Ah, I have penetrated to those meadows on the morning of many first spring day, jumping from hummock to hummock, from willow root to willow root, when the wild river valley and the woods were bathed in so pure and bright a light as would have waked the dead, if they had been slumbering in their graves as some suppose.  There needs no stronger proof of immortality.

Walden, A Life in the Woods

Henry David Thoreau

It was early spring in the New England woods and snow lay on the ground in the shadows of the pine, maple, and cedar.  In the mornings, the brown thrasher, red mavis, and whippoorwill went about their work of gathering seeds and building nests and a red tail hawk could be seen circling overhead riding the air currents with nary the movement of a wing.  The mornings were brisk, but if one sat in the sun under the blue sky, a warmth would spread through the body like a fresh cooked meal settling comfortably in the stomach.  
In a copse of pines on the edge of a small bog bordered with hedgehog, wormwood, and millet grass, a woodchuck pause on the ground, and then in a flash, scurried away. The ground began to move and undulate.  An object, like a sprouting plant caught on time lapse photography, pushed up through the soil and emerged on the surface.  But it was not the sprout of a cattail, meadow grass, or even a sapling pine, but the boot covered foot of a man.  
First one foot emerged and then a second one.  Then a buckskin covered arm and then another.  Seconds later, a head emerged topped with a coon skinned cap and adorned with long brown locks, a straggly beard, and mud stained face.  It shook itself while making a gurgling sound . . . bubblbblebbble like an incipient being.  It pushed itself up, brushed itself off, and slowly rose up onto its feet.  
The fellow began to speak—but having a difficult time getting words out, cleared his throat . . . umohurrrrroh . . . .  He then spoke to the trees as much as to himself, I must have fallen asleep. . . I’ve been out for a long, long time. 
The man walked slowly at first . . . and then picked up a normal pace.  After a while, he recognized land marks in the woods: a towering elm, a clump of boulders.  He was now on a familiar path.  He thought to himself, I’ll be glad to get home—a soft bed, a warm room, a good meal.  It seems like it’s been ages.  He walked and walked through the forest, but when he was near what he thought was his cabin, it was not there.  So he continued walking through the night and into the morning.  
The man known as Mr. Thoreau came out of the woods and entered an area of short mixed grasses of similar height as if they were shaved close to the ground like a man’s beard or the coat of a short-haired dog.  There were trees sparsely scattered throughout, a concrete path that was easy to walk on, and a small pond in its midst.  The man looked up at the sky line, but instead of seeing trees and the gables of a village, he spotted what at first looked like shear granite cliffs.  
There was a wide paved pathway in front of the cliffs with dark ominous objects rushing by on it.  They belched an unpleasant odor and made a strident roaring sound as they went by.  He said to himself, Iron horses . . . but each is separate from the other and they run on no track but on a road.  And they are powered from within.  As he neared the road he realized that the granite cliffs had windows and doors and were manmade.  They were buildings like none he had seen before.  When he stepped onto the road, there was a loud honking and then a screeching sound as a car skidded to a stop a few feet in front of him.
The driver shouted, “Watch where you’re going, Buddy.”
Mr. Thoreau ambled over to the Duck Pond in the Public Gardens of Boston Commons.  He took off his boots and socks and let his feet rest gently in the water.  There were people sitting on the lawn reading newspapers, books, and chatting with friends and eating lunch.  Occasionally, a shopper or corporate employee rushed along a path.  Mr. Thoreau laid back on the grass and rested for some time and finally fell asleep.  
When he woke, he sat up, looked at his hands, and then his reflection in the pond.  He immediately jumped up, went behind a bush, took off his clothes, and slipped into the water.  A group of twenty women with cameras and video cameras were attending a business conference in Boston and were strolling along the far shore of the pond.  Several of them pointed towards Thoreau and whispered to one another.  The cameras made sharp turns in his direction.  
Using his reflection in the pond, Thoreau scrubbed his face, hands, and body with the water, and shaved using his hunting knife.  When he got out of the pond and dried himself off, there were loud plaudits from the entourage across the pond.  Behind Thoreau, there was the chirp of a cell phone when a man called 911 and reported the incident to the police.  
Mr. Thoreau began to feel the pangs of hunger which were accentuated by the smell of cooking meat.  It had indeed been a long time since he’d eaten.  The redolent odor seemed to come from a bright, shiny, red, metal cart with a crimson umbrella on the path across the pond.  Thoreau walked over to it.  There was a sign that said, “Hot Dogs . . . $3.00, Hamburgers . . . $4.00, Cokes . . . $1.00.”  
Thoreau asked the man, “What’s a Coke?”  
The man said, “All right, smart ass, get out of here!”  
Thoreau said, “Let’s see,” he dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin, “I’ve got a half-dime, will you take that . . . and I’m a vegetarian, do you have anything without meat?”
The man picked up the coin, looked at it, read the date of 1854, and said, "What are you an immigrant or something? You dress funny and I’ve never seen a coin like this.  Are you from Switzerland or another foreign country?”
