Henry David Thoreau and I go way back.
My junior year of high school, my AP Lang class got on a bus to Concord, Massachusetts to see where it all began, having just read The Scarlet Letter and Walden like any self-respecting English class in a New England public high school. It’s been three years since that trip to Walden Pond, and by the stroke of fate known as the housing lottery, I now live in Ohio’s own Thoreau Cabin.
“You’re nothing like Henry David Thoreau.” Thank you, I take that as a compliment, I don’t really like the guy. I guess one way my living situation isn’t like Thoreau’s cabin is that I do my own laundry. I don’t call my mom over from Connecticut to do it for me, like a certain bean farmer from Concord did. Also, I’m not the heir to a pencil-manufacturing fortune.
Onto the point. Like Thoreau’s cabin, the New Apts are within walking distance to the main town. Sure, it’s somewhat of a long walk, but it’s doable. It’s good exercise. Thoreau used to walk from his cabin into downtown Concord to hang out with friends (and Hawthorne) pretty regularly, just as I walk from my New Apt into downtown Gambier to eat meals with my friends. The New Apts are in the woods, too, just like Thoreau’s cabin– we probably fall asleep to the same sounds of crickets chirping and faint music (military band exercises in his case, my neighbor’s speaker in my case). We both use our space to garden: Thoreau grew corn and had a hard time cultivating a bean field; I’m growing a habanero pepper plant.