The morning lake was spectacular nevertheless, the marsh
grasses were glistening with dew, and it was a pleasure to see a flock of buffleheads
drifting in the mirror-like waters of the bay.
When I got back to the house, I noticed that a bicycle was
leaning against a tree in the field across the highway, half-obscured by a
clump of bushes. I set myself down in the living room with a cup of coffee and
a copy of German Philosophy 1760-1860:
the Legacy of Idealism by Terry Pinkard—it was a book that I found it easy to look
up from repeatedly as I waited for the owner of the bike to return. Suddenly I
heard a tapping at the kitchen door leading out onto the deck. Then louder. I
got up to investigate. It was a robin, making the acquaintance of his reflection
in the glass.
Returning to my chair, I was pleased to see someone
approaching the distant bike on foot across the fields. Then the figure disappeared
again, and it occurred to me that he or she might be harvesting the ramps from the
woods and had gone back for more. There was nothing intrinsically suspicious
about the event. After all, the cyclist could easily have laid the bicycle on
the ground, entirely out of sight. But it was odd just the same, and I decided
to go over and see what was going on, half-expecting to find a pile of ramps
lying on the ground.
Nothing. I walked a hundred yards down the path, saw no one, and returned to the house, as perplexed as ever.
Nothing. I walked a hundred yards down the path, saw no one, and returned to the house, as perplexed as ever.
I was sitting at the laptop at the kitchen table, typing out
a morning report to Hilary, when I heard a knock on the front door, more
forceful than a robin's.
"Come in!" I hollered without thinking, then ran
hurriedly to the door to open it. An elderly man was standing on the front
porch beside his bicycle.
"I don't mean to disturb you," he said, speaking
very slowly, "but I often take a morning walk in your fields and woods
across the road. I wanted to thank you for maintaining it. When I arrived this
morning the parking lot was empty. Later I saw your car and presumed you would
be awake."
"That's quite all right. In fact, I saw your bike when
I pulled up. Then I saw someone come out of the woods and walk right past it.
You must be doing several circuits around the loop."
"Yes, I go around three times. It's quiet. But I'm only
here in Door County for four months of the year. I walk every morning."
A pair of metal walking sticks were protruding from his
backpack. I could hear one of the Brandenburg Concertos booming from the
earbuds that were dangling around his neck. Though the man had a kindly
expression, he had an oddly fleshy face, and his eyelids were folded over in
such a way as to almost obscure his line of sight.
"Where do you live the rest of the year?" I asked.
There was a long pause.
"I hesitate to say," he said finally. "I
spend part of the year in New Zealand and another few months in the Bavarian
Alps."
"Do you live year round in Door County?" he asked.
"Heavens, no! This place is a writing center. I'm only
here for a week." Another long pause.
"I presume, then, that you yourself are a writer,"
the man said finally. "I suppose that you're also a reader. I have
recently been reading a biography of Goethe."
"Funny you should mention that. I was reading about
Goethe just last night. The author was saying that Kant benefited from the atmosphere and the liberal university setup at Jena, which was largely due to
Goethe's influence."
"According to the author of the biography I'm reading, Goethe
considered his life to be his greatest work of art."
"That might well be true," I said. "I've
never read anything by Goethe that I really liked."
"I've never read anything by him at all," he
replied.
"No. let me take that back. The Sorrows of Young Werther isn't bad. But it's a book for
adolescents. Goethe wrote it in a month and became the rage of Europe. Every
writer's dream, perhaps. But what precisely is it that's so appealing about
that? The wealth, the ease, the approbation? The feeling of being known and understood?"
But I realized I was
abandoning the thread of the conversation, and perhaps bewildering the
gentleman, so I said, "Can I offer you a recommendation. For an entirely
different slant on Goethe, you might like Immortality
by the Czech novelist Milan Kundera. The book is basically about Goethe's love
life. I think it's a novel, but I don't remember. I read it a long time
ago."
As I was jotting down the reference on a scrap of paper I
couldn't help remarking, "Considering your life-style, you must have done
well in the stock market." It was an idle remark, a query. Something that
could easily have been ignored. The man didn't look like a hedge fund manager.
He looked like a retired dairy farmer.
Another long pause. I was getting used to them. I wasn't in a hurry.
Finally he said, "I'm trying to think of a way to
answer that briefly and humorously. My father was Swedish. My mother was German. From
her I learned thrift. I grew up in Iowa. There are lots of Swedes there. I
never planned anything. I never planned to become the caretaker of a house in
Door County. I went to New Zealand on a cycling trip; I never planned to move
there. I appreciate every day I'm given. I try to walk every day, and when the
good Lord comes to take me, I hope I'll be ready."
And on that note, he got back on his bicycle, put his helmet
on, bid me a good day, and rode off.
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