Thoreau took his coin and walked back to the pond.  His mouth watered while the geese and ducks swarmed around several pieces of bread. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a long hemp cord.  He then walked over to the bread, picked up a slice, and walked back to the pond.  He broke the bread into several small pieces and rolled them into balls.  He then put one of the balls on a hook on the end of the hemp twine.  He tied a small stone onto the line near the hook and threw it into the water.
He sat down and waited.  He watched the people strolling by and the children playing on an unfamiliar metal and wooden structure. Everyone seemed to be carrying small black objects in their hands and staring at the luminescent faces. He occasionally heard a beep or a melodious chime.  He began to realize that something had changed.
He felt a familiar tug on the end of his line and slowly pulled in the hemp cord.  There was a fourteen inch trout on the end.  He used his knife to cut the trout from head to tail; he spread it open and eviscerated the entrails and as much of the skeleton as he could.  
He walked to a wooded area, collected an armful of branches and twigs, and then returned to the shore where he sat down next to a large flat stone which looked like a table.  He found two heavy branches that had “forks” at one end and trimmed them to an equal size with his knife and then trimmed the opposite ends to points.  He pushed the pointed ends into the ground eighteen inches apart.  He took a thinner branch of hard wood, cut off the shoots, and whittled one end to a point.  He skewered the fish through the mouth from head to tail, moved it to the center of the skewer, and then set each end of the branch on one of the vertical forks.
Thoreau generously piled twigs under the fish.  He took another stick, removed the branches and bark, cut it to a 12” length, and carved a point at one end.  He cut shavings from other branches and made a pile of them on the stone slab. He then sat on the slab, placed the point of the stick firmly against the rock surface and near the pile of shavings, and twisted the stick rapidly between his hands. After a few minutes, the point of the stick began to smoke.  He gently fed shavings and dry leaves around the smoking tip of the stick.  The shavings began to smoke and then burst into flames.  He fed more shavings and twigs onto the 
fire.  He transferred several burning sticks to the pile of twigs under the fish.  The twigs caught fire and the fish began to cook.  
Several cell phones chirped near the pond and five minutes later, sirens were heard and grew rapidly  louder.  A police car, a fire engine, and a rescue vehicle screeched down Boylston Street. Thoreau placed his hand over his ears as if he were in great pain.  He looked up into the sky for the sound as if it were coming from a giant bird descending on the park.  The police and fire vehicles bounced over the park curb, on to the grass, and skidded to a stop near the fire and Thoreau.  
The policeman said, “OK, Mr.?
“Thoreau.”
“You’re under arrest . . . building a fire without 
a permit, catching a fish without a license, using 
a  Boston  Commons  tree  for  firewood, not  to 
mention indecent exposure.”
In the mean time, while the officer was talking, Thoreau was distracted by the police vehicle . . . the flashing red lights and purring engine.  He walked over to the car, peered into the plastic casing that contained the flashing lights, and through the windshield at a second policeman.  He got down on his hands and knees and looked under the car, felt the hood, and quickly removed his hand because it was hot.  
The policeman continued, “You have the right to remain silent . . . Thoreau.”
“What?”		
“Stand up and put your hands behind your back.  Now turn around, I’m going to handcuff you.”
“I take it you’re a representative of the city of ?”
“Boston.  I’m a policeman and you’ve broken the law.”
“Does that mean you’re a Polish man from the Eastern European Country of Poland?”
“No, I didn’t say Polish, I said police.”
“So you’re the militia come to enforce the law.  Well in that case, I profess that I have done nothing wrong.  I was simply cleaning my body in order to be
more socially acceptable and satisfying my basic need to eat.”
You’ve broken several laws.  And is this hunting knife yours?”
“Yes it is.”
“Then I’ll add to those charges: carrying a concealed weapon without a permit.”
The policeman signaled to his partner who exited the car.  
“The first officer said, “Armed and dangerous.”
“I still maintain that I have done nothing wrong and shall sit here until you’ve let me go about my business.”
With that, the two officers handcuffed Thoreau and led him to the police car and closed the door.
The second officer said, “Where’s your I.D?”
Thoreau said, “ID . . . .?  If you mean idea, I’m full of ideas.  One of those ideas is on civil disobedience . . . when any government engages in activities that prevent a man from pursuing his God given rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, non-violent action must be taken to ensure those rights.”
“So you’re a protester as well; maybe I’ll add that to your charges.  That should keep you in prison until you’re too old to do any harm.”
The other officer said, “Where’s your identification so I knows your Thoreaus who you says you is. . . .”
“I was born Henry David Thoreau in Concord, Massachusetts and still reside in Concord.  I was born in 1817 in the Virginia House, home of my parents.  The record of my birth was recorded by the attending physician and is on file in the city.”
“What are you crazy or something?”  What do you think of that, Jeb . . . thinks he was born in 1817, 197 years old?”
“He's a confirmed kook–maybe we should take him straight to the psyche ward.”
“Let's take him to headquarters and book him.  We'll let the judge decide what to do with him.”   

