This led to a short discussion among the parents as to what words were actually written -most likely sewn- on the sails of the Mayflower when it made its memorable journey. Someone said it was, “In God We Trust.” Someone else, without a hint of guile, said, “I thought that was just on our money,” and I, not wishing to disclose on this particular Friday night, how stupid-little I know about the Mayflower, said absolutely nothing while my blind-folded children pinned pilgrims on everything in the room.
By now, though, my interest was, in every respect, multiplying and engaged. What was on the sails of the Mayflower? Who were the Pilgrims? What tribe of Indians did they invite to lunch or was it the other way around? When was colored construction paper invented? How long have Americans melted marshmallows on sweet potatoes? And what is Thanksgiving anyway?
As the faithful departed, or at the very least, happily-retired souls of every single teacher forced to endure my dreamy inanity all the way back to kindergarten rose up to gnash their teeth, rent their clothing, pull at their hair and cry out in a deafening and wretched communion, I came home and did what I had to do.
I Googled it…
Thanksgiving, as I know it, all the way down to the sweet potatoes, is far more complex than any lunch I ever enjoyed as a child. By the time it was all over, I had a whole new vocabulary, not the least of which included the Wampanoag Indians, the Mayflower Compact, or that the name, “Miles Standish,” was originally spelled, “Myles.”
I read about the English Separatists, the 60-ton Speedwell which couldn’t stop leaking, and how everyone was transferred to the Mayflower to set sail in September of 1620 for what would become a 66-day voyage followed by a hellish, diseased winter spent anchored in Cape Cod Bay. I learned one baby was born during the passage and that by the time they were able to disembark around March 1621, only half of the people including the crew, who had surely set sail with smiles, waves and hopes held high were still alive.
I also discovered that Thanksgiving is a mixed bag that commemorates not only the Pilgrims and their arduous experience, but the harvest season, and a time of religious gratitude and prayer. Somewhere I ran across a bit about President Franklin Delano Roosevelt and the pejorative, “Franksgiving,” but by the time my computer had picked up a few more tracking cookies, I came to this conclusion:
It’s true. I’m not a victim of religious persecution coughing in a wet corset beneath the deck of a ship and there are some who will say that what our ancestors endured on the Mayflower so exceeds my central-heated, Diet-Coke comprehension that to even suggest any comparison is an affront to the celebration. I’d almost agree, except I think, perhaps this Thanksgiving more than some of the recent past, I am hard-pressed to bring to mind a single person in my sphere of existence that hasn’t had his life shaken by some unexpected turn, some frightening, rough water or harsh, early winter.
We are all on a difficult journey, from the moment we’re born, and what’s ahead of us, as Charles Dickens said, “is a fight with the world.” What is also true, as true then as it is now, is that we aren’t destitute and alone. We have so much; family, friends, and collective faith. If we can learn to be kind, forgiving, joyful, loving and generous even when our fortunes are sorely reversed, we just might make it. Really, we just might.
So have a happy Thanksgiving, pass me that bag of marshmallows and try saying, “Wampanoag” as fast you can.
Thanksgiving is a mixed bag that commemorates not only the Pilgrims and their arduous experience, but the harvest season, and a time of religious gratitude and prayer
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