We'll Always Have Plymouth

Hello Mr. & Mrs. America, and All The Ships At Sea: Well, what's not to love about Thanksgiving, I ask you that. This is truly an occasion that everyone can rally around, and not only features good food and family, but has any number of other fine qualities, so sorely lacking in many other holidays throughout the year. It subscribes to no particular religious doctrine, so nobody can take offense at it on any ecclesiastical grounds. It is also not any sort of nationalistic day that celebrates independence or a crushing victory over a former foe, who is now probably a revered ally. (Awkward!) Even better, it does not require elaborate yard decorations, sparkling lights, or widespread indoor embellishments, and is also not burdened with tedious gift-giving demands like shopping, wrapping, or mailing, and even greeting cards are pretty much off the table this time around, which is very rarely the case. If there were more low-maintenance holidays like Thanksgiving, the world would probably be a happier place, although the retailers wouldn't think much of it, I dare say. Taking the holiday off around here, we turn to greater minds and better scribblers to fill the space, and conjure up this Gallic-infused morsel that is sure to please. Any amount of high school French will come in handy here, except perhaps the nonsense song I remember about "My Blackbird Has Lost a Feather," which was a counting game like "The 12 Days of Christmas," where you counted down the lost feathers in reverse order ("A perdu quatre plumes, trois plumes, deux plumes, une plume") and very quickly, deteriorated into utter confusion and helpless giddy laughter by over-matched students, and I ought to know. Moving along, although the writer needs no introduction, here is a foreword by the publisher: ================================== Humor columnist Art Buchwald wrote a lot of great columns, and one that is still remembered widely is his Thanksgiving column, entitled “Le Grande Thanksgiving.” In this column, which Buchwald wrote while living in France, the humorist explained Thanksgiving to the French. He told them it was the only time of year Americans eat better than they do. Buchwald’s Thanksgiving column became a classic, and newspapers have run it ever since. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Le Grande Thanksgiving By Art Buchwald Thursday, November 24, 2005 This confidential column was leaked to me by a high government official in the Plymouth colony on the condition that I not reveal his name. One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as "le Jour de Merci Donnant." Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims ("Pelerins") who fled from l'Angleterre before the McCarran Act to found a colony in the New World ("le Nouveau Monde") where they could shoot Indians ("les Peaux-Rouges' ) and eat turkey ("dinde") to their hearts' content. They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous "voiture Americaine") in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or "Fleur de Mai") in 1620. But while the Pelerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pelerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pelerins was when they taught them to grow corn ("mais"). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pelerins. In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pelerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pelerins than Pelerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges. Every year on the Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration. It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as "Kilometres Deboutish") and a young, shy lieutenant named Jean Alden. Both of them were in love with a flower of Plymouth called Priscilla Mullens (no translation). The vieux capitaine said to the jeune lieutenant: "Go to the damsel Priscilla ("allez tres vite chez Priscilla"), the loveliest maiden of Plymouth ("la plus jolie demoiselle de Plymouth"). Say that a blunt old captain, a man not of words but of action ("un vieux Fanfan la Tulipe"), offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier. Not in these words, you know, but this, in short, is my meaning. "I am a maker of war ("je suis un fabricant de la guerre") and not a maker of phrases. You, bred as a scholar ("vous, qui tes pain comme un tudiant"), can say it in elegant language, such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers, such as you think best adapted to win the heart of the maiden." Although Jean was fit to be tied ("convenable tre emballe"), friendship prevailed over love and he went to his duty. But instead of using elegant language, he blurted out his mission. Priscilla was muted with amazement and sorrow ("rendue muette par l'tonnement et las tristesse"). At length she exclaimed, interrupting the ominous silence: "If the great captain of Plymouth is so very eager to wed me, why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?" ("Ou est-il, le vieux Kilometres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas aupres de moi pour tenter sa chance?") Jean said that Kilometres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilometres would make. Finally Priscilla arched her eyebrows and said in a tremulous voice, "Why don't you speak for yourself, Jean?" ("Chacun a son gout.") And so, on the fourth Thursday in November, American families sit down at a large table brimming with tasty dishes and, for the only time during the year, eat better than the French do. No one can deny that le Jour de Merci Donnant is a grande fete and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilometres Deboutish, who made this great day possible. 2005Tribune Media Services