A Day in Jail and Court

The money we spend for courts and prisons is very ill laid out.  We make by distrust, the thief, and burglar, and incendiary, and by our court and jail we keep him so.  An acceptance of the sentiment of love throughout Christendom for a season would bring the felon and the outcast to our side in tears, with the devotion of his faculties to our service.

See this wide society of laboring men and women.  We allow ourselves to be served by them, we live apart from them, and meet them without a salute in the streets.  We do not greet their talents, nor rejoice in their good fortune, nor foster their hopes, nor in the assembly of the people, vote for what is dear to them. 

Man the Reformer (Essay)

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1841)

Thoreau was roughly thrown into a ten by ten foot cell with twelve other prisoners. One of them said, “Who do we have here, Daniel Boone?”
“No, I’m Henry David Thoreau.” There was laugh- ter around the cell.  
The man shook his hand and said, “And I’m Abraham Lincoln, Laughter.”
Thoreau said, “So we are incarcerated . . . and you’re a man of letters.”
“No Thoreau, this is jail, the pen, the coop, and I’m a criminal.  We’ve all been had.  What are you in for.”
“I don’t rightly know.  I took a swim in the pond, caught a fish, and then built a fire to cook it . . . and then these screaming red trains came across the lawn.  The Polish man said I was under arrest, but I said I’d done nothing wrong, Howling laughter.”
“How about you?”
“I’m Jake Kablosky.  I was arrested for sleeping in a city hall doorway, loitering, not to mention for seven outstanding warrants for jaywalking.”
There were two women in the cell.  Thoreau stared at one of them, with a longing look in his eyes.   He smelled the effusive perfume and slowly walked over to her.  She was a business woman and wearing bright red lipstick, heavy makeup, and eye shadow.  She wore a dark, blue pinstriped pants suit and spiked black high heels.  Thoreau stood very close to her and examined her makeup and lipstick.  He reached out his hand and ran his pointer finger over her cheek, rubbed his finger and thumb together, and then put the finger to his mouth and tasted the makeup.
Several seconds later he said, “A lanolin and glycol based compound.”
He then bent down, put his head to the ground, and looked at her shoes from several angles.  He stood up and said, “Those shoes are an engineering marvel, but I don’t understand their purpose.  Why do you wear them, Miss.?”
“To catch a husband, why else?”  
“Are they comfortable?”
“They hurt like hell.  They hurt my low back, legs, feet, and if I walk on an uneven surface, the heals get caught and I trip and fall.”
“I thought so.  It’s amazing what women and men will do to conform to the dictates of “Paris fashion.”  Through living a simple life . . . with no more entrapments of clothing or possessions than are absolutely necessary, our spiritual nature and inner beauty emerge.”
Jake said, “What you in for honey?”
“Call me Catherine Riswald, “white collar crime”.  My boss was arrested for a ten-billion dollar bonds scam.  I’ve been accused of being an accessory.”  She turned to Thoreau and said, “And Buddy, don’t you get fresh with me.”  
Her back was at an angle to Thoreau.  She threw a lightning-fast karate elbow punch to his jaw.  Thoreau fell back against the wall, unconscious; his head rested against the Latino man sitting beside him.  
When Thoreau woke, he listened to Jake introduce a black man to the group.  “Who are you, bloke?”
“I’m Civi Sastovitch.  They arrested me for sleeping in the bushes in Boston Commons.  I’m an out of work history professor.  I was laid off during the recession.”
“You should talk to this man; he says he’s the author Henry David Thoreau.”  Thoreau listened to Jake introduce the other prisoners, “And this is Miguel; he’s an illegal immigrant from Mexico, and Catherine, she’s in for corporate fraud, and Bridget, well, you can tell what she’s in for by the way she’s dressed.”    
Bridget, who wore a tight loose woven black wool dress that started just above her breasts and ended mid-thigh, did a quick pirouette to show off her body.  She said, “It’s called prostitution, sweetie. I was picked up downtown for soliciting a john.”
“Richard, Stuart, and Salazar are in for petty theft, Arthur for fighting and disturbing the peace in a homeless shelter.”  Civi sat down on the other side of Thoreau as Thoreau rubbed his jaw.  
“Civi.”
“Thoreau.”  They shook hands.  
“Well, Thoreau, you do look the part . . . your outfit is authentic, mid-nineteenth century.”
“Of course.  They are my own clothes.  Taylor Brown made most of them.  And I bought the moccasins off an Indian.”
“Where are you from?”
“I was living in Concord but had been staying at my cabin for several days at Walden Pond.  I must have fallen asleep in the woods . . . when I woke I walked to my cabin, but it wasn’t there.  So I walked for most of the night and ended up in Boston.  That’s how I was arrested in the “park” as the Polish man called it.”
