Escape to Walden Pond

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In Search of My New American Writing Dream

By Norma Hopcraft

In a pre-COVID escape from New York City, a tough place to live because of the non-stop noise, crowding, lines of people for every service, subways, dirt, asphalt, concrete, steel, exhaust fumes, millions upon millions of strangers rushing past me, I took Amtrak from NYC to Providence, RI in 2019 to visit my brother. We planned a trip to Walden Pond.

To get ready for this trip, I read Walden, an American classic by Henry David Thoreau. I read about the fish, the loon, the war between ant colonies, the lake, while standing on the Q train, swaying as it pounded through the tunnels from my apartment in Brooklyn to my job in Manhattan. 

The contrast between his simple, quiet, solitary life in the woods and mine, hurtling at high speed in a noisy steel tube, crushed between strangers, could not have been more stark.

Walden is fantastic nature writing. And philosophy. It challenges Americans today to consume less and live more simply.

Thoreau was a bit of an oddball, it seems--which you might expect of someone who chose to live in the woods and eat mostly beans he farmed himself.  He did go into nearby Concord nearly daily, apparently, so he did do plenty of socializing.

But it was a little off beat. Here are the things he valued most when socializing: "I sat at a table where were rich food and wine in abundance, and obsequious attendance, but sincerity and truth were not; and I went away hungry from the inhospitable board. ...I called on the king, but he made me wait in his hall, and conducted like a man incapacitated for hospitality. There was a man in my neighborhood who lived in a hollow tree. His manners were truly regal. I should have done better had I called on him."

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Thoreau lived on Walden Pond in a house he built himself, approximately 8 feet x 10 feet.  When I stepped into the replica (his actual cabin no longer exists), there was only space for a narrow cot, a fireplace, and a small table. I think he had two chairs, because he did get visitors.

Walden is so worthwhile, and full of quirky observations like this one, in which he opines that the grand houses his neighbors lived in in Concord were similar to a forest creature's home, in that "It's basically a porch leading to a burrow."

Cool, huh?

He had more cool writing.

About spring:

"The grass flames up on the hillsides like a spring fire...as if the earth sent forth an inward heat to greet the returning sun; not yellow but green is the color of its flame."

About truth:

"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."

About being fully alive:

"Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star."

Other famous quotes:

“I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time."

“If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be."

“Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations.”

I find these last three particularly encouraging because I do end up alone so much that I have to suspect that I engineer my life that way, just as Thoreau did. So I'm in good company.

And I built castles in the air -- the castle of a comfortable amount in my retirement account thanks to the success of my books. Well, at least I have three books out in the world.  I also have a memoir, a book of essays, and a new novel (set in Brooklyn, where I lived for four years) all well on their way to completion. I was ambitious, and worked hard, and did not make 100% of my dream come true. But six books written (Lord willing)? Not bad for a castle in the air.

My dream of comfortable retirement thanks to my writing had to die (yes, it was keen grieving for months over that one), but my new dream still has to do with writing. Like the quote from Thoreau above, I want my writing to reveal the truth. Beautifully.

The third quote means a lot to me because I've adored books and reading from the moment the little black squiggles on a page resolved themselves in my mind as, "See Sally run," and my imagination saw Sally running--wow! What a moment! I decided then I wanted to be a writer and return the gift I'd just been given, to create great pictures and stories in readers' minds. So I'm glad to see a kindred spirit in Thoreau, with his vast respect for books as treasures.

Walden is now a state park, and people swim in the lake and sit on manmade beaches.

The path leading to the site of Thoreau's cabin (which no longer exists, but there are stone markers).

These are the markers on the site of his cabin, where he wrote the greater part of his world classic, "On Walden Pond." He lived in it for two years, two months and two days. This photo was taken by J. WALTER GREEN / AP

Walden is a popular spot. Thoreau used to have it all to himself, except for an occasional hunter, fisherman, or visitor to his cabin.

