When I quit the conveniences of city-living to reside in a shack I built in the woods, I knew it would invite comparisons to two people; Henry David Thoreau and The Unabomber. Since a blog entry entitled, “What I learned From The Unabomber” would probably have the BATFE here within the next six hours, I’ll just write about Henry David Thoreau and Walden Pond.*
Thoreau, let’s just call him H.D., wanted to get back to nature. He held in disdain those who lived in towns. Slaves, they were. Men whose obsession with wealth and accumulation kept them bound to their shops and factories. H.D. was far, far better than that. He was getting back to nature! Of course he was bring a lot of modern (at the time) conveniences. Here’s a list of his building materials:
Boards.......................... $ 8.03-1/2;, mostly shanty boards.
Refuse shingles for roof sides... 4.00
Laths............................ 1.25
Two second-hand windows
with glass.................... 2.43
One thousand old brick........... 4.00
Two casks of lime................ 2.40 That was high.
Hair............................. 0.31 More than I needed.
Mantle-tree iron................. 0.15
Nails............................ 3.90
Hinges and screws................ 0.14
Latch............................ 0.10
Chalk............................ 0.01
Transportation................... 1.40 I carried a good part
———— on my back.
In all...................... $28.12-1/2
If H.D. had truly wanted to experience nature, he could have entered the woods buck-naked, found a good stick and a sharp rock, and started living like a caveman. Instead, he build the sort of place that us modern folk spend a lot of money to visit on the weekend.
But I don’t fault him for that. In fact, I know I’m guilty of mis-labeling his agenda. He truly wished to find a quiet spot where could think, read, enjoy the silence, and eat a simple diet. Nothing wrong with that. Rather, it’s the man’s smugness that I still find off-putting.
H.D. looked down on the merchant and the millwright, yet he built his home from their goods. He had a disdain for personal property, yet he built his cabin on land that was owned by a friend. He had little use for the people he met on trips to town, yet he soaked up their gossip and read their newspapers.
In short, he was often as big of a hypocrite as I can be. He just didn’t realize it.
It’s easy out here in the sticks, among my books and garden, to look down on some of my old friends who are living their same old lives in the city. So many of them are working overtime this year to pay off last year’s debts. Would it hurt them so much to drive the same car for a few extra years, to eat more meals at home, to drop the season tickets they hold for three different sports teams?
But I have to remember that I owe my current existence to those people who are still, in a manner of speaking, working in the salt mines. I made a living in advertising and broadcasting. Put honestly, I made a living creating the demand for the luxuries that everyone thinks they must own. The people who purchased those items funded my backwoods hideaway, and are part of the reason I can grow tomatoes, read classic literature, ponder my existence, and sniff the proverbial roses.
Through their consumerism they are also paying the taxes that fund the roads and bridges that I occasionally travel when a new shovel or saw blade is needed. Can you picture Thoreau standing in line at the Big Box Store? “Lo, you poor imbecilic store clerk! Do you not know that there is a higher knowledge and satisfaction that awaits you in the primordial wilderness. Would you not abandon your futile labors and dare join me amid the juniper thicket, casting our eyes to the truth revealed only in the firmament above? And, by the way, you are out of Cheez-Whiz for the second time this month! If it happens again I’m going to send a really nasty e-mail to corporate.”
I was able to step off the treadmill because I have no children and few responsibilities. My friends don’t have it quite so easy, so I don’t lecture them. My only hope for them is that they will slow things down just a little. Take a hike in the woods. Drop a line into a trout stream. Read a book the last half-hour before bed. It would ease the conscience of a guy like me whose very career encouraged the type of excess that I now personally avoid.
B.L. Yukon Harris
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*Humor aside, I have no desire to hurt people with bombs or otherwise. Nor will I ever, in any way, attempt to justify the actions of Ted “Unabmomber” Kaczinski. He was a tortured man who took the wrong path. But, yes, there are things to learn from reading the infamous Unabomber Manifesto. The man’s extraordinary intellect is what tortured him. He foresaw a terrifying future for the world, and sought to resist it in the worst way he could. But his insights, shared twenty years ago, now read almost like prophecy.