Freezing misty breath as I run past the solid ice of the birdbath, up the hill through the quiet forest, into the frosty meadow, where no birds sing except for the occasional irrepressible chickadee. Cold running, songs singing in my head, rhythmic pumping of the legs, of the heart, of the lungs. Eyes on the ground so that my brain can't comprehend how far the hill still steepens, trickery of the mind by itself. 5.12 km (7.25 minutes per km).
A detour through the second meadow reveals a whole copse of Milkweed, their gossamer seeds taking off with each gust of wind, little breaths of lightness, tiny fairy creatures drifting, floating, flying everywhere. An enchanted glade!
Thanksgiving. Tim and I were making up things we were thankful for last night:
Headlamps on cars.
The fact that we don't just see in black and white, like dogs.
Birds holding meetings on telephone wires.
Nutella.
That someone invented pencils of different softnesses.
Our bed.
Baby elephants.
Etc.
We have a Thanksgiving tradition with two other foreign families, and this year it was Tom's turn to host, so we travelled down the coast to his house where the eleven of us feasted on half a Turducken, which is a turkey stuffed with a duck, which is stuffed with a chicken! And these things also have no bones. Thinking about how they get the bones out is horrible. I was a bit wary, but it was actually delicious. I have never tasted duck, and still haven't. I think when it is my turn again I am going to try tofurkey.
Thanksgiving is the only original American holiday, and I like it because it celebrates what we have, and the tradition is for families to be together and to feast, and there is little commercialism involved, as there is with Christmas and Easter and every other Hallmark moment. I suppose it is sad for all the turkeys though. There is always a down side to everything, isn't there? And of course, when I think of it, that is an enormous commercial business, the raising of turkeys for Thanksgiving. Oy vay! My mind is rattling on and changing as it goes!
So the first Thanksgiving was supposedly held by the survivors of the group which arrived on the Mayflower, those who had been saved by Squanto, a Native American of the Wampanoag tribe, who could speak English as he had been enslaved by a British slave-trader but who had also met and become friends with the British explorer, John Weymouth.
About half the colonists had died their first winter because their wheat seeds would not grow, no one had brought fishing gear, and they had no idea which plants they could use and which might be poisonous.
Squanto taught the fifty or so who were still alive, how to plant corn, to fish and dig clams, to tap maple trees for syrup, and which wild plants could be used medicinally. By that autumn, the pilgrims had successfully harvested their first crops, built seven houses, a common space, and three shelters to store their excess food. They decided to have a feast to give thanks and invited Squanto and the Wampanoag chief, Massasoit. Ninety Native Americans showed up and there was a three-day celebration.
Wouldn't it have been wonderful of the colonists to continue to co-exist in peace with the natives of the country? Instead, as with every colonisation throughout history, the native population was exploited, murdered, moved to inhospitable places, and decimated.
Nevertheless, I do still like the idea of Thanksgiving. One year the girls surprised me by arriving on the doorstep the night before, which was wonderful. I missed them so much today.
No comments:
Post a Comment