The water of the lake all comes from underground springs, so the water is very clear. There is no stream feeding the pond or exiting it.

A replica of his house, and a statue of Thoreau.

Me, asking a deep question about consumption, non-conformity, and the meaning of life.

Me outside the replica of Thoreau's cabin, so you can see the scale of it.

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The Atlantic Magazine's article about him says, "Mr. Thoreau dedicated his genius with such entire love to the fields, hills, and waters of his native town, that he made them known and interesting to all reading Americans, and to people over the sea."

He left a huge contribution to the world in his writing. When he died, the famous philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson said of him: "The country knows not yet, or in the least part, how great a son it has lost." How about you? Have you read Walden? Want to go there? Want to simplify? Comment below!

My American Dream: Finding Its Way

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Brooklyn vs. Rochester

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

Someone I knew from New York City wrote to me yesterday with what seemed to be a snickering attitude.  

“What, Rochester?” he wrote, implying “Where the heck is that?” I can’t condemn him, I’ve had the same attitude, and still do, just a little.

I’ve lived near New York City, and the immense range of activity it offers, most of my life. Then, starting six years ago, I began a series of moves to places with a ton of caché: Mystic, Connecticut, then Paris and Barcelona. Then I fulfilled a life-long dream and moved into NYC itself: the Upper East Side of Manhattan (for two months), and Brooklyn (for four years). Brooklyn in its own right is such a storied city. I saw baseball caps with “Brooklyn” on them in France and Spain.

How Can I Search for the American Dream Here?

Where the heck, on the other hand, is Rochester? The downtown has two tall buildings and is dead at night. There is a more lively neighborhood of cafes and restaurants known as the Park Avenue neighborhood, and I’m searching for an apartment in it. But even that neighborhood doesn’t seem to have much “there” there, not after the electromagnetic force of Brooklyn.

I must suspend judgment of Rochester as a city, as a venue for the arts, as a place that fosters my creative inspiration, until the pandemic eases. It won’t feel like home until ballroom dancing resumes, and the theater group I want to be involved in (as a mere set painter, not as the superstar that I, in reality, am) springs into action again, and the Wild About Writing circle can meet in person. And in Rochester, I will be able to afford to hear live classical music regularly at the Eastman School of Music! Carnegie Hall was beyond my reach. 

I'm a snob

I do miss Brooklyn. Not so much living there, because life was tough, overwhelmed by tons of stressed-out strangers in a brick, asphalt, chain-link, and razor-wire jungle. But I miss being FROM there. I wrote on my Amazon author profile that I’m a writer who lived in Paris, Barcelona, and now Brooklyn. Those place-names have caché. I’m a sucker for caché. I’m a location snob, I admit it. 

“Rochester, New York” has ZERO cache. But maybe it should have a little. It is a unique epicenter of social justice. Harriet Tubman lived near here. Frederick Douglass lived here, wrote here, and delivered his famous speech here, "What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?", delivered on July 5, 1852, addressing the Rochester Ladies' Anti-Slavery Society.  Women’s rights were championed by women in this area, notably Susan B. Anthony, who lived and wrote in Rochester. Another example of social compassion: Rochester Institute of Technology has a nationally recognized center for deaf students.

 
Brooklyn's advantages

Brooklyn had advantages. I could choose all kinds of organic fruits and vegetables at the Flatbush Food Coop, a 10-minute walk. I can’t find that variety here, and you have to drive to the grocery store. I could walk to three Indian restaurants, three Mexican, two burger joints. I could have lavender lattés at Café Madeline. I don’t know of a café in Rochester that has even dreamed of serving them. Prospect Park, with world-class design, was a 10-minute walk. 

In Brooklyn I lived near three international airports that could take me on direct flights to friends in France or family in small cities like Asheville, NC, Providence, RI, or Rochester, NY. I could easily grab a bus to visit family in Bethlehem, PA. I could easily take the train to Fire Island or to the Jersey Shore. Now that I’m in Rochester, I’m closer to one part of my family but have bigger hurdles to overcome to get to the rest. And getting to the Atlantic Ocean is a huge undertaking.

