Page 117 of Lovebug
“I suppose ‘Walden Kettle Hole’ doesn’t sound nearly as romantic, though, does it?”
“No.” I chuckle. “It doesn’t. What exactly is a kettle hole?”
“Blocks of dead ice left behind by retreating glaciers create a depression. That then gets filled up to create a pond or a lake,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Oooh, look at you,” I tease. “I’m going to start calling you ‘Wally Wikipedia.’”
“Please don’t,” he jokes.
“I take it you’re a Thoreau fan?”
He shrugs. “Ole Henry David did get a few things right, I think. ‘Life is frittered away by detail… simplify, simplify.’” Wally performs the quote with a little extra pizazz. “I’m obviously down with that line of thinking,” he explains by gesturing to his house and our surroundings. “And the Civil Disobedience thing Igenerallyagree with. Truth be told, sometimes I think I’d benefit from being even more disobedient in my life.”
“Oh, yeah?” I say between bites of bass.
“Yeah. And from what I’ve learned about you so far”—he tips his head toward me—“I’d hazard to say you might as well?” He says this gently like it’s a question, but we both know what he’s getting at: that “Good Girl Mabel” could benefita lotfrom being more disobedient.
“Have you been talking to my friends?” I ask, giving him no small amount of side-eye.
“How do you mean?”
“They’re on this mission to hang up my ‘good girl shoes’ and get me to embrace being ‘bad.’”
“Hm.” Wally considers that a moment, then says, “I dunno, I feel like I’ve already experienced Bad Girl Mabel.”
“And?” I feel a sudden spike of nervousness.
“And... she’s a hell of a lot of fun.” He winks. “But all of your sides are fun. ‘We contain multitudes,’ yeah? For the record, that’s a Walt quote, not a Thoreau.”
“Disney?” I ask.
“Nah.” He laughs. “The other Walt. Whitman.”
“Right, right.”
“Here’s another Thoreau-ism I like. It makes a solid argument for ‘goodness’—whatever that means. ‘All good things are wild and free.’”
“I like that,” I say sort of wistfully. My eyes catch on the huge, beautiful tree right next to the water’s edge. “That’s a weeping willow, right?”
“It is,” Wally says. “One of my favorites. Though you have to be careful with that one. Many folks will tell ya she’s a bad tree to have around.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, her roots spread really wide. You always want to build at least fifty feet from a willow, or your pipes and foundation are at risk. But God, what a perfect climbing tree she is.” His whole face seems to soften as he looks out at this tree. “Good, solid branches. Lots of shade and coverage. Cozy places to hide.”
Our attention is taken for a moment by a flock of birds flying overhead.
“Maybe…” He shifts his gaze back to the weeping willow. “Maybe none of us needs to strive to be ‘good’ or ‘bad.’ Maybe being authentic is enough.”
“Is that a Thoreau-ism too?”
“Nah,” he says. “Just a Wally-ism.”
I flash back for a moment to the time when I was nine and got much further in the elementary school-wide spelling bee than I ever imagined I would. I was a science geek from day one and always placed all my attention and passion there. Spelling was always hit or miss for me, so I was shocked to have made it that far. I remember standing on the podium, my knees literally shaking, waiting to receive the next word I needed to spell correctly in order to move onto the finals. The word was ”authentic.” I panicked. Drew a blank. So I did that thing all kids do during spelling bees when they need to stall for time. I asked for the definition.
The school librarian kindly spoke into the microphone, “Authentic. Of undisputed origin; genuine.”
I liked that concept so much, even back then.
