Sturgis and Walden

Sturgis, SD, is roaring with Harley Davidsons and all manners of motorcycles. I am here working at a campground kitchen, serving breakfast from 6:00 to 11:00 a.m. Since the rally officially starts on August 6, the multitudes are gatherings, and we are having more customers every day. Today there was a continuous line of hungry humanity from 7:00 until 10:30--it was difficult to keep up. We had to ask the servers not to dish out so many scrambled eggs, as we could not cook them fast enough.

In the afternoons, I usually sleep. I intend only 1 or 2 hours of resting, but usually over-do it and miss most of the afternoon I would rather be spending on Grandmother's deck reading. My current project is "Walden"--a book I begun out of obligation to learn some about the literary history of America. My friend, Erin, told me I would like the book. My friend, Kirby, tells me it could be retitled, "Niles Crane Goes to the Woods." He appreciates Thoreau's idea that "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." but seemed to me not taken by the rest. Both my friends were right. Thoreau's view that we are a slave to what we have by labor and inheritance, I think, is true, though hard to wrap around the brain entirely. Since I have always been interested in alternative modes of living, leaning towards the minimal and nomadic styles, Thoreau's descriptions of his stay at Walden pond is nothing less than enchanting.

The last portion of "Economy," the first chapter, contains Thoreau's thoughts on anthropology--intentional charity. He advises men become less concerned about doing good works, and more about simply being good, starting in relationship to themselves. As I am writing, I realize that advice would be good for me to follow more faithfully, since I often spin my tires on self-depredation. But, when I read this passage near the end, I began to think of my last blog, and my feelings about war--strange connection.

All success does me good, however far off and withdrawn it may appear; all disease and failure helps to make me sad and does me evil, however much sympathy it may have with me or I with it. If, then, we would indeed restore mankind by truly Indian, botanic, magnetic, or natural means, let us first be simple and well as Nature ourselves, dispel the clouds which hang over our own brows, and take up a little life into our pores.

The last line is what caused me to backtrack and read the paragraph over, since I like the word "pores." Thanks, Erin, for recommending the book. And thanks, Kirby, for reminding me that some of it could be rather pompous--it helps me from being too enchanted. After all, Henry did not live a lifetime in the woods . . . only two years and two months. I have not yet heard if he avoided living desperately.