Lisa is scheduled to hop on a plane this afternoon and return to Texas.  But before she goes, there are a few important things we must do. Have lunch and shop. We graciously ask Michael to accompany us.  He graciously accepts.

If we didn’t want to explore the surrounding areas of Massachusetts, we would not need a car.  Everything is minutes away. Restaurants. Shops — all kinds of shops! And if you don’t want to leave the house, restaurants deliver, as do grocery stores. And then of course there is Amazon, willing to deliver to our back door. I do realize why David said, “I’d rather be in Plymouth or Philadelphia,” when someone asked if he missed Texas this summer.  And I thought it was all about History.

Lunch at the New World Tavern

In five minutes we are seated at one more local tavern — apparently there are at least 30 taverns, pubs or wine bars here. Trying to decide which decadent offering we want to try from the listings before us is not going to be easy. Perusing the menu I notice that a little bit of Canada has spilled over the border, they offer Short Ribs Poutine. I’m tempted, because I’d like to see their take on this classic Quebecois dish of French fried potatoes with cheese curds and gravy. Nothing healthy about any one of those ingredients, but it can be great comfort food. I keep looking.

The New World Tavern also offers breakfast, but I decide to forgo that pleasure and follow Lisa’s lead and order a Reuben. Savory with loads of pastrami, tangy with sauerkraut, gooey with melted cheese, and just the right amount of crunch on the griddle-toasted bread. The fried potatoes that go with it are crispy and salty and perfect. There is no resisting temptation with my lunch choice. I’m doomed(:

The Exchange

The last crumb demolished, we push ourselves away from the table and walk the few minutes to the Exchange where I am determined to buy my Scotsman today. He would probably already be in my care, but I didn’t have a credit card or cash or a checkbook the last time I was here.  I didn’t even have a purse.

Walking through the doors of the Exchange, unlike other shopping experiences, I know Michael will find this shop his cup of tea. He heads immediately to nautical memorabilia.  I try to find my Scotsman, ignoring everything else that calls my name.  On my way to the register I walk by two beautiful decorative pillows that I think would look great in Lisa’s house. She agrees, and adds them to the antique needlepoint covered footstool she carries. Together the three of us walk back to her house with our bounty. My Scotsman looks great in Lisa’s living room, just like he belongs there. I may have to fend her off.

Pilgrim Hall

Later, after Uber whisks Lisa away to the airport in Boston, Michael and I leave the house in search of Pilgrim Hall. The place where I guess all Plymouth explorations are destined to begin. I should already know the story of the Pilgrims in all of its detail. But I don’t.

Opened in 1824, from the exterior Pilgrim Hall looks important. Stalwart. Stoic. The same attributes as the individuals whose story lies within, must have possessed.  Walking through the doors of our nation’s oldest continuously operating public museum, we pay the entrance fee and are directed to a room downstairs to see a short film detailing  who what when where and of course, why.

The Pilgrims

I sit and watch and listen. Some things I never thought about, or questioned or else I took for granted, are all pretty much incorrect.  Pilgrims a.k.a. a radical Puritan faction known as the English Separatist Church first went to the Netherlands, then fearing they and their children would lose their English identity,  decided to settle in America. Their original destination was the colony of Jamestown, but they were blown off course and landed in what is now Massachusetts.

When the Mayflower left England, there were 102 passengers on board, 37 of which were prilgrims—17 of those were children. The remaining passengers were tradesmen or soldiers. The crew including the captain numbered approximately 30. It took the Mayflower 66 days to travel 3,340 miles!

The Pilgrims and The Wampanoags

One half of the passengers on board the Mayflower died during the first harsh winter in Plymouth, but they were here, and I guess there was no going back. I do wonder if they had arguments about that. Then there were the Indians they met who called this area home for 10,000 years before the Pilgrims arrived. I’m surprised they even let them land, but the Separatists apparently had an Indian guide who interpreted, and the Wampanoags  were having problems with neighboring tribes and it may have been a case of we all hang together or perhaps hang separately and they appear to have gotten along.

The end of this story, however, is a tragic one for both sides. The numbers of colonists increased, taking over ever more acreage of the Native American lands, till finally the son of the Wampanoag leader who first met the Pilgrims led his tribe in a war against these Englishmen that ended in high death tolls for both sides and the shackles of slavery for the remaining/losing Native Americans.

I have Questions

Apparently there is even controversy—perhaps because of the small detail that grade school and high school history books only taught us to learn dates and facts without going into great detail—of exactly when the first Thanksgiving was celebrated.  I have a lot to Google when I get the chance.

The only thing I am totally sure about is that I could not have done it. Any of it. Leave my home. Cross the ocean. Survive the winter. Michael on the other hand would have probably been in his element. For him, I would have tried to persevere.

Then going through the museum, I read something that really hurts my soul. The Pilgrims  were intolerant of other religions, even to the point of exiling Quakers. Nobody learned anything, least of all how to live and let live. Maybe that was impossible back then. Michael tells me not to judge people by their historical actions—we don’t live the lives they led.

Plymouth Rock

Leaving Pilgrim Hall, we point our toes toward our temporary home. Always entering through the back door, I tell Michael I want to see the front of the house.  We view it from the side, then cross the street, then walk down the street to the harbor and wind up in front of Plymouth Rock, listening to the National Park Ranger till he tells us it is time for him to go home.

We do the same.