The garden is ready for snow, and this year I’ll be here to greet it, instead of being away in England. Northern Michigan winters put a natural brake on my tendency to work myself too hard out there. By autumn’s end I’m pooped. I need an enforced rest to read, do music, and write. My natural optimism, which can be elusive during this cold, wet time of year, will be sustained.
Over the years I’ve found it in peculiar places.
In a younger time I’d grab a half-chewed pencil and scribble my thoughts-of-the-day. Its half-inch eraser, perched jauntily atop that seven-inch lead-bellied spear, always boosted my confidence. I could rub out any thought, daring or dumb, that made my nose wrinkle. And it usually survived as long as the pencil. (If a shrink administering a word-association test set the word “optimism” before me today, I’d instantly toss back “eraser.” What would he make of that?)
A few years ago, when visiting my family in England, I took a long afternoon walk down Callow Lane, which led to the little village of Much Dewchurch, and its Black Swan pub. Sun, partnered with a freshening breeze, intensified the scent of meadows and wet earth—it had just rained. Baa-ing sheep and birdsong completed the idyllic picture.
After a while I came upon a lively little stream about two feet wide, bisected by a clump of trees growing amid a tangle of briars next to the lane. Close by, partly camouflaged by greenery, was a sturdy pup tent framing a medium-sized, gray-muzzled, curly-coated mutt. He barked once to announce my arrival before settling next to an elderly, slim man in worn corduroys who was adding twigs to a small fire. For lunch and tea, I thought. His smile was gentle. I smiled back, and commented on the rainbow forming in the field above him. He nodded. “Nature’s optimistic, by nature.” I laughed. The guy sounded educated. He read my mind. “I tutor physics students in London. Every summer Bert and I like to trade our fancier digs for long, joint-oiling walkabouts, and tent living. Friends have gotten used to my prolonged summer absences to nonspecific locations. I never know where I’ll be. We both love living rough for a few weeks each year. I move when I please, and try to keep a diary. Bert loves his ‘turf news.’ Living this simply, with no phone, no deadlines and no worries is marvelous. We please only ourselves. I wasn’t sleeping much before starting these annual rambles; now that’s not a problem.”
I learned his wife of forty-one years had died, and rather than succumbing to grief and loneliness he’d decided to explore “this green and pleasant land” on foot.
“After Helen died, each minute that passed was an hour. Out here, each hour seems a minute. I’ve abandoned my wristwatch, and love the freedom, the unpredictability, and the release of scaling down. I’ve rediscovered my usual optimism—and simple pleasures—little things, like a bar of chocolate, or a local ale.” He sighed. “Summer always ends too soon.” Bert’s slim, curly tail thumped agreement.
A shredding sticker on his half-filled knapsack read, ‘I Stop For No Particular Reason.’ Inside the tent’s flap was a trio of well-thumbed paperback books by Thoreau, Twain, and Wodehouse. He noticed. “Old friends. Should I die in my sleep, it’ll be with a smile.”
I shook hands with a contented man. Rounding a bend I looked back and waved, and heard laughter as he called out, “Another perk—most nights I sleep with the most gorgeous stars!”
Over the years I’ve found it in peculiar places.
In a younger time I’d grab a half-chewed pencil and scribble my thoughts-of-the-day. Its half-inch eraser, perched jauntily atop that seven-inch lead-bellied spear, always boosted my confidence. I could rub out any thought, daring or dumb, that made my nose wrinkle. And it usually survived as long as the pencil. (If a shrink administering a word-association test set the word “optimism” before me today, I’d instantly toss back “eraser.” What would he make of that?)
A few years ago, when visiting my family in England, I took a long afternoon walk down Callow Lane, which led to the little village of Much Dewchurch, and its Black Swan pub. Sun, partnered with a freshening breeze, intensified the scent of meadows and wet earth—it had just rained. Baa-ing sheep and birdsong completed the idyllic picture.
After a while I came upon a lively little stream about two feet wide, bisected by a clump of trees growing amid a tangle of briars next to the lane. Close by, partly camouflaged by greenery, was a sturdy pup tent framing a medium-sized, gray-muzzled, curly-coated mutt. He barked once to announce my arrival before settling next to an elderly, slim man in worn corduroys who was adding twigs to a small fire. For lunch and tea, I thought. His smile was gentle. I smiled back, and commented on the rainbow forming in the field above him. He nodded. “Nature’s optimistic, by nature.” I laughed. The guy sounded educated. He read my mind. “I tutor physics students in London. Every summer Bert and I like to trade our fancier digs for long, joint-oiling walkabouts, and tent living. Friends have gotten used to my prolonged summer absences to nonspecific locations. I never know where I’ll be. We both love living rough for a few weeks each year. I move when I please, and try to keep a diary. Bert loves his ‘turf news.’ Living this simply, with no phone, no deadlines and no worries is marvelous. We please only ourselves. I wasn’t sleeping much before starting these annual rambles; now that’s not a problem.”
I learned his wife of forty-one years had died, and rather than succumbing to grief and loneliness he’d decided to explore “this green and pleasant land” on foot.
“After Helen died, each minute that passed was an hour. Out here, each hour seems a minute. I’ve abandoned my wristwatch, and love the freedom, the unpredictability, and the release of scaling down. I’ve rediscovered my usual optimism—and simple pleasures—little things, like a bar of chocolate, or a local ale.” He sighed. “Summer always ends too soon.” Bert’s slim, curly tail thumped agreement.
A shredding sticker on his half-filled knapsack read, ‘I Stop For No Particular Reason.’ Inside the tent’s flap was a trio of well-thumbed paperback books by Thoreau, Twain, and Wodehouse. He noticed. “Old friends. Should I die in my sleep, it’ll be with a smile.”
I shook hands with a contented man. Rounding a bend I looked back and waved, and heard laughter as he called out, “Another perk—most nights I sleep with the most gorgeous stars!”