We’ve been home for a few days now; the laundry is almost done, my fridge is restocked, and I’ve gotten used to sleeping in the same bed again. Now the question is this: what did traversing all over New England do for me the last couple of weeks?
This question isn’t exactly easy to answer I have found. I have seen some of the most beautiful countryside, been in one of the busiest cities in America and walked where our Founding Fathers did, and I’ve touched the very pages some of America’s finest writers have, but where does that leave me now?
The easiest answer is to just say that I’m more enlightened regarding early American literature, that I identify more with writers of that period, and that I’ve found a much better appreciation for those early works. But, even though it’s the easiest answer, I feel as if I need to dig more deeply. This trip, above all else, has shown me that some of the greatest treasures for a student of literature aren’t necessarily located in London or anywhere else in Europe; they are here in our backyard. Literature is no longer this far-away concept for me; it is something tangible and close to home. I don’t need a passport to reconnect with my studies on a physical level, and that, above anything else, is something that I will walk away from this trip with that I will never lose.
Thanks for the amazing journey to all those who were involved!

As I stepped into foyer of Twain’s steamboat house in Hartford, Connecticut, I was blown away. The stenciling on the walls, the dark wood work, and the dark paint quickly reinforced the idea that Twain truly desired to be surrounded by the finest things available. Several beautiful chandeliers, solid wood furniture, and even running hot water set Twain’s house among the most innovative and fancy of his time. Yet, at the same time, you can still see Twain’s younger side throughout the house. His upstairs writing place, or his billiards room, reminded me of a room in which he could relax and enjoy the company of his peers. After all, all work and no play isn’t any fun.

These two sides of Twain really solidified the concept of his dueling nature. From his works, we can easily see that Twain has a serious side concerned with achieving greatness in his life, and at the same time, he wants to revel in the fantastic and picaresque qualities of life. One thing is for sure, when he designed his home, Twain called on both Huck and Tom for decorating advice!

From the upstairs window at Arrowhead, the home of Herman Melville, you can still make out the mountaintops that inspired the great American author of Moby-Dick fame. The view is quite different now, for there are many more trees in the field adjacent to the mountains, obscuring visitors’ views.
Yet, if you imagine the environment as it was for Melville, you can make out the head and tail of the great whale that inspired Melville to write his American epic. In the winter when Melville looked upon Mt. Greylock, it was covered in bright white snow, forming a giant white whale. This is the ultimate display of just how much, we as writers, are influenced by the things around us. So, if you have writer’s block, look out the window! You never really know what may inspire you out there.

Whenever I read an old novel, it’s always a challenge to make a connection with the author. I mean, come on, some of them lived hundreds of years ago. Today, though, I was able to reach out and touch the greatness of some prominent American authors.

Within the Houghton library at Harvard, priceless meets incredible in thousands of pages. We started our tour in the “Emily Room.” Here we were able to view handwritten pages of
Dickinson’s poetry and see the tiny needle holes from the binding. The original hutch where her manuscripts were found is also in the room; how much more personal can you get?

We weaved through endless passageways and doorways to a small conference room upon leaving Emily’s room. Here, on a small table, sat some of the most priceless treasures for literature scholars. There was the original manuscript of Hawthorne’s The House of the Seven Gables; one of Thoreau’s many journals was also on the table. There was a journal of Bronson Alcott; a Melville journal also sat among the treasures.

As I turned the pages filled with handwriting hundreds of years old, I could not help but finally feel connected to these great writers. Even though these manuscripts could not come home with me, I was bringing home something just as precious when I left the Houghton. Now, when I read Moby Dick or Walden, I am surrounded by the real spirit of these authors. Now, that’s priceless.

Today I followed Sarah Adams, a lovely woman dressed in 1700s era clothing around downtown Boston. No, I wasn’t dreaming: it was the Freedom Trail tour! Boston truly is one of the richest historical cities in America. As we meandered through the bustling streets we traveled to the cemetery where Sam Adams himself is buried, to the North Church where great, independent thinkers met to discuss hot political issues, and even to the site of the Boston Massacre. After we brushed up on our history through impromptu quizzes for Blow-Pops, it became even clearer to me that the American Revolution really did start here in this great city. Even though the “shot heard ‘round the world” came from North Bridge in Concord, Bostonians fanned the great fire and they’re sure proud of it.

