First Thanksgiving; The Real Story

by Jack Dallas

Many Americans vaguely know the story of the Pilgrims, the Mayflower, Plymouth Rock, and the first Thanksgiving. Until recently, however, the true story of Thanksgiving had been hidden in a trunk once owned by a large sailmaker named McDonald. His journal tells a different story that involves the good ship Cornflower that crashed ashore further up the beach from Plymouth Rock at a place called, The Hard Rock.

The Cornflower was lost and the crew and a group of Puritans seeking religious freedom in the new land established a village near the shipwreck. Among the passengers was their preacher and his wife, Joshua and Sarah Denz. Joshua and Sarah were childless and when an abandoned Indian boy named Airjor wandered into their camp they took him in and raised him as their own son. It seems that Airjor was an outcast because he was born with only three toes on each foot.

As proper footwear for his narrow feet was unavailable, the sailmaker McDonald fashioned special shoes out of sailcloth that permitted Airjor to run and play. It turned out that Airjor could now outrun even the fastest boys and even many animals, which made him a respected hunter.

One day while out for a run and on the lookout for food, a turkey ran by and quickly passed Airjor like he was standing still. Not to be shown up by a clumsy-looking bird, Airjor pursued to catch up with the turkey. He gained on the bird just enough to see that the turkey had three legs. As he was a young boy born with three toes his curiosity was aroused even more.

Just as he was gaining on his prey, another three-legged turkey passed him by, then another. All the birds went down the path and made a turn into a part of the forest Airjor had never visited. He decided to continue his pursuit of these fast birds. About a mile down this new path Airjor came upon an Indian brave. He stopped to ask, “Did you see a group of three-legged turkeys run by here?” The Indian replied, “Yes, those are my turkeys, I raise three-legged turkeys.” When Airjor questioned why he would raise three-legged turkeys, the Indian replied, “Do you like drumsticks?” Airjor said, “Yes, of course.” “And does your father like drumsticks?” “Why, yes he does,” replied Airjor. “And maybe your mother would like a drumstick, what about her?” Airjor said, “I never thought about it that way.” “By the way, how do they taste?” The Indian replied, “I don’t know, I’ve never caught one.”

Airjor returned home without his prize turkey and stopped by the sailmaker’s house. McDonald’s wife was an excellent baker and had developed a new bread made with sesame seeds that was great for sandwiches. As McDonald was a rather large man his sandwiches were called, big macs and became part of the town’s tradition of celebrating the November harvest with a Big Mac. As sanitation was also a problem in the 1600’s, flies were prevalent, so you often ate your Big Mac with…

As a footnote to history here, you should know that Airjor went on to become famous and he made his parents, Joshua and Sarah Denz wealthy by marketing signed versions of his sailcloth shoes he called Airjor Denz, adopting his new family name.

Now you know Thanksgiving's true story and can tell all your friends. You know this story is true because you saw it on the Internet. Remember, after a good meal you can forgive anybody, even relations. In the words of my grandmother, I cook with wine and sometimes I even add it to the food. You can also try my new cocktail, Cranberry juice, potato vodka, and a bouillon cube. It tastes just like a turkey dinner. Remember to be thankful, especially if you didn't have to cook.

REFLECTIONS

Winston Churchill is credited with saying, "Americans and British are one people separated by a common language." His was a deviation of the original line from an 1887 Oscar Wilde short story, “The Canterville Ghost,” where the narrator states, “Indeed, in many respects, she was quite English, and was an excellent example of the fact that we have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, language.” In either case, we could drop the Anglican reference and still have an accurate description of these “United” States. America is a nation divided by a common language.

Americans are united by geography as we are bordered by the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Our official national language is English. Beyond that, we are a nation of 335 million individuals with 335 million opinions on virtually everything. To function as a nation, we adopted a representative democracy as our form of government. We recently exercised our democratic freedom and held an election for president.

I voted. My candidate didn’t win. I accept that it was a fair election. While I might not like the outcome, I will accept the result and move on. I am no less proud to be an American, to have served my country in uniform, and to still get a feeling of national pride when I hear our National Anthem. My American flag hangs proudly in front of my home, no matter who our president is.

If I can be grateful for just one thing in this election it is that it was decisive and not close. We avoided the chaos that might have ensued had it been a narrow victory in either direction.

I spent the first eighteen days of October on a transatlantic cruise vacation devoid of politics. I returned to the cacophony of political news that I tried to avoid. Fearing what was to come, I immersed myself in an all-consuming outdoor project. Without going into detail just know that it involved six 55-lb bags of cement and a body now in its eighth decade of life. Body aches, sleep deprivation, mental gymnastics, and physical activity were preferred over the pain of what passes for American politics.

While I did not watch television news, the election outcome was written in the clouds and in the air. I will not participate in the postmortem. Forensic analysis of an election gone horribly wrong is an exercise in futility. I will take my exercise in a manner that might be painful but where the outcome will be a successful project. I don’t know when I will return to watching the news.

Yesterday, with 90% of my outdoor project complete, I celebrated the event with my two Nicaraguan workers who did the heavy lifting, and Sue who had helped immensely and took pictures of the process. The workmen enjoyed Toña lagers (their national beer) while I had my traditional Guinness. Two nights earlier we closed our day with shots of Flor De Caña, a pleasant Nicaraguan rum. If DT is to be my future, I would rather it be Delirium Tremens than the other thing with the same moniker.

Last evening, thoroughly exhausted, I sat in front of my television and watched Bridgerton, a mindless historical romance set in the 1800s. My Fitbit watch tells me that I went to bed at 6:48, and got 10 hours and 51 minutes of sleep. My sleep score was 81 (considered Good). I can now complete my project at my own pace.

Reflecting briefly on recent political events, I remembered a favorite poem. I will leave you with the final verses:

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate,
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate;
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,
But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.