We are all familiar with the story of the first Thanksgiving. Everyone knows that in 1621, after months of treacherous sea travel from religiously-repressive England the pilgrims landed on Plymouth rock in America, the continent Columbus discovered when he stopped to ask for directions to India. Though the new world is replete with resources, plenty of game, fruit, vegetables and parking spaces, the pilgrims are ill prepared for that first winter in a brave new world. But by coming together with their savage neighbors the Indians (feathers not dots), those early settlers not only survived, they also thrived. They learned from their new native friends which crops to plant, which game to hunt, which leaves to wipe with. And in November of 1621, the two disparate groups met at a table of brotherhood for Thanksgiving. From that first shared meal our modern concept of Thanksgiving dinner stems. Back then, they had turkey, sweet potatoes, giblet gravy, cranberry sauce and rolls, all foods we still think of today when we think of holiday meals. Though they had little in common and were openly suspicious of each other, the natives and the pilgrims put aside their apprehensions and tolerated each other just long enough to have that one meal together, just like modern families do.
But many traditions we associate with that first Thanksgiving actually came later. This was not common knowledge until a recently uncovered diary shed light on the subject. John G. Smith was a Plymouth Colonist. His journal tells of the the colony's first harsh years in America. Sadly the journal ends after ten years when John G. Smith died of a deadly combination of colon cancer, herpes and scurvy, called scurpea (scur-pee-YUH). But he lived long enough to write about the second Thanksgiving. Here now, for the first time in print since I magically found it in the woods while wearing golden glasses, excerpts from the diary of colonist John G. Smith: pilgrim, patriot, pony podiatrist (horse hoof hygiene was of utmost concern to the colonists.)
Wednesday, November 21, 1622
Dear diary,
Hard to believe it's been a year since the first Thanksgiving. It seems like only yesterday that I first stepped foot on this new continent, bright-eyed and full of wonderment. I remember my fear as I spied watching eyes in the shadows, the noble savages who would soon become our allies. But when I met their chief, Quiquo Nahut, which means Prances-with-goats, all fear subsided. Somehow just standing in his strong, dark, tall presence assured me that everything was going to be okay, we were going to make it in this new world after all. (Note to self: finish painting portrait of Quiquo to give him tomorrow.)
The harvest is in, finally. It took all of the colonists working weeks to bring in this year's crops. It sure would be easier if we had some slaves to do it for us. (Note to self: ask governor about enslaving some of the Indians- maybe from one of the unfriendly tribes that give Quiquo those tension headaches. I know, domestic slaves are so tacky, but they're cheaper than those expensive African imports.)
I'm so excited about Thanksgiving. Last year's was nice, but it could have been better. So when I found out that there was to be a Thanksgiving panel this year, I nearly pee'd myself. I love planning parties and I was so bored. As you know, diary, my wife died in childbirth while aboard the Mayflower. I lose more wives that way. And as far as my business, well let's just say it turns out pony podiatry may not be as 'in demand' as the technical school brochure claims. Occasionally the blacksmith, John W. Smith (no relation) will send me some work- a mare with a nail in her foot or a colt too small for regular horse shoes, but aside from that I have no customers and nothing to do. I called in a lot of favors to get picked as head of the Thanksgiving planning committee. My fellow colonists didn't trust the job to any Tom, Dick or Harry. (note to self: send consolation letters to Thomas Butcher, Richard Baker and Harold Candlemaucherstein.)
So this year's fest will be fabulous! I found these great cornucopias that I'm going to use as centerpieces. I'll fill them with rafia and fruit so that they're decorative and functional. Unfortunately there will be no corn husk dolls for the children . Quiquo said all the women in his tribe are on the same moon cycle and it's that time of the month... that is, their Aunt Mississippi is visiting, so they're all in the blood hut until the crimson tide subsides. So all the corn husks are otherwise in use, and only Quiquo and his men will be joining us this year. I've prepared everything tonight that I could. Tomorrow morning I'll finish the name cards and the place mats with turkeys I made by tracing my hand on construction paper. I'm so excited, I don't know if I can sleep! (Note to self: don't forget Quiquo's painting!)
Thursday, November 22, 1622
Quiquo and his tribe will be here at about one of-the-clock. They sent a smoke signal early this morning saying they wanted to finish watching their traditional sporting contest, with the red skins against the jaguars. I understand the Indians place wagers on which will be victorious. Last year the jaguars lost, although they did eat one of the redskins. Afterward the kids used his decapitated head as a ball. They invented some sort of game where opposing teams, our kids versus the little wigwam-rats, tried to carry the head past a line of scrimmage into the opponents' defended area. I think they called it headball. (Note to self: natives enjoy wagering- is there a way to capitalize on that?)
Morning chores are done- the livestock have been fed, the chicken eggs have been gathered, the goats, cows and cats have been milked. The good wives of Plymouth are at their hearths, preparing their ovens for mincemeat and pumpkin pies. Goody Smith has started cooking, if that what you can her aborted attempts at cuisine. Last year, her 'turkey surprise' gave half the colony a butt rash (it turns out the surprise was poison sumac).
The long table has been set in the middle of town. Slowly our Indian neighbors stream into the village, walking up out of the woods like silent red ghosts. It's creepy how quiet they are. Sometimes, when by the stream taking care of my business, I sense eyes watching me from the brush and wonder if one of our Indian friends is being a voyeur. Then again, it could just be a bear. A naughty, naughty bear.
This year's harvest was meager- thanks El Niño. I feared my fellow villagers would be reluctant to share our bounty with the natives this year. But one red skin, called Ino Notwat, which means Hunts-the-cougar, reassured me. He told me how last year Goody Taylor gave him her peas. I don't remember the Taylors having a pea patch, though, but maybe Goody Taylor got her peas from someone else. Maybe her backdoor neighbor gave Goody Taylor her peas, which she then gave to the tall, muscular Indian chap.
Another peculiar tradition the savages have introduced to us-- each harvest, they take the fattest women in the tribe and paint them up like larger than life characters, then place them on wooden rafts in the river. For each float four to eight tribesmen, depending on how fat the women are, walk along the river banks, holding hemp tethers attached to the fat floating spectacles. As the extremely fat painted women float down the river, they throw treats to the spectators on the river banks. I doubt that this tradition of watching spectacular floats parade down the thoroughfare on Thanksgiving Day will catch on with the white population... unless it gets monetary backing. (Note to self: talk to merchant Mr. Macy about sponsoring his obese daughter as a float in next year's parade.)
Dinner went off without a hitch, for the most part. Chinchinatu, whose name means 'Thinks-he-can-drink-alot-but-
The place cards were a great idea! Quiquo was beside me at the far end of the table, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. He absolutely loved his painting- his words, “loved it”. After dinner Quiquo offered me some “special tobacco”. I normally don't smoke but on account of it being Thanksgiving I indulged. While the others let their meals settle he and I made off to the tribe's smoke lodge. After a few puffs from the pipe I was feeling strangely fine. Quiquo started giggling, then suggested we strip to our skivvies and wrestle, which we did. Lying their on the floor of that tent, high, sweaty, breathless, our eyes met as we...
(The next page was removed from the diary)
...ever do again. It was humiliating and painful. (Note to self: ask apothecary for cream to put on sore ass.)
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