“I taught American History at North Eastern University.  I was laid off just before getting tenure.  They said it was the recession and cutbacks, but I know otherwise . . . department politics.”
“Have you read my books, Walden and Civil Disobedience?”
“Yea, right.  I’ve read them both. They are brilliant, far ahead of their time, and outstanding philosophical and social commentaries.  I’m going to give you the telephone number of a friend of mine, Thoreau.”
Thoreau said, “T-e-l-e-p-h-o-n-e number,” in a simple uncomprehending voice.
“You know, the phone, so you can talk to him.  He’s a professor of early American history at Harvard University.  Call him when you get out of here. He’d enjoy talking to you and will help you.  Here’s his number and mine.”
“Thank you, it is a true philanthropic act when someone gives of him or herself.”
“Now tell me, you were friends with Emerson and a select group of Transcendentalists in Concord, weren’t you?”
“Yes, Emerson, Hawthorne, Bronson Alcott, Elizabeth Peabody, Ellery Channing, and Margaret Fuller were all neighbors at one time.  Emerson helped me publish my books.”
“Yes Thoreau, it was a unique time in history . . . a growing country with a “carte blanche” continent . . . freedom in the truest sense.  Freedom of the spirit and soul could be pursued.  A man could move hundreds . . . thousands of miles away and liberate himself from government and the constraints of society and carve his own life and livelihood out of the environment.  But that is all gone today.”  
“My experiment at Walden Pond was a defining moment, a statement of what so many men and women followed who traveled West. Unfortunately, most of them also followed the “herd” so to speak.  They brought with them the society they so much wanted to escape and left their inner spirits behind.”
The guard unlocked the outer gate and walked up to the cell. “Bridget Williamson, Miguel Lopez, come with me.”  He unlocked the cell, handcuffed them, and led them away.
“Let’s see, I’ve visited Walden Pond and today there’s a “state reservation” there with a sign marking the ruins of your cabin.  Refresh my memory, where were you located with regards to the pond?”
“I was about six rods from the lake and not to far from Bare Peak.  I often watched the sun set over the pond . . . and when it did, there were two suns, the one in the sky and the one in the lake . . . and that reflection was my window onto life.”
“Today, in 2014, over 150 years after your descriptions in Walden, I regret to inform you that the world has not followed in your footsteps.”
“I knew it would not . . . only a few are willing to take the inward journey and have the courage to listen to the small quiet voice inside.”  
“Yes, the world has changed drastically . . . the proliferation of cities, cars, cell phones, computers, the web.“
“C-a-a-r-r-r-s-s-s?”
“Yes, the motorized monsters that run on our streets and are everywhere around our country and the world.”
“Ah, the iron horses.  I have seen them . . . so smelly and noisy.”
“You have a lot to see, Mr. Thoreau.”
There was a ringing sound and Civi answered his cell phone. “Hello, Attorney Spelling, thank you for returning my call . . . I’m afraid I need your help.”  He spoke for several minutes, describing his situation and that he was in jail. 
When he finished, Thoreau said, “C-e-l-p-h-o-n-e?”
“Yes, this little device here.  Most of us carry one of these.  It allows us to communicate with each other, send text messages, and access the web.”
“The w-e-b?”
“Ah, that’s another story . . . computers, which are a form of manmade machine or brain and the web . . . well, it’s best that Dr. Thornton explain those to you.   Yes, Thoreau, our society and most of those around the world did not take your advice of simplicity.   Today we value what's bigger, better, faster, and wealthier. We’ve reached the point where our environment and the very planet we live on are threatened and may be destroyed by man’s pollution and consumption.  No Mr. Thoreau, society did not follow your example . . . but your message is needed today more than ever.”
“These men here, are they hardened criminals?”
“Hardly, they are caught and imprisoned for peccadilloes, minor crimes.  Our government and police have locked up over one million people over the last eight years.  They feel that the country is safer when the poor, homeless, handicapped, and minorities, who potentially could commit serious crimes, are put behind bars.”   
“The excesses of government that I wrote about in Civil Disobedience.”  
“Now, Thoreau, do you have a lawyer?  A lawyer may be able to reduce your penalty and get you out of prison.”
“No, I have never hired a lawyer.  I believe that a man can be many things and that each occasion is a learning experience if he acts on his own behalf.”    
“Well, that may have been the case in 1845, but today, these prosecutors will eat you alive.  They’ll have you in prison for the rest of your life for minor offenses.  Well, whatever you do, don’t accept a “plea deal”.  They get you to admit to one of your offenses in exchange for a shorter time in prison.  Then they find a way to keep you there forever.  I’ll call Professor Thornton now; he may be willing to help you.”
*  *  *

