10 GROUNDCOVER NEWS STORIES FROM BEFORE SEPTEMBER 5, 2025 Reimagining Walden, part three: not all ponds are created equal Continued from “Reimagining Walden Part 2, This Time It’s Personal,” Groundcover Aug. 8, 2025 In Hartland there is a lovely place named Waldenwoods. I would pass it on my way deliberately that summer. I had special knowledge. I knew the special places where the creeks flowed fast enough to have a sandy bottom; there I would take my “bird baths” and beat the hottest parts of the day. Many of the special places I once knew as a child had fallen victim to progress and yuppy cul-de-sacs. There were still some wild places with hidden rings of stone where I would build fires to cook various meats on large roasting forks bought at my favorite store at that time, The Rural King. On other days I would cheat the raccoons out of the freshest hot and ready pizzas the local Little Caesars had to offer. With a stack of those five dollar pizzas I would make my way down the backroads towards “my office” at the Cromaine Library to try to find the next thing. The library in Hartland is reasonably attractive and situated on the woody edge of the old downtown — as a kid it always seemed like the frontier edge of the wilderness. I would go there frequently to research employment and recharge my devices. In some ways it was different than the downtown library in Ann Arbor from my perspective. I like NEVER having someone follow me into the restroom at times; personally it was uncomfortable. There was a much different user base than I was used to at this library. One could step out for a smoke and not have to worry about anything walking away. There were no halfhour-long impassioned pleas broadcast to all in the proximity of the computer stations; patrons there were much more discreet. When it comes to the types of difficult people one might encounter, there is a difference between the urban and the rural possibilities which may include sometimes an angry skunk or other enraged rogue beast. Mosquitos? A short distance on the highway changed things. The ancient cemetery across the street was a fine place to stretch my legs in between drafts of my work. Ever mindful of my finitude and the death that awaits us all, on those halcyon days I'd contemplate “authentic Dasein” and “the fallen” over beer, pizza and fatty dank. On Clyde Road, Hartland Road, to pop back over for a visit. I grabbed some beers and a hunk of meat and headed on over. The next day was supposed to be ANTHONY SMITH Groundcover contributor Bullard Road, and U.S. 23, I knew afternoons of cool tree leaf tunnels and golden bucolic splendor. Bordered by a great orchard, some of the area had fresh apples. I have enjoyed them many times over the years. I knew the frogs peeping from the shaded streams along the way, the scream of blue jays, and the agitation of fat stupid red squirrels. I would the squirrel warning calls signaled from some tree in sight of the road at times, and then not much else on a walk that could be expanded greatly depending on the challenge level desired. My mostly loud-ish muffler would be the ultimate issue for my jeep. I was bound to get caught sometimes with all the curvy turns around there. I could pay a muffler ticket or some shit, but getting the vehicle taken for lack of insurance meant automatic towing and associated yard fees, C.O.D. mostly. This sucked because in order to keep a place to live, I had to stay lucky in the trap or elsewhere. I wouldn't get the eviction moratorium that others got during the pandemic. I had to pay to play or get off the pot. Robert E. Howard imagined a world where one might “eat quickly, sleep lightly, and linger not over anything — those are the first rules of the wild, and his life is not long who fails to observe them” (Howard, “Almuric” page 13, 1939) — or die in the jungle baby, yeah! It was the most beautiful time of the year, the timeless bucolic cornucopia season was at hand. Even now I can hear the peeps and croaks from my amphibian friends from along the way. Peaceful contemplation, unhurried, I remember not thinking about time and simply doing all things I enjoy very much. I had no master save for the rain and my belly. I was blessed with a part time job cleaning pots for one of the good old boys and so I was in several weeks of serious scissoring. About this time the old Indian hollered at me and wanted me to move a few of my things around so he could do some work. I was glad sweet because I was just around the corner from the pot gig; sadly I would not make it far. Just as I turned out of the neighborhood I was pulled over by a cop because of my dang loud muffler. This wouldn't be a big deal except I had no insurance and no registration. I had worked ALL summer and had nothing to pay the pigs. I used the Jedi mind trick, but I wasn't able to save the jeep. And so they took my ride to jail. I was in the space where the coercive violence of the state is used to compel individuals to engage in commerce with insurance companies and their ilk. What choice did I have? I tried to be polite about not having any money. What choice I had in the matter was to carry off what I could. This was during the eviction moratorium. I was too poor for that nationwide bailout and so I was robbed at gun point by a wellfed instrument of state oppression. I set off with a few things and found a folding chair along a nearby dirt road. A concrete park outhouse would be my headquarters for a brief period. In the evening I'd lock myself in there till the next day when I'd split. It was kind of gross and I kept getting woken by frustrated sexual degenerates in the middle of the night. I would silently chuckle as their nights were ruined, “Why is the door always locked?!” When the sun came up I'd mosey on down to the now-defunct Ericson ranch and cut the grass. Once it had been a working horse ranch. I had stayed there for a summer back in 2000. That summer I learned the kind of lesson only a mighty stallion can teach a young man. It was an afternoon when I was there all alone. A powerful racing stallion kicked open a weak gate and was chewing on the better grass of the yard. He was a $25,000 racing horse. There and then I knew I had to put a rope on him and set things right. On the way out the door I grabbed a nice length of rope and fashioned a quick slip knot. With absolutely zero fear I closed on the great beast slowly. With one fluid motion I raised the lasso and in the next moment I'd caught him and led him to a more secure corral. A few weeks of cleaning weed there was a walk down memory lane and helped me get the resources I needed to head to Hartland where I would go to live deliberately in nature for a while. - Ironically, there was the aforementioned place called Waldenwoods towards the direction I was heading. It was in honor of Thoreau, I assume. Unlike the book it has a complement of modern things like golf courses, a rustic and attractive main building (a place I've been for Xmas party stuff) and RVs to party in beside a bit of a lake. Going east into town, one moves away from the idyllic Americana and into the semi-dystopian postmodern American dream. There had been a great truckstop there east of US-23. No one could tell now that it had been demolished and the land reused for new buildings. It had been a place that reminded me of in real life Smokey and the Bandit subversive weird stuff. There were "lot lizards," and the infamous Oklahoma City bomber had eaten there or something? I had been around the area growing up as a kid and when I had a few bucks from working during summer vacation, my buddies and I used to head up there late at night because “The Oasis” was 24 hours! It was maybe a 25 minute walk from where I grew up. This was a place that I knew well. Behind the old pharmacy, a place once called "Buckey's” was the place I felt I'd find a good spot. It was remote enough and yet still close to electricity and a few stores like my favorite, The Rural King. There were none of the pristine ponds of Thoreau's Walden; these ponds had decades-old shopping carts partially submerged along their mucky banks. The brown of those waters could keep a secret — it wasn't hard to imagine just what or who could be hidden in those gross things. Guns, old lot lizards, unlucky drifters? I saw milk-carton people. It was grim. In the trees along the trails there were the severed limbs, torsos and mutilated heads of many dolls, their eyes cruelly plucked from their sockets or alternately painted black. These would move about if there was a breeze. I would want to steer clear of these sinister doll people. I found a large tree that had fallen and would hide my approach as I walked up its trunk. The spot was nearly invisible before I camouflaged it, afterward it was even more invisible. I would stay at this site till the 26th of December when I would head to our nation's capital after being promised a job selling weed. On that day, by Zeus, I would neatly pack up my tent and other things. TO BE CONTINUED ...
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