Thanksgiving I

A long time ago in a galaxy not too far away, a vessel baring brave souls alighted upon territory thought unsettled.

The settlers wore funny hats and clothes not durable enough for their new world’s lousy climate. It rained daily on the island from whence they came. Because they lacked GPS and the Weather Channel, they encountered snow upon alighting these shores. Their descendants would search in vain for centuries before finding somewhere the rain and snow did not touch. Unfotunately, that land would move underneath their feet, but life is a series of trade offs.

Upon arriving in the new land, the settlers quickly gave thanks to God. Choice of how to worship the Almighty was a large part of why they left the rainy island. They poked around the new area, and decided that while cold and snowy, it beat facing decapitation for going to church.

“Hey!” shouted a little boy. “An animal walking on two feet!”

The adult male settlers readied their muskets, hoping to score their first protein fix in the new land. The animal stopped, jumped up and down and waved. Three muskets fired, but none hit their mark. Had the settlers been better shots, perhaps they could have used force to acquire religious equality. As it stood, the animals shrugged, screamed “Fugheddabout it!” and ran off.

The settlers stayed on their ship, initially venturing forth to carve out their own community. Things were not the best. Their diet consisted mainly of sea fowl and mussels, things they could find by the boat. They were unable to keep fires going. Many died from starvation. They thought, “We got cold and no food and this big ass boat and God ahs forsaken us! Why?”

Not a week’s travel south, on a cotton field in Florida, there were a group of dark skinned slaves groaning, “What we wouldn’t give for a break from this heat and a boat and some open water leading outta here! This day camp SUCKS!”

One man’s dying and rising is another’s bread and wine.

At that time, Little Half Pint was annoying his mother and sisters. Too young to hunt, too old to get into anything but mischief, he went exploring to kill some time. As he was bumbling through the woods, he ran into Myron Chesterfield, same age, same headaches. As little boys do, they made up a unique new game, Cowboys and Indians, for hours. Neither knew cowboy nor Indian the first, but it beat starving the last few months or getting yelled at around the wigwam.

When they were done playing, Myron noticed the position of the sun and said, “Dude, I better get going. Almost supper time. Not looking forward to that one.”

Little Half Pint, not wanting the game to end, said, “Hey, Dude, no rush. Why don’t you come back to our place for dinner? My ma always cooks more than enough. “

They walked the block or so back to the Wampanoag community. Myron was astounded. “Dude, all this is here?”

“Yeah, where else would it be?”

“Wow. I mean, you all have homes, schools, discount stores…”

“Where else would we get our clothes?”

“Back at home we were taught that natives were savages and ran around naked.”

“My baby brother Chubby Rabbit says he wishes we could run around naked. Too cold for that. My other brother, Too Hungry, gets pretty savage around dinner time, but that’s it.”

Myron was welcomed into his friend’s home and ate like no tomorrow. He said, “Please” and “Thank you”, had seconds, and then thirds, and was invited to return. Out of shame from being on the wrong side of the tracks, he nodded when he said he’d bring his parents around for tea, but had no intention of doing so.

Back at the Pilgrim camp, it was same nonsense different day. The settlers were sitting on a couple tons of gunpowder and ammunition, but no food. Big John Cavendall had a bright idea, making a fireplace out of gunpowder. He wasted two whole barrels and his remains were strewn around the camp. The pilgrims decided to leave them in hopes they would attract animals they could eat, but no go. Little Suzy Meadowmaker was explaining to some of the older boys her idea for earning a bit of extra rations for her family, but the lads were too tired from near starvation to take her seriously. The men were walking around with their chests puffed out but frustrated, as their women had cut them off from any feminine charms until they collectively got their act as providers together. Only Suzy was available, and half of them were related to her by blood or marriage. Plus she had a twin brother, and no one wanted to get full of grog and wake up the next morning having forgotten which was which.

Myron ate with Little Half Pint’s family for weeks on end. He became a regular in the Native village. Finally, one day, the little Pilgrim boy had to admit why he never let his friend come home with him.

“Everyone in my village is gay.”

“That’s OK,” Little Half pint sighed. “The spirits make all kinds. Shoot, my Uncle Happy Tush is like that. Hey, they’re a solid voting block.”

“OK, for real,” Myron sighed, “Everybody in my village looks like me but they are poor and starving and struggling…”

Little Half Pint’s eyes bulged. “You mean the white trash with the big boat in the front yard done yonder?”

Myron was almost in tears. “Yes.”

“Dude, why didn’t you tell me? Gee, my Cousin Stalking Bear showed up over there the day ya’ll moved in. Tall dude, fur coat. Kangol? ? He said ya’ll threw rocks at him. We laughed and thought he was lying. He hasn’tbeen the same since he lost his hunting scholarship to bow engineering school.”

“Oh. They thought he was an animal.”

“Cuz of the fur? Those were his hunting warm ups. How ya’ll stay warm?”

“I don’t know ‘bout them. I come here.”

When they parted for the evening, Little Half Pint spoke with his mom. While she wasn’t really interested in getting too involved with “those people”, she did like the little boy, Myron. It seemed a shame to let them starve.

“The Harvest Party is next week,” she said. “I’ll speak with your father. Perhaps we can invite the pale savages to dine with us. Show them the finer things.”

Little Half Pint did not like the slur, but he held his tongue while Killa Full Pint Swiftly, his esteemed father, pondered and then approved the decision. When he shared the news with his friend, Little Half Pint was surprised.

“Let me get this straight: your folks want us to come there?”

“They insist.”

“OK, we’ll bring the food.”

The appointed day came. The natives arrived in their finest, and the Pilgrims had cleaned up their homes and attire. They moved the mayflower to the backyard and made it up like a jungle gym. The Native men, a bit put out they would miss the Eagle Catching playoffs, eventually warmed up when the Pilgrims showed them the only good they’d been able to produce that year: ethyl alcohol. Soon, the men were all having a riotous time, telling jokes about clergy and the ugly women they knew. The females of both groups compared household tips and recipes, although the pilgrim recipes were a bit strange, as they consisted of bark, grass and leaves in many cases. They also compared evil stories about the men.

The Pilgrim women listened, but argued that heated five room wigwams with two horse stables had to be worth the headaches. “I mean,” one said, smoking her pipe, “we deal with the same male silliness and have half the stuff you do…” A quiet rift started then.

When it was time for the meal, the men led the grace. Myron’s father intoned, “Dear Lord, thank you for our new friends. May we always live in peace and harmony, and never turn our brothers into drunks, or drive them onto reservations, or almost make them extinct from your planet. If it is your will Lord, let us always be grateful for their assistance on this day, and not turn it into a mockery and example of how people with arms can prevail against people with good intentions. Amen.”

The native men looked a bit puzzled, but attributed it to the grog.

“Say,” Clawing Tiger asked a Pilgrim as he passed the turkey. “What’s all the gunpowder for?”

“Oh, we’ll figure something out,” came the reply.

Dinner went well and the promise was made to get together at future dates. Myron and Little Half Pint were a bit put out. Here it was THEIR idea, and it was no longer their secret.

“Maaaan,” Myron groaned.

“I know,” Little Half Pint agreed, “Could be worse.”

“Oh, trust me, these are grownups,” Myron said. “They’ll wreck a good thing soon.”

As they were leaving, hugging and saying goodbye, Little half Pint’s mother said, “Nice people. But shake out your clothes. They look like they got roaches.”