Several hours later, the guard returned to the gate, “Catherine Riswald and Henry David Thoreau, step forward.”  They walked to the cell gate where they were handcuffed and led away. 
The judge said, “The court shall now hold a preliminary hearing for Catherine Riswald.  Ms. Riswald, do you have an attorney representing you or would you like a court appointed public defender?”
“I have my own attorney.”
“How do you plea?”
“Not guilty, your honor.”
“Bail is posted at $100,000 . . . your trial will be held within six-months of today, dismissed.”
Catherine passed Thoreau who was sitting in an aisle seat next to a sheriff.  She squeezed his elbow as she walked by and said, “Good luck, settler.”
The judge said, “Henry David Thoreau, do you choose to have your own lawyer represent you, or would you prefer a court appointed defender?”
“Neither, sir.  I choose to represent myself.”
“OK, Thoreau, you have been accused of indecent exposure, fishing without a license, building a fire in Boston Commons, and possession of a deadly weapon without a permit.  How do you plead?”
“Not guilty your honor.”
“Bail is set at $25,000.  The defendant may also be released if he pays fines of $1010.00 for these offenses and at the recognizance of a responsible citizen.  Otherwise, he will remain in prison until the trial date if bail is not posted.  The trial will be held within six-months.”
“Your honor, as I told the hot dog and Coke vendor in the park when he solicited my business,   I have but one-half dime to my name,” Loud laughter from the court gallery.”
The judge smiled and said, “Unless there is someone present who will pay the fines or the bail, you will remain in prison.”
A tall, thin, graying, fiftyish man stood up and said, “Your honor, I am Marbury Thornton, Professor of early American history at Harvard University.  It comes to me by word of a friend that Mr. Thoreau is an interesting, good, and honest man.  I will pay his fines and vouch for his behavior.”
“Professor Thornton, please show your I.D. to the court bailiff,” which he did.  
“Mr. Thoreau, I advise you to stay out of Boston Commons Park . . . no more swimming in the nude, roasting of fish, or carrying of hunting knives.”