed for the invitation, and must decline. But do, you go. You are still young enough to be up to the task. I haven’t been to the capital in, oh, many years, I’d say.

What? Oh, no, no, no. Perhaps that is the saddest part of the tale. You see, that garden was never planted again. I imagine that it was due to the negative response that MacDonald received, that he ordered the plot to be cultivated as a common lawn. Every year afterward, it grew merely grass. Not one flower was permitted to rise from its soil. No border of shrubbery of any sort was installed to soften the edges. Come to think of it, perhaps he himself did the work. Perhaps he thought he and his family would not be able to bear the sight of it. For it would have been a living, continual reminder of that "incoherent mass of colour," now wouldn’t it? I must say that I got quite a shock when I turned that first corner the following spring, and I saw that the artist's property fairly blended in with all of the others on that block. I could barely tell which one it was, at first.

What? Oh, no, no, no. I saw no one there during any of my subsequent walks past the place. Not the artist, and not any member of his family. All was quiet. And that was my ritual for years, mind you, until the bakery closed down and -- well, I believe I told you about that. Oh, on occasion I would catch the sight of a shadow moving behind a window or two. It always gave me pause, and I would ponder the activities of that artist lurking beyond that glass and frame. I did manage to follow him in the papers, though. He and that group of fellow artists should indeed be rightly praised for creating and promoting the art of the country, as I heard they did. I never actually saw any of their work myself.

MacDonald himself is gone, a few years now. But I understand that his son has become some sort of craftsman as well: an expert with pen and ink, I believe. I saved all of their announcements from the paper, both of the man and the son. The advertisements and articles have all been carefully preserved and archived in one of my record books, back in my collections. We can have them retrieved -- well, perhaps we can peruse them at another time.

I say, you should have a fine visit over there this week. What? Oh, no, no, no. There's no need to worry about me, my friend. I have no requirement to gaze upon that painting. I saw the pure inspiration for it, you see. And that image remains forever vivid in my mind. Whatever imposter may hang in the National Gallery, it is a mere sad substitute for the real garden, I must vow. But please, you should study it yourself. Take a long look at The Tangled Garden, and memorize it completely. And when you return, give me a ring and we shall catch up again. You can tell me every detail of the painting and of your trip, over tea. I wish you Godspeed, sir!

Now, I do believe we have been sitting in this room long enough. Might you pass me my walking stick, and perhaps offer an arm for the other side? Once I’m up on my feet, I'll be good to go. A bit of brisk air would be the perfect thing to take in before you leave, don't you think? I believe with your help, together we could saunter -- I do enjoy that word, don’t you? -- we could saunter along the sidewalk as far as the corner intersection. Maybe even proceed around the block and make a full circuit. We'll see how it goes, won't we? I do wish there was still a decent bakery in this part of town. My favorite one has been closed for some time now. Its tea and pastries were indeed something to live for! It's a shame I cannot introduce you to them. But I believe the storefront has since been turned into some sort of apparel shop for women. Pity.

Let us go then, shall we?

READ MORE OF MY FICTION.

A hibernator in another state
Awoke this morning, took a look around,
And had some time to duly contemplate
The varied light and shadows on the ground.
His inner instincts led him to believe
The opposite of what you might expect:
Those sunbeams brightly shining did deceive
And meant we’d have six weeks of winter yet.
We Yankees to his north and to his east
Don’t need a rodent’s nose or pair of eyes.
Prognostications don’t change in the least
Our seasonal existence compromise.
It really doesn’t matter what he claims;
Our snowplows will keep busy, all the same.

READ MORE OF MY POETRY.

New beings eventually arrived on the scene:
Ones that didn't migrate and didn't hibernate,
But built sturdy homes & lived off the same piece of land year round;
And, except for some routine warring against others of their kind,
Made every effort to live in harmony with the other creatures & plants
And hoped that their own supplies would last through the long winter.

But Spring came early to the Maples.
And after watching the squirrels, the Native Americans
Cut gashes into the bark during The Sugar Moon
And collected tree teardrops in woven birch baskets,
And gave thanks to the forest that fed them when game became scarce.

They showed the colonists how a chance drip of the ladle to the pot
Could make lines of molten candy in the snow.
And when it became unthinkable to buy Southern sugar,
Many a Northern table went without and served in its place
This local confection, crystallized topaz perfection.

To the settlers, the rushing river meant power;
And halls of brick sprang up along the shorelines in each town.
Irish, French-Canadian and European immigrants
Began making toys and tools, tapioca and paper.
And they had church groups and clubs and societies and socials
To while away their scraps of free time when the snowdrifts grew.

But Spring came early to the Maples.
And a mile north of the booming town center,
Solomon Johnson had bought the old Jones farm
On the road to North Orange, in the lee of the Tully Mountains.
Both he and Anna knew that it wasn't quite like their native Sweden.

Income from dairy cows supported their growing family,
But they also learned how to tap the trees on the property
Setting up an operation that made one luscious amber gallon
From every 40 gallons of transparent nectar the children gathered.
The community maple sugar suppers were not to be missed.

Now as our slow cold winter days drag into infinity,
Men in top hats rouse the dozing groundhog;
Store clerks silently trade crimson hearts for emerald clovers;
Motorists mutter while scraping ice from windshields -- again;
Snowbirds mail us annoying beach postcards from Florida;
Gardeners sigh as they turn the pages of colorful bulb catalogs.

And Spring comes early to the Maples.
And after a few cold nights and crisp blue-sky days,
We spy whiffs of steam rising from the sugar house chimney
As members of the fourth, fifth and sixth generations of Johnsons
Hook up their pipes and empty the contents of 3,000 buckets.

And like those old Russian canines, we get our mouths ready
As we take our seats at the breakfast tables,
Bumping into flannel shirts scented with wood,
Ready to accept the gravy of the gods, that golden liquid joy
And the knowledge that Life does indeed go on.

READ MORE OF MY POETRY.