Mom, Mr. Mason, and Thanksgiving
In mid November of 1963, Mom asked us to come and listen as she read the story of the first Thanksgiving. Two younger cousins stayed the night to watch The Mickey Mouse Club. I had been a member for five years and had a crush on Annette Funicello.
Mom read stories to my brother and me before we could even walk, or so it seemed. I started to read and write in first grade and cherished my first grade reader titled, The Adventures of Dick and Jane. My favorite line in the book was about Spot, the dog. I could read and recite "See Spot run!" with great emotion.
However, the first word I ever printed were the letters C-A-T. They were in caps and more importantly, each letter stood straight and tall between the lines. I ran home from school that day in total excitement, the paper clutched tightly in my left hand. I yelled for mom before I even made it through the front door entry. "Mom, I not only know how to read [limited of course,] I can also write words! Can you read this?" She looked at the crumpled paper and replied, "Let me see. C-A-T. It is the word 'cat.' All the letters are capitalized. Very nicely done. My oh my! Was this done by a professional printer of words?"
"No, Mom, I wrote it, just like Mrs. Mercer told us to." This day took place in the fall of 1959.
After we watched the The Mickey Mouse Club on the morning of the sleepover in '63, we were hungry. Mom had served us a bowl of "Fred Flintstone" cereal an hour before. Gary, my younger cousin, suddenly yelled "Yabba-Dabba-Do," and we barreled to the kitchen. Mom sat at the dining room table quietly waiting with small glasses of "Ovaltine" and oatmeal cookies. We hurried up and grabbed our seats. She smiled, made sure we were comfortable, and began reading. My little brother quickly annoyed me as he struggled back into his chair after dropping his cookie. Of course, he had to sit right next to me. He was six years old and I was ten. My cousins were nine and seven.
My reading skills started with Dr. Seuss books. Favorites included The Cat in the Hat and how the Grinch Stole Christmas. Dad brought home Green Eggs and Ham and read the first few pages before falling asleep. Mom finished reading the story commenting dad had worked a long and hard day.
When I chose my first book to read, I wanted Old Yeller, by Fred Gipson. Mom read parts of it to me, but I continued to improve as she patiently listened each time I read aloud. The movie came out in 1957, but mom and dad thought it best for me to wait a couple of years before seeing it. They felt I would understand the movie better at age six. Old Yeller quickly became the greatest dog in the world to me.
By 1963, I thought I could read any book. My newest addition was Webster's Little & Ives, an expanded dictionary which my aunt gave me for Christmas. The book was over six inches thick and had 2,561 pages. It weighed eleven pounds. I knew the weight because my brother and I put it on mom's bathroom scale. When I first opened the book, I saw the word "thesaurus." I turned the next few pages furiously looking for pictures of dinosaurs. I didn't see any. My early conclusion on reading Little & Ives was similar to reading the Bible...kind of boring.
My personal library began in 1960, with "Britannica and Goldenrod Encyclopedias." I loved pictures of the Civil War and couldn't wait for the encyclopedia salesman to knock on our front door and offer new volumes to add to my collection. I begged mom to get them and must admit I got a little out of control at times. Once I was sent to my room while mom decided which encyclopedias to purchase.
Mom sent me to the local library when I was nine years old, to attend a class on how to study history. I will always be appreciative of that. As I look back however, problems arose later from that class. It seemed the more I learned how to research history, the more trouble I found myself in. I began to ask questions daily.
In seventh grade, for example, I had become a "historical menace," according to my history teacher. She sent me to the principal's office one time to see a guidance counselor or get spanked by the assistant principal, whichever came first. While sitting in a wooden chair in the principal's office, Mrs. Moulton bolted in the office saying, "He's incorrigible! He challenges every history lesson I introduce and claims to have references to prove it."
I was sure she didn't think I was familiar with the word "incorrigible." She was mistaken. Why? Because she didn't know baseball. You see, I read biographies of baseball players, newspaper articles, or any other writings about them. There was always a part of my day given to baseball, reading about their childhoods, personal lives, or performances on the field.
Babe Ruth grew up with reckless behavior. His parents sent him to Saint Mary's Industrial School for Boys at the age of seven because the public school system had declared "Babe" incorrigible and as a result was permanently expelled. I looked up the definition of "incorrigible" and found it implies "a hopelessness to be taught." I was so proud that day Mrs. Moulton described me as incorrigible. To be described with the same word as "The Babe," it just didn't get any better than that!
My techniques to study originate with a gentleman named Mr. Mason. He offered free instructions on proper study habits with an emphasis on history. His classes were broken down by grade levels and my age group met each Saturday at 10 a.m. for six weeks ( the fall of 1962.) Classes took place at the local library and mom was happy to have me enrolled.
Retired and elderly ( in his mid-70's,) Mr. Mason shared a similar passion for history that I felt. I could immediately tell he liked me too. I will always remember his one main emphasis which he repeatedly stressed to the class, "Use primary sources, first hand accounts of people who were actually there. You might have to search for days on these shelves," pointing his finger in various directions, "but they are there, somewhere. Look for journals or newspaper accounts of your specific subject of interest. Watch for articles in an interview format." I will forever be grateful to Mr. Mason.
