I know, I know, it was Plymouth, Mass., not anywhere near Williamstown, Mass. And it certainly wasn’t Bennington, Vermont.
But it’s Thanksgiving in Princeton and there aren’t any Pilgrims, and everyone’s eating turkey when Priscilla and John and Miles and all, and of course Squanto, were tucking into lobster and deer and yes probably cranberries with maple syrup, which those clever, generous Indians brought to the feast.
It’s also beastly cold, raining and snowing at once, and nobody’s plowed anything anywhere near my new apartment, and what is going to happen to all that wet, as the mercury plunges tonight?
1781 — as a person of Michigan, founded in 1837 — I can barely believe house dates like this. You see why I feel, these are the birthplaces of our nation.
I need non-ice upon which to drive to the Brig at dawn with Jeanette Hooban, because we need many birds, not just one, tomorrow.
And I need sun.
In Bennington a month ago, we were drenched in sun and color. Come, stroll its streets with me. There were hardy pioneers there, too. And, of course, many tribes of powerful Indians. And patriots who fought in the Battle of Bennington. There were probably bears and certainly deer, and now there are moose — somehow I never think of moose in the time of the pilgrims.
We were in the heartland of our country, in my experience. We stepped into different time machines in each New England town. My heart is still there, strolling the tree-root-uplifted sidewalks of Bennington, under glowing ancient trees, examining homes of other centuries, some of which had marble walkways to their welcoming front doors.