As any American history nerd can tell you, the Pilgrim Fathers landed on what is now known as Massachusetts in 1620. There’s no evidence they actually landed at Plymouth Rock or carved the date which appears on it today; that was more likely the handiwork of some enterprising member of a later Chamber of Commerce. What is evident however is that the onset of winter is a particularly bad time when it comes to founding a new colony.
Well-meaning and enterprising they may have been, but as pioneers they were hopelessly ill-equipped. Lacking even a basic knowledge of agriculture and having neglected to bring a single cow, the effects of the harsh winter were soon to take their toll. By spring, over half the original band of 102 souls were dead. Indeed, as popular lore has it, the remainder would not have survived had they not been befriended by some English-speaking natives who taught the pilgrims a few survival tips and earned themselves not only a place in the history books, but a slap-up turkey dinner to celebrate the first harvest.
And not only turkey. Venison, pumpkin and corn were believed to be on the menu for the feast which ran for three days. Although it soon became an American tradition, Thanksgiving was not celebrated as an official holiday until 1864 during the Lincoln presidency and it was Franklin D. Roosevelt who moved it to the now customary date of the fourth Thursday of November. I’m not sure which president arranged for the football games to be on television around the clock, so I’ll need to get back to you on that.
While I don’t think I’d be up to three days’ worth of feasting, Thanksgiving is without a doubt, my favourite holiday. No commercialization, no religious bickering, no decorations to put up (or take down), just lots of food, drink and the company of good friends. And the chance to take a moment and reflect that no matter how tiresome the humdrum aspects of life may be, we’re still one heckuva lot better off than many other people on this pretty blue globe and we’d all do well to remember that.
This year, The Light of my Life™ and I were invited over to the home of our friends, Kris and Mario. The last time we’d been in their house it was in a state which could charitably (but inadequately) be described as “messy”. We’re not the world’s greatest housekeepers but our house is like Martha Stewart’s compared to theirs. So, we were wondering how in the world they would have it clear enough to accommodate the anticipated twenty bodies. As it turns out, Kris and another friend had spent four days with a pickaxe, a shovel and a flame-thrower and between them, had removed the clutter and restored the house to the attractive, light-filled and eclectic home we knew it to be.
Two long tables were placed end to end, although at a slight angle in order to provide more side edges (the better at which to sit people) and chairs had been borrowed from all quarters. There was no room for mingling; you arrived, you sat down, that was it. Nobody was particularly sorry that three people failed to show as even with the reduced numbers, elbow room was at a premium. But fit we did, and it was a happy bunch that sat to give thanks this year.
Everybody had been instructed to bring a dish with them. The Light of my Life™ took along her specialty pumpkin pie. She opens a can of pumpkin like nobody, that woman. I had been commanded to provide the mashed potatoes, something well within my culinary repertoire. I cooked them, mashed them and creamed them to perfection. They were faultless. The only problem was they ran out before the bowl had made it halfway round the table. Note to self: Seventeen people eat a lot of potatoes.
Even the finest meal is no pleasure if the company is poor, but this diverse group of people made the evening an event in itself. The professional chef carved the turkey. The artist and the chiropractor bartered paintings for a session of spinal adjustment. The published author and the aspiring writer exchanged tips. The child and the schoolteacher swapped stories. And the British guy sat back and marvelled at the wonderful concept which is the American Thanksgiving dinner.
When nobody could manage another bite of dessert, the plates were cleared away and the jewellery designer brought out his wares. Long anticipated as the highlight of the gathering, the womenfolk went into paroxysms of joy as each bracelet, necklace and gemstone was held up, tried on and snapped up. Like most of the other men, I was torn between the despair of seeing my hard-earned beer money disappear so quickly and the relief of realising I wouldn’t have to suffer through the hell that is Christmas shopping.
More beer, more wine, more coffee, more pie anyone? Apart from potatoes, there was still enough food to sink a battleship and I suspect Kris and Mario are even now working their way through the leftovers. Sadly, my work hours and long commute have turned me into an early riser, even though my soul rebels against such a thing. One of the many downsides to this is that even when I have no work the following morning, my aging body starts to shut down around my regular bedtime. So, the night was still comparatively young when my eyes started to droop and my head to nod.
We made our goodbyes and gathered up our belongings before heading out into the night. The moon was almost full, and its light sparkled on the snow like a billion brilliant-cut diamonds. Tired or not, it was impossible not to enjoy driving in that wonderland. We pulled into the driveway of our little cabin among the trees and stepped out of the car to admire the canopy of stars under an indigo sky. Before entering the house, I took a moment to consider how truly blessed we are on this Thanksgiving Day.
Mind you, I had cause to reflect on that a few minutes later when I was on my hands and knees cleaning up an ocean of dog vomit and diarrhoea. No idea what Wiley ate this time, but it obviously didn’t sit as well as my Thanksgiving dinner. It doesn’t do to let too much positive thinking get in the way of real life, but hey, even with a sick dog in the house, things are pretty darn good.