In Brooklyn, I felt I was in the center of the world. On Ocean Avenue, during my quarter-mile walk to do my laundry, I heard voices from Pakistan, Liberia, Panama, Jamaica, Barbados, Senegal, Kazakhstan. At any given moment on Church Avenue, I could make videos for my little grandson of trucks of every shape and size and function, and long, articulated city buses. 

Rochester contrasts

Here at this house in Rochester, it’s quiet. Once a week a garbage truck goes by. But I can do my laundry downstairs instead of trundling it a quarter of a mile each way.

There were other downsides to Brooklyn. In spite of my best efforts to build friendships and stay connected, I felt acutely alone. The streets felt dangerous. People were indifferent (of course they were, we were all strangers to each other). It broke my heart to see groups of young men hanging out, passing a joint, with tons of pent up energy and talent but lacking the education—and faced with racism in hiring practices—that prevented them from getting into a decent job, unleashing that talent, making a living wage, and making a contribution.  They could have run a company—or a country—but were trapped.

 
I felt a keen desperation in the atmosphere on the streets. I lived in a gentrifying neighborhood. As rents leapt upward, people were more and more worried about making rent that month. I could feel the anxiety in the air. So many people lived hand to mouth with no hope of a better life – and angry about that fact, and about the racism that locked them into this predicament, locked them out of the American Dream.

And then there was the dog poop. Many people did clean up after their dogs, but enough people didn’t that there was a hazard when out walking or pulling a cart full of laundry. I had to keep my eyes on the sidewalk. Which might have been just as well—looking at groups of young men passing a joint might get me in trouble, so I had to keep my eyes down anyway. Which I didn’t like. As an artist, I love to look around and notice things. I want to look at people and imagine their lives. In Brooklyn, that wasn’t wise to do because you might notice a crime. I really hated keeping my head down.

Starting over in Rochester

Here in this suburb of Rochester, I can smile and give a little wave to the people I pass when I’m out walking, and get one in return. We’re privileged to be living in a lovely neighborhood. I’ve nicknamed it “The Arboretum” because of the stately huge shade trees, and blooming trees, and shrubs. During the summer there were eight-foot-tall hydrangeas in some gardens, burgeoning with blossoms, exuding charm. 

So I’ll start life anew in Rochester.  I have to overcome my location snobbery and embrace the advantages this situation offers. One of them might be a sense of dislocation. Exile has proven to be good for my creativity in the past, especially in Paris and Barcelona, and it’s helping me again, I believe. 

I have discovered, to my joy, that I really love swimming in Lake Ontario. I thought the lake would never suffice, not after the joy of being in the Atlantic surf at Fire Island or the Jersey Shore. But the lake has its advantages—most days, it’s quiet enough for me to really swim without having to fear being inundated by breaking waves, as I would in the Atlantic. 

Also, in spite of the pandemic, I’ve made a new, in-person friend! She has put me in touch with working artists in the area, including a local set designer. I’m working on a novel about a set designer, so that interview will be very interesting! 

Brooklyn is a great place. I miss it, and I’m so relieved to be out of it.

How about you? Do you have mixed feelings about a place you used to live? Or that you live in now? Comment below! 

American Dream: To Live in Brooklyn!

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American Dream: To Live in NYC, and in Brooklyn -- Even Better!

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

One of my dreams has come true. I was always curious, what was it about Brooklyn that people enjoyed so much?

I've been here two weeks, and I approve of Brooklyn! It's bustling, the neighbors are getting to know me and saying hello, there's LOTS of great cafes to choose from to work in. It's got a diverse population, and that's important to me at this point in my life. I like to talk to all kinds of people.