As my mom began reading the story of the first Thanksgiving on that gray, November morn in 1963, I raised my hand shortly after she read only a few pages.
"Yes," with a small but non-trusting smile on her face.
"Mom, the pilgrims didn't have buckles on their hats or shoes. That didn't become popular for another fifty years."
"Thanks, hon."
As she proceeded, I soon raised my hand again.
"Mom, the pilgrims didn't really wear black and white clothing, except on church days. And when pilgrims died, they would pass their clothing to other relatives and friends. Mr. Brewster, who lived during that time, described red and gray overcoats, maroon and brown vests, green and blue pants, and white, red, and blue stockings. He wrote about this in his diary."
"Thanks, hon."
Mom continued, "So, one day the pilgrims decided to invite their new friends to a Thanksgiving meal to give thanks to God for what He had provided. They were of the Wampanoag tribe."
I raised my hand again.
"Yes?"
"In Mr. Bradford's notes, who was also there at the first Thanksgiving, the whole feast happened by mistake. The pilgrims decided to have a harvest day festival in honor to the Lord. They really did not intend for the Wampanoags to come. The pilgrims arranged games in the early morning hours including a best marksman's contest. As they fired their muskets, the Wampanoags thought the pilgrims were about to wage a war against them. That's why they entered the area where the pilgrims were celebrating, dressed for war."
"Thank-you, Shane Joseph."
I smiled quietly. Mom's facial features signaled she was quite irritated.
She continued, "So, they fixed turkey and ham--"
My brother spoke up, "Bologna?"
"Well, I don't know if they had bologna," offering him a warm and gentle smile.
I spoke up once more, " Mom, they might have had turkey, I don't know. They lived near the ocean and according to Mr. Bradford and Mr. Brewster, they had fish, eel, mussels, deer, duck, and pheasants for sure. I don't know if wild turkey lived in the area at the time."
"Okay," mom quickly responded.
My cousin Timmy asked, "What's a mussel?"
I replied, "I don't know for sure but I do know they are slimy. I think you suck 'em down your throat like an oyster."
Both my cousins and my little brother cried out, "Ewwwh."
My mom continued reading out loud, "Well, the natives and the pilgrims all gathered together and feasted the entire day. That's how they became good friends!"
I raised my hand again.
"What?" This time her voice was firm and angered.
"Mom, this feast didn't last only one day. It was more like seven to ten days. That's how the Wampanoags celebrated. They even went and killed a bunch of deer so the meat remained plentiful. There were only fifty-one pilgrims and probably one hundred and fifty Wampanoags."
"Okay, Shane Joseph, answer me why I am even reading this story? Why is your story so different from what this book describes?"
"Mom, the reason we celebrate Thanksgiving is because President Lincoln declared the fourth Thursday of November as a 'Day of Thanksgiving.' Artists during the time President Lincoln declared a Thanksgiving day sold paintings of the first Thanksgiving without really knowing what happened. They just wanted to sell their paintings. Same with stories written by some...not always factual. And President Washington wrote that Thanksgiving Day should be a day of fasting and prayer. What we celebrate is a 'Harvest Festival Day."
"Where did you get all this, Shane Joseph?"
"At the library. Mr. Mason showed us how to research. You know, the area you tell me not to go in."
Mom replied, "The reference area? It's not that I mind you going in there, it's just you cannot check any of those books out."
"I know that now. Mr. Mason taught a couple of classes about Thanksgiving history. He showed us how to find stuff. I know how to use the card catalogue file."
There was a moment of silence. Mom looked around the table and spoke with her eyes staring at me. "I was going to have the younger ones cut out some turkeys, buckles, and feathers with construction paper. I thought they might color their cutouts with crayons. But, now I am not sure--"
"Sure, Mom, I can help. I still like Thanksgiving the way we celebrate. I think the pilgrims had oyster dressing...like yours." Mom couldn't hold back a smile. "Besides, the first Thanksgiving took place sometime in September, not November. And, they only had one."
Mom stood up, shook her head a little, and walked over to me. She exhaled slowly, offered me a warm smile, and gently ran her fingers across the top of my head. Moving a couple steps to her left, she reached for the construction paper and crayons. They were in the top, left drawer of the china cabinet.
Not long before her death, I visited mom and enjoyed dinner together. She resided in a nursing home. A nurse came up and asked if we would like to go upstairs and see a Thanksgiving play put on by a nearby elementary school. Mom quickly spoke up, " No, not today. But thank you for letting us know."
I looked at her and replied, "why don't you want to see the play. I bet it will be cute."
She smiled, "No, No, No. You don't remember the dining room table Thanksgiving story when you were ten? I have been through a 'Thanksgiving Epiphany' once, and am keenly aware of the real Thanksgiving story."
We sat and reminisced of that day. It was the last time I remember her laughing.
