“How long?” “How long?” This question, which punctuated an extraordinary number of Henry Thoreau’s journal entries throughout the growing season every year as he sauntered about Concord’s fields and forests, was prompted by Thoreau’s perennial desire to live deeply into the unfolding biological activity about him.
In 1990, my first year at UVM, I lived in Harris Hall with a Pennsylvanian named Elaine. We draped our room in paisley tapestries to hide the pale blue cinderblock, and cooked ramen in a hotpot. Elaine adorned her bed with a pretty floral comforter. Mine was navy and plain. Elaine favored snug sweaters and jeans; I dressed in batik and European pajama shirts from the sale racks at Old Gold.