I’m all for saving the whales, and today at the Nantucket Whaling Museum, I certainly learned why. The whale hunting process is gory, bloody, and terribly dangerous for everyone involved (especially the whales!). However, as I sat in a wonderful presentation on the whaling history of Nantucket, it was hard not to sympathize with the islanders. They originally came to the island to raise sheep. (Sheep? No wonder they had to turn to the ocean for their livelihood.) Without whales, though, would Nantucket even be the same island it is today? Even though the practice of hunting whales is so horrible and ended up placing whales on the endangered species list, the very essence of Nantucket would not be the same without that part of its history. For that, I can’t judge them too harshly.

Nantucket Island is roughly 15 miles long and three miles wide. Today, I managed to bike that distance and then some. A small group of us (five to be exact) biked 10 miles out and eight miles back into the center of the island today. It was cold, misty, and definitely a challenge but it was beyond amazing. The landscape here is wonderfully picturesque; we passes two inland ponds (well, maybe we should call them lakes) and the signature lighthouse that signaled us on to the beach. As we rode up and down the hills and I came face to face with natural beauty, I couldn't help but think of Melville's writings: the gentle hills appear as rolling waves as you travel. If you stay in Nantucket Center and never venture out to the shore, you could never really get a sense of how much like the sea the island truly is. Even though 18 miles nearly killed me, it was well worth it.

Today I experienced what is commonly called a nor'easter. Poseidon graciously sent us strong, gusty winds and a hard, cold rain to send us to Nantucket this afternoon. The seas were quite choppy, but the ferry brought us to land faithfully. Despite traveling through Plymouth Plantation and the Mayflower II, all I could think about on the travel over here had nothing to do with literature sadly. Instead, my thoughts settled onto a sweet, walking older man in downtown Salem. As my companion and I meandered through narrow streets and shops, a Vietnam veteran walked up behind us. He quietly followed us down the street even though we played the slow-walking, picture-taking, completely out-of-place roles of tourists. As we rounded a corner, we stopped to determine which way to turn. He stepped between us and despite never having met us before, he asked if he could be of assistance to us. We smiled and thanked him, reassured him we were not lost, simply resting, and talked for a few minutes.

As we stepped off the ferry and set foot on a not-so-dry island, we desperately looked for a cab. We enjoyed no success for five or so minutes, but suddenly a van pulled to the curb and motioned for us to pile in; she was going our way. As we got settled, the driver stayed outside in the dreary, cold, harsh wind and rain to call the remaining group another cab.

So, as I sit here and contemplate these small acts of kindness, my fast thoughts are drawn to literature. As readers, we are trained to look to our books for examples of how we can make situations and lives around us better. Today, for the first time in a long time, it feels as if life itself is finally emulating my literature. Bravo New England! Bravo!

Concord is a fairly liberal town but the real issues that get the town moving aren't necessarily political anymore, our excellent tour guide told us. The issues effecting the town are questions of preservation and history. The local high school wants to take eight acres of Walden Pond and build soccer fields. These are the issues that fill the town meetings.

My mouth sort of hung open in disbelief after he told us this. Clearly there was an obvious answer: leave Walden alone! The pond not only represents one of the most famous literary settings, but it represents one of the last natural hold outs in our world. It is, for the most part, untouched by man. People can actually swim in it, and the water is so clear you can see to the bottom. Should we really tear down beautiful landscapes for grass playing fields? Obviously the answer is no, but the town folk around here are screaming, cursing, and debating each other over it until they're worn out. Is it really just a sign of the times?

This afternoon we visited Wayside, a one-time home for the Alcott family, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Margaret Sydney. We were given a private tour; the house is not open for the season yet.
The most striking thing about this house is the state of disrepair that it is in. Even though it was home to widely famous authors, the house itself is not receiving the funding it rightly deserves. The house is under the National Park Service’s wing; however, the house welcomes fewer guests in comparison to other Park sites, so it receives less funding.
This house is a national treasure, readers! Let’s band together and create some change. Everybody man the keyboards (or pen and paper) and send a local Congressman a letter to let him or her know some of America’s greatest treasures are in danger. Surely our government representatives would agree that such important historical sites need our help?