A Day For Thanks . . .

At work the other day I found myself trying to explain to several French colleagues where the history of the tradition of Thanksgiving had started, and what it meant to us folks who were born in America. When I got to the part about how Native Americans had helped the Pilgrims through the first cold winters in what would become Massachussetts, one of them quipped something to the effect of, "yes, and look at how you repaid their kindness." Indeed, indeed, the history of the Native Americans is a long and bitterly sad story. I doubt they are thankful for much on Thanksgiving Day. Thankful to be living on reservations ?
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On a lighter note, my good parents near Philadelphia sent me an article this weekend on the subject of Thanksgiving that I'd never heard of before, a delightful piece by Art Buchwald (R.I.P.) about the very subject of Thanksgiving and the French, from the 1950's. Thanks Mom and Dad ! . I sincerely hope I'm not infringing on anyone's copyright here, in any case, it is not for commercial benefit, purely for the edification of a handful of patient and wonderful blog readers. And I'd like to give Thanks to all of you, each and every one, who stop by here from time to time bringing your good cheer and warmth . . .
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Explaining Thanksgiving to the French (by Art Buchwald)
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One of our most important holidays is Thanksgiving Day, known in France as le Jour de Merci Donnant.
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Le Jour de Merci Donnant was first started by a group of Pilgrims (Pélerins) 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.
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They landed at a place called Plymouth (now a famous voiture Américaine) in a wooden sailing ship called the Mayflower (or Fleur de Mai) in 1620. But while the Pélerins were killing the dindes, the Peaux-Rouges were killing the Pélerins, and there were several hard winters ahead for both of them. The only way the Peaux-Rouges helped the Pélerins was when they taught them to grow corn (mais). The reason they did this was because they liked corn with their Pélerins.
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In 1623, after another harsh year, the Pélerins' crops were so good that they decided to have a celebration and give thanks because more mais was raised by the Pélerins than Pélerins were killed by Peaux-Rouges.
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Every year on le Jour de Merci Donnant, parents tell their children an amusing story about the first celebration.
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It concerns a brave capitaine named Miles Standish (known in France as Kilomètres 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:
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"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.
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"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 êtes pain comme un étudiant), 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."
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Although Jean was fit to be tied (convenable à être emballi), 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'étonnement 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?" (Où est-il, le vieux Kilomètres? Pourquoi ne vient-il pas aupres de moi pour tenter sa chance?)
Jean said that Kilomètres Deboutish was very busy and didn't have time for those things. He staggered on, telling what a wonderful husband Kilomètres 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.)
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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 fête and no matter how well fed American families are, they never forget to give thanks to Kilomètres Deboutish, who made this great day possible.
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