A Private History of Happiness (19 page)

Lodisa Frizzell, pioneer woman, writing in her travel journal

ELM CREEK, NEBRASKA
• MAY 27, 1852

We encamped in a beautiful place, on the bank of a stream called Elm Creek, under the shade of two large elm trees; here was good grass, plenty of the best of wood, and some water, for the creek was very low, and as the sun was 3 hours high or more, some went out hunting while the old doctor, Beth [Bethel], and I went to cooking; we soon had the best of a fire, cooked some meat and beans, stewed some apples and peaches, boiled some rice, and baked biscuit, and fried some crulls, and as I had a glass pickle jar full of sour milk, and plenty of salaratus [baking soda], I had as fine cakes as if I had been at home; and when they returned in the evening we had a general feast.

On April 14, 1852, Lodisa Frizzell and her husband, Lloyd, had set out with their four sons from their home in Effingham County, Illinois. They were taking the wagon trails to California, where they were hoping to make a better life. Their journey would take them across Illinois and Missouri and then on the Oregon Trail to Pacific Springs in Wyoming, where they arrived in June. They had some cattle and a pony along with their wagon of belongings. (In December of 1852, confined by snow in their mountain cabin in northern California, Lodisa Frizzell would record the adventures of this spring journey.)

On May 27, they paused at Elm Creek, near Fort Kearney and the Platte River. At Fort Kearney, several trails from further east merged, forming one trail westward across Nebraska to Fort Laramie in Wyoming. In those years, the area around Fort Kearney was so busy with pioneers moving west that there was little grass left for the animals, and hardly any firewood. Disease was common.

But for Lodisa Frizzell, Elm Creek turned out to be a “beautiful place,” with plenty of shade under “two large elm trees.” Frizzell had with her an old doctor and her son Bethel. Her expert eye noticed the quality of the spot, “good grass, plenty of the best of wood, and some
water.” She began to get a delicious meal ready. Normally, lighting a camp fire was hard work on this trail. They had to dig a pit into the ground and then fill it with wood. Matches for lighting fires were precious. Here, on the banks of the creek, the fuel was handy and easy to light. She “soon had the best of a fire.”

Since they were on the trail for months, they carried various cooking equipment with them. Lodisa Frizzell must have had a frying pan and also pots for boiling. She carefully cooked the various dishes over the open fire. One by one, she got it all ready.

First she cooked a staple of the Oregon Trail, meat and beans. Then she stewed the fruit. After that she did the boiling, then the baking, and finally the frying. The detail in her description is full of love. She was bringing her past domestic world back to life under the elm trees of the creek, surrounded by the vastness of Nebraska.

“Crulls,” fried doughnuts, were a special treat. She listed the ingredients with glee: the jar of sour milk and the baking soda. When the doughnuts were ready, she had a moment of proud happiness, because she “had as fine cakes as if I had been at home.” It was a triumph over difficult circumstances.

Eventually the rest of the party returned from hunting, and she had the satisfaction of treating them to “a general feast.” For one evening, the dangers and uncertainties of the journey could be forgotten.

Hermippus, pupil of Epicurus, writing a letter to friends

ISLAND OF LESBOS, GREECE
• 270 BCE

He [Epicurus] died of the stone [. . .] after having been ill a fortnight; and at the end of the fortnight [. . .] he went into a brazen bath, properly tempered with warm water, and asked for a cup of pure wine and drank it;
and having recommended his friends to remember his doctrines, he expired.

The Greek philosopher Epicurus was born on the island of Samos in 341 BCE. When he was in his thirties, he set up a school of philosophy—in a garden—in Athens. He was a spiritual teacher and writer who believed that people should value ordinary pleasures. In 270 BCE, in Athens, he was dying of kidney stones. His friend and pupil Hermippus recorded the philosopher’s last day (as quoted in the later writings of the Greek historian Diogenes Laertes).

Other sources show that Epicurus had made sure his will was right: the garden, his pride and joy, was left to a friend, on condition that it was used by those who wished to discuss philosophy. His house was likewise to be a home for a school. He took great care of the precise conditions.

His final day had come, and he probably spent it with friends. Having made sure of his will, he was able to give some thought to these—his very last—hours. Epicurus was famous (or notorious) among his contemporaries for his refusal to share religious belief. If there are gods, he taught, they have no interest in humanity. He had no consoling faith in an afterlife. For him, these were his last moments of consciousness.

First, there was the gleaming metal of the bath tub. Then the warm water was poured in. He ensured that the water was “properly tempered.” A careful, simple moment.

As Epicurus sat in the bath tub, he felt for one last time the pleasant sensation of liquid warmth.

Then there came the last taste of life itself, for which everything else on this day of dying had been a preparation. During his sickness, Epicurus would have drunk his wine blended with water. Now he had no more need for precautions. Calmly, he requested a cup of “pure wine.” Though later generations have accused him of excess, he was by all accounts a most moderate drinker. Raising the cup to his lips, he took his last mouthfuls of this drink that the Greeks thought of as a gift of the gods.

