Last year the Thanksgiving meal was preceded by Vince explaining what it was all about. This year I joined him for the task, reading out some differing accounts we found of two brothers who undertook that first crossing on the Mayflower...
Dear Mother,
The adventure on which we are about to embark is wonderful. After years of oppression and mistreatment, we put our lives in God's hands to find a land to call our own. The monarchy has become unbearable, and our religion and faith will lead us as the Lord intends.
I visited our ship today, the one that will lead us to religious freedom and prosperity, and it is magnificent. The Mayflower is remarkable. While merely a cargo ship, you can feel the Lord's grace emanating from within, and it will surely be the vessel that leads us to providence.
God Bless You,
You loving son, Lord William of Budweiser
---
Dear Mum,
I hate travel. But apparently we have to leave because of the king, blah blah. So we’ve bought an old ship called the Bluebell or something, and now we have to travel to Southampton to get on board, and my luggage allowance is only two tabards and a codpiece.
They tell me that there’s a New World out there, but what’s wrong with the old one? Are they going to have the same familiar comforts we enjoy here – fish and chips, afternoon tea, and Tuberculosis? And it’s going to take us two months to get there! There’s only so much shuffleboard you can enjoy.
Hopefully it won’t rain as much there.
Your loving Son
---
Dearest Mother,
The trip has been long and difficult, but surely it is merely God testing our resolve and mettle. We shall not be overcome by the insignificant trials of hunger and sickness. Surely the iron fist of the evil throne is horribly worse. Though the sharing of accommodations has been difficult, the freedom that will ring at the conclusion of our journey will be comfort enough.
On aside, we've been having some discussions on how we shall govern our new home. One of our first discussions was the impact of language in our society. We've decide to rid ourselves of all extraneous 'U's, as the obviously serve no purpose. Also, just to demonstrate our contempt, we shall favor the right side rather than the left. That will show them!!
Your dearest son, Lord Will
---
Dear Mum,
I hate the sea. The weather has been terrible – when it hasn’t been raining there’s been no wind. I’m sure we’ll run into pirates before long, if a sea monster doesn’t finish us off first. And the tea has been so bad that I’ve been tempted to throw it overboard!
Don’t get me started on the accommodation. It’s three to a hammock on a good night, and there’s a rumour that at least one has bedbugs. The food? There’s only so much weevil-filled-bread that you can stomach. If we eventually find land I hope to see no weevil, hear no weevil, and speak no weevil.
Anyway, must go because it’s my turn to be sick again.
Your loving Son
---
Dear Mom,
What's up? We've found it!!! Home, at last!! We might have missed Jamestown, where we intended to land, but that was obviously God's will.
The land here is raw and rough. Upon hitting land, we were all issued a firearm to hunt for food, defend ourselves from the wild, and to generally just look cool. We've taken to shooting at rocks for entertainment. It's great fun.
You can't believe the freedoms we've begun to enjoy. Just the other day, I saw Mr. Standish walking around with his top button on done. Amazing that something so scandalous on the old island is so welcome here. And would you believe that the women were allowed to eat first? I guess not everything over here is perfect.
Later,
Your Boy, Bill
---
Dear Mum,
I hate the winter. The rain was pretty bad, but then the snow came along. Apparently the trip organiser forgot that we needed to grow stuff to eat and so left all the farmers behind. But that doesn’t matter, as the sun has been out so little that nothing would grow anyway.
But hey, now we have freedom of speech! Mainly because there’s no one around here to talk to. We have bumped into some locals, but there must be something wrong with them because they don’t speak English! Mind you, I expect in a few years we won’t be speaking English any more. Or, at least, it will be some strange version where we’ve mixed up words and say them in a funny accent.
Y’all take care now,
Your loving Son
---
Hey Ma, how's it hangin'?
We ran into some Indians the other day. It was fantastic. They brought great food, and we've already made an agreement that they'll be working for us for free. We gave them a bracelet, or something.
Dinner the other night was lights out. Turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce in an odd cylindrical shape. It was fantastic. Nothing like this ever existed back on the island. Before hand, we allowed the kids to play the old soccer game from back home with the Indians. Unfortunately, the cold weather forced the ball into a misshapen mess. We managed though...with a few adjustments.
Well, I'm so stuffed at the moment, I can barely roll over. But the eggnog looks delicious. That's a long story on how that came about, but Uncle Billy is already passed out as a result of the stuff. I better get to bed, as we're waking up early tomorrow - I hear tomorrow is a very special day of hunting. There's a Wal-Mart opening up down the street that we're very excited about.
Billy-Bob
---
Dear Mum,
I hate turkey. I suppose I shouldn’t complain – the locals have finally brought us some food. They brought us some beer too, but it tasted just like water. It’s a relief that they’re friendly, there had been talk of introducing a crazy law that allowed us all to carry guns to protect ourselves. Who knows what’ll happen if that ever gets passed.
Some people wanted to challenge the natives to a game of football, but with the language barrier it was hard to explain the rules. They kept picking the ball up, throwing it…it was chaos. I can’t imagine what they might do to cricket.
All the usual diseases made their seasonal appearance. After the dysentery it was almost a relief to get Syphilis. Either way, all this is very bad for the constitution.
There’s already talk of turning this into some kind of yearly tradition, but we’re such an upstanding moral bunch that eating and drinking until you can’t move will never catch on.
Until next year,
Your loving Son