Month: November 2022
He is not missing, he is here
In a previous Gunsmoke Diary entry (here), I told of the time I was cycling in Belgium, quite possibly the most boring country on the planet for such an activity. Geometrically flat, damp and insufferably dull I found myself almost delirious with delight when I saw a barn or a road sign and had an object on which to focus while I crawled past. And crawl I did due to the ferocious headwind which was doing its best to push me back the way I’d come.
It didn’t help that I was still feeling the effects of some exceptionally strong beer the previous night so by the time I finally reached the outskirts of Ypres, my goal for the evening, I was grubby, ill-tempered and very, very tired. A solitary meal in an overpriced restaurant a few miles back hadn’t done much to lift my spirits and I was just looking forward to a lie down.
Until I entered the town proper by riding through an imposing archway known as the Menin Gate. We studied the First World War in school, and I was already familiar with many of the names on my map. Ypres, Mons and Passchendaele had all been sites of bloody battles and the dull, flat fields which had bored me interminably as I rode through, had seen some of the worst carnage in human history only a few decades earlier.
North-western Europe is peppered with cemeteries holding the graves of the war dead. Geometric lines of brilliant white gravestones set on neatly trimmed lawns, they are sombre, moving places and it’s hard to leave without being touched by the sacrifice made by those young men. Throughout Belgium, Holland and France local families take responsibility for ensuring that “their” soldier’s grave will be kept clean, tidy and manicured. They have done so for decades and will continue to do so as long as the graves are there.
Yet it’s a tragic fact that many of the fallen, particularly from the first war, have no graves. Thousands of bodies were never recovered, and the official war records list those soldiers simply as “Missing, believed killed.” When peace finally came and all hope for their return was gone, the families of the lost men found their grief especially poignant. These relatives and friends had no grave to visit, nowhere to pay their last respects, nowhere to find closure.
So, it was decided that in Ypres, near where so many were known to have died, a memorial would be erected in honour of those whose bodies were never recovered. Originally there was talk of the British Government purchasing the land around the area and turning the entire town into a memorial to the Allied fallen. This was deemed impractical, however. While years of war had reduced Ypres to little more than rubble, many Belgians still considered it home and they were anxious to return. Instead, a memorial comprising of a mausoleum within a magnificent classical archway was built at the entrance to the town, over the river Menin.
Inside and out, huge panels contain the engraved names of the men of the Commonwealth forces who died in the Ypres Salient area but have no known graves. There are almost 55,000 of them and yet, immense though the Menin Gate is this still didn’t come close to recording the names of all the missing soldiers. The Menin Gate contains only the names of those who died in the area between the outbreak of the war in 1914 and August 1917. Those who died between then and the end of the war, a little over a year later, are listed at another memorial, located in Tyne Cot Cemetery, on the slopes just below Passchendaele. 35,000 more.
And remember, these are just those whose bodies were never recovered.
At 8pm prompt, every single night of the year, the traffic through the gate is brought to a halt. Police guard the entrance and stand at salute while buglers from the local fire department play “The Last Post”. This happens regardless of the weather and visitors from all over the world gather alongside the residents of the town to honour the young and brave who came to die in the defence of their town.
The service has taken place almost continuously since 1927. During the Second World War, when Ypres was occupied, the ceremony was banned. Yet the townspeople kept the bugles safe, and when the Germans finally left Ypres in 1945, the plaintive notes of the Last Post rang out under the Menin Gate that same night.
Evening was falling by the time I arrived in town and I knew I wouldn’t have time to find a hotel, wash, change and return in time. So instead, I sat by the side of the road and looked back the way I’d come. Across that vast expanse of flat nothing and tried to imagine the horrors that had taken place in those fields.
At a few minutes before 8, I smartened myself up as much as possible, and then stood at attention with the others while the haunting tune rang out into damp, cool night. Beside me stood an elderly white-haired gentleman, frail and stooped but at attention, nonetheless. This was in 1988, exactly 70 years since the war’s end. Was he old enough, I wondered. Old enough to have been there? I glanced over to appraise the lines on his face, but when I saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, I looked away, embarrassed. Yes, he’d been there.
In sombre mood, I wheeled my bike away and went in search of a bed. In the days that followed, I clocked up many more hours in the saddle, crossing into France before turning north and heading up the coast to catch the ferry home. The scenery changed as the miles rolled by, with the flat brown fields giving way to rolling hills and flower strewn meadows. The headwind didn’t let up though, fighting me with every turn of the crank no matter in which direction I was riding. Each night I flopped into bed, stiff, sore, thoroughly exhausted, and glad that another day was over.
Yet of course, I knew that my aches were nothing. Nothing compared to the misery suffered by those young men who never left. All 90,000 of them.
“…and now it can be said of each one in whose honour we are assembled here today: He is not missing; he is here!”
Words from the inscription carved on the Menin Gate, Ypres, Belgium.
The Gunsmoke Diaries 