Pages from Levi's Journal

March 11, 2006

Arriving at Emily Dickenson’s house was relatively unspectacular. Not knowing anything about her, I was visiting a neat old late Georgian house. Inside of the house, was more interesting, and It certainly was neat, being in a house where a person of such high esteem had lived. Venturing to the other house, the 2^nd empire house, whose integrity had been undisturbed for so long, now that was fascinating. Especially the floors, they were beautiful, large irregular boards, of different wood, consisting of trees that were available at the time. Adding to the mystique of the house was the state of decay that it was in. while it is unfortunate, that the house is literally falling apart, having been subject to only preventive maintenance, renovations, would severely damage the integrity, and that would be worse a shame. The rest of the day paled in comparison.

March 13, 2006

As we were driving through Concord, I was looking out the bus window, admiring all the old beautiful houses, looking forward to another day of looking at cool old stuff, full of character, the kind of which does not exists anymore. We passed a house on the left, and with out knowing what it was, I remarked aloud to Liz Bessom that that house was spectacular, special, and perfect. About fifteen seconds, after my remark, we pulled into the parking lot for the Old Manse this was by far, the highlight of the trip for me. Walking into the house was something I’m not even going to bother trying to describe. I was spectacular. I can say with certainty, I saw EVERY detail no matter how slight. I was so intent on studying everything I missed almost the entire tour. At one point, I was reading Nathanial Hawthorns inscription on the window in the room on the north west side of the house, when the tour guide stopped, and said I love students like you, I turned, and she was looking at me. I have never had a teacher, or anybody say anything like that to me before, so I though she was talking to someone else, but apparently, she was excited that someone had found the scribe, before she pointed it out. The inscription was pretty cool, because, firstly it indicates total historic integrity, something I hold in extreme high regard. Secondly, I grew up spending summers in Maine, about three miles from Hawthorns boyhood home. I literally grew up climbing around on the same rocks that he did. Swimming in the same spots he did. Climbing down in a cave, many times where he hid from Indians. (Hawthorn’s Cave is actually on my grand mothers property.) The absolute pinnacle of the trip was when the grandfather clock chimed in the room next to where we were sanding, and the lady told us that the clock had not been serviced since the revolutionary war. That a machine could be that reliable is absolutely unfathomable. I consider that clock to be the most valuable single object on the planet, and I got to hear it chime. I would give my life gladly for that clock. Unfortunately, not enough time was devoted to the Old Manse. The rest of the day was rushed, and while Authors Ridge could easily have been another exceptional visit, it was cut short, and as such was not as enjoyable as it should have been. A full day devoted to these two spots, might not have been enough let alone one hour each.