As he relished the taste, beyond the echoes of past pleasure, there must have been the present happiness of being a free man. He died as he had lived, choosing his own way. At the very end, he drew the attention of his friends and pupils to his philosophical ideas, which had guided him to his final moment.

Epicurus gave his own account of this last day in letters to friends such as Hermarchus. He seems to have been motivated by concern to make sure provision was made for the children of one of his friends, Metrodorus. He recorded calmly in one such letter that he had been very ill for seven days. Another conveyed the passing experience of the time with complete control: “Epicurus to
Hermarchus, greeting. I write these words on the happiest, and the last, day of my life. I am suffering from diseases of the bladder and intestines, which are of the utmost possible severity. Yet all my sufferings are counterbalanced by the joy which I derive from remembering my theories and discoveries.”

Life tasted good to the dying man as he relinquished the cup.

Thomas Turner, village shopkeeper, writing in his diary

EAST HOATHLY, EAST SUSSEX
• JUNE 24, 1764

In the morn, at thirty minutes past five, Thomas Durrant and I set out for Newhaven, to see my very worthy friend Mr. Tipper, where we arrived at fifty minutes past seven, and breakfasted with my friend Tipper; after which we walked down to the sea, where we entertained ourselves very agreeably an hour or two [. . .] We dined with my friend Tipper, on a leg of lamb boiled, a hot baked rice pudding, a gooseberry pie, a very fine lobster, green salad, and fine white cabbage. We stayed with my friend Tipper till thirty minutes past four, and then came away, and came home safe and well about three minutes past nine.

Thomas Turner was born in Kent in the year 1729; later, his family moved to Sussex. When he was in his early twenties, he became a village shopkeeper in East Hoathly, selling all the different things that people might need on a day-to-day basis. He was not wealthy and had to rent the shop premises. His first marriage had been stormy, though by 1764, when he had been a widower for three years, his memories were affectionate. It would not be long before he married a second time and also became the proud owner of his shop.

Turner was sociable and well-liked in the community, and he held various part-time posts, including that of undertaker, schoolmaster, and surveyor. He was also a voracious reader of classical and modern literature, and he kept an extraordinary diary. It reflects the vividness of a lively mind that was able to appreciate everyday experiences, including his personal frailties and limitations. Turner was always alive to the little things that made his life quietly rich.

He had risen early on that summer Sunday morning. Avoiding church for once (though he was a devout man), he and his friend Thomas Durrant “set out for Newhaven,” a little town on the south coast. There another friend, Tipper, was awaiting them, and the
three shared breakfast together. It was a cheerful beginning of a good day.

They walked together “down to the sea” where they breathed in the sea air and larked about. Turner had worked very long days for much of his life. It was hard to build up any kind of savings. These moments of freedom were rare—they must have felt like a precious holiday.

The salty air, the hours of walking, gave Thomas Turner a good appetite that Sunday. When the friends came back to Tipper’s home, a real feast was awaiting them. It was Sunday lunch, but with lots of special dishes added. There was the hot sweetness of the pudding, the tartness of the gooseberry pie. The lobster was surely fresh here by the sea. There was a crisp salad, and even the cabbage was fine.

It was not really any one dish that made the occasion so splendid for Thomas Turner on that special Sunday. There was the warm atmosphere, “with my friend Tipper.” He also felt a lively play of contrasts, tastes, and textures—sea and land, green and white, hot and cold. He was a man who was able to enjoy what was in front of him, on its own terms. He loved any number of particulars, the sequence of sensations that came to him on a good day. And he understood that many details, woven together, created lasting experiences: this Sunday lunch was so fine because they had enjoyed walking by the sea, which in turn had been fine because they had had such a nice breakfast with their friend.

The enjoyment of the meals and the walk stretched into the afternoon spent together. He and Durrant must have been very reluctant to set off for home, and so it was past nine by the time they were back in their village. It was quite late, given how early he had to begin work the next day. But the outing had been worthwhile indeed. He had recovered the taste of life itself. He was ready for another week of hard work.

Lady Sarashina, court attendant, composing a memoir of a childhood journey

KYOTO, JAPAN
• CA. 1050s

Around the end of the fourth month, I had to move to a place in the Eastern Hills. Some of the rice paddies that I passed on the way had been irrigated, while in others the seedlings had been planted; the green of the fields made for a charming sight [. . .]

As the place was near Ryozen Temple, a friend and I went there to pray. The walk there was most strenuous, and so we stopped by the stone well near the temple. As we scooped the water up with our hands, my friend said, “I don’t think I could ever get enough of this fresh water.” I asked in reply, “Deep in the mountains, you raise up water from between the rocks
—is it only now that you realise you cannot get enough of it?” [. . .]