If I won PowerBall, I'd buy a row of brownstones, renovate them, and rent them out at cost to my family (except most of them hate the city) so therefore artist friends.

Here's some scenes from my neighborhood, Bedford-Stuyvesant.

It's January, and it's COLD. But the sun warms the faces of the brownstones.

Here's a close-up of a handsome one.

The front door is glamorous.

There's lots of murals around. This one spells out "Brooklyn."

A row of bigger brownstones. The area is gentrifying rapidly. Notice the architectural details under the eaves and above the doors and windows.

Here's another mural, on a corner. That's my shadow in the corner :)

A mural with a message: Stay in school.

"Find the good and praise it!"

Here's another mural, one of a row of brownstones.

It's glamorous enough for a movie set, no? Well, there's lots of movies being made in Brooklyn. My roommate directs indie films!

How about you? Do you dream of living in the city? Comment below!

American Dream: Getting Away from it All

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Fire Island September

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

Yes, going to Fire Island is this beautiful. I found an inexpensive way to do it.

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The ferry crossing on a Friday night.

That's the Fire Island lighthouse in the distance.

The next morning, the view of at the Great South Bay.

The bay and a dock nearby.

A sunset over the bay.

Taken from the ferry going home.

The south shore of Long Island is the black line in the distance.

The marina on the Long Island south shore.

The freight boat that takes stuff to FI.

Approaching our ferry slip.

What's your favorite seashore to visit? Comment below.

Indie Coffee Shop in New London, CT

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American Dreams: a little leisure time to spend in a cafe.

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

You know how I am about indie coffee shops.  Here's a great one, the Muddy Waters, on Water Street in New London. Amongst the sugary baked goods and caffeine may be spot where the American economy gains new energy. 

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The owners, behind an assortment of pastries.

People coming from the back room...

...which overlooks a terrace, which overlooks the Amtrak lines, the ferry terminal, and the Thames River.

In the back room, you can sit in cozy nooks.

The best place to catch up with friends.

More pastries, fresh fruit, sandwiches--you can be all set for a day!

In the front room, New London catches up with itself.

The decor is everything you can't expect.

Stop in for a cuppa.

How about you? Do you like indie coffee shops, too? Comment below! Sign up to follow my blog!

Mystic Commune 3 and Last

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My American Dream of living in a special space with great friends and fellow artists

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

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Okay, last visit to my future Mystic artists' commune.

The front door has a stained glass panel of pineapples, the symbol of welcome.

Here's Paul McMasters, master carpenter and leader of this project, trying not to be photographed (I know, I'm an awful pest).

I can't get over the wainscoting.

Or the fireplaces...

Or the banister.

Here's the backdoor, looking through the center hall to the front, with a selfie of yours truly.

These men are scraping the eaves and architectural details, a brutal job.

The lovely front porch.

Call Paul for any woodworking you need.  What do you think? Would you join me in this house for an artists' commune? Comment below.

American Dreams: Scene of a Mystic Artists' Commune?

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American Dreams of Living and Working Together

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

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I'm continuing my series on the Spicer House, a fabulous historic home in Mystic that I'd love to live in with artist friends.

Here's Paul McMasters, telling me about the glories, and the difficulties, in restoring this marvelous old home.

On the second floor, a mysterious, more plain staircase leading to...

…that uppermost room I showed you in the last post. It's going to be a party room for whoever lives  or stays here. If it were the artists' commune I'd rather see, it would be a room for creativity, which can be (not always) a different kind of party.

It has a view out over the town and harbor of Mystic. The orange building front and center was built is the Mystic & Noank Library. It was built by the same man who built the house we're in, Captain Spicer, who started out as a midshipman (age 9 or 10) on the seas and came back a wealthy philanthropist.

Another view of the uppermost room.

The ceiling is beautiful, too.

Here's a view from the uppermost stairs down through the stairwell to the parquet floor in the entry hall.

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Comment below! Why are you crazy about historic homes, like I am?