In mid November of 1963, Mom asked us to come and listen as she read the story of the first Thanksgiving. Two younger cousins stayed the night to watch The Mickey Mouse Club. I had been a member for five years and had a crush on Annette Funicello.
Mom read stories to my brother and me before we could even walk, or so it seemed. I started to read and write in first grade and cherished my first grade reader titled, The Adventures of Dick and Jane. My favorite line in the book was about Spot, the dog. I could read and recite "See Spot run!" with great emotion.
However, the first word I ever printed were the letters C-A-T. They were in caps and more importantly, each letter stood straight and tall between the lines. I ran home from school that day in total excitement, the paper clutched tightly in my left hand. I yelled for mom before I even made it through the front door entry. "Mom, I not only know how to read [limited of course,] I can also write words! Can you read this?" She looked at the crumpled paper and replied, "Let me see. C-A-T. It is the word 'cat.' All the letters are capitalized. Very nicely done. My oh my! Was this done by a professional printer of words?"
"No, Mom, I wrote it, just like Mrs. Mercer told us to." This day took place in the fall of 1959.
After we watched the The Mickey Mouse Club on the morning of the sleepover in '63, we were hungry. Mom had served us a bowl of "Fred Flintstone" cereal an hour before. Gary, my younger cousin, suddenly yelled "Yabba-Dabba-Do," and we barreled to the kitchen. Mom sat at the dining room table quietly waiting with small glasses of "Ovaltine" and oatmeal cookies. We hurried up and grabbed our seats. She smiled, made sure we were comfortable, and began reading. My little brother quickly annoyed me as he struggled back into his chair after dropping his cookie. Of course, he had to sit right next to me. He was six years old and I was ten. My cousins were nine and seven.
My reading skills started with Dr. Seuss books. Favorites included The Cat in the Hat and how the Grinch Stole Christmas. Dad brought home Green Eggs and Ham and read the first few pages before falling asleep. Mom finished reading the story commenting dad had worked a long and hard day.
When I chose my first book to read, I wanted Old Yeller, by Fred Gipson. Mom read parts of it to me, but I continued to improve as she patiently listened each time I read aloud. The movie came out in 1957, but mom and dad thought it best for me to wait a couple of years before seeing it. They felt I would understand the movie better at age six. Old Yeller quickly became the greatest dog in the world to me.
By 1963, I thought I could read any book. My newest addition was Webster's Little & Ives, an expanded dictionary which my aunt gave me for Christmas. The book was over six inches thick and had 2,561 pages. It weighed eleven pounds. I knew the weight because my brother and I put it on mom's bathroom scale. When I first opened the book, I saw the word "thesaurus." I turned the next few pages furiously looking for pictures of dinosaurs. I didn't see any. My early conclusion on reading Little & Ives was similar to reading the Bible...kind of boring.
My personal library began in 1960, with "Britannica and Goldenrod Encyclopedias." I loved pictures of the Civil War and couldn't wait for the encyclopedia salesman to knock on our front door and offer new volumes to add to my collection. I begged mom to get them and must admit I got a little out of control at times. Once I was sent to my room while mom decided which encyclopedias to purchase.Mom sent me to the local library when I was nine years old, to attend a class on how to study history. I will always be appreciative of that. As I look back however, problems arose later from that class. It seemed the more I learned how to research history, the more trouble I found myself in. I began to ask questions daily.
In seventh grade, for example, I had become a "historical menace," according to my history teacher. She sent me to the principal's office one time to see a guidance counselor or get spanked by the assistant principal, whichever came first. While sitting in a wooden chair in the principal's office, Mrs. Moulton bolted in the office saying, "He's incorrigible! He challenges every history lesson I introduce and claims to have references to prove it."
I was sure she didn't think I was familiar with the word "incorrigible." She was mistaken. Why? Because she didn't know baseball. You see, I read biographies of baseball players, newspaper articles, or any other writings about them. There was always a part of my day given to baseball, reading about their childhoods, personal lives, or performances on the field.
Babe Ruth grew up with reckless behavior. His parents sent him to Saint Mary's Industrial School for Boys at the age of seven because the public school system had declared "Babe" incorrigible and as a result was permanently expelled. I looked up the definition of "incorrigible" and found it implies "a hopelessness to be taught." I was so proud that day Mrs. Moulton described me as incorrigible. To be described with the same word as "The Babe," it just didn't get any better than that!
My techniques to study originate with a gentleman named Mr. Mason. He offered free instructions on proper study habits with an emphasis on history. His classes were broken down by grade levels and my age group met each Saturday at 10 a.m. for six weeks ( the fall of 1962.) Classes took place at the local library and mom was happy to have me enrolled.
Retired and elderly ( in his mid-70's,) Mr. Mason shared a similar passion for history that I felt. I could immediately tell he liked me too. I will always remember his one main emphasis which he repeatedly stressed to the class, "Use primary sources, first hand accounts of people who were actually there. You might have to search for days on these shelves," pointing his finger in various directions, "but they are there, somewhere. Look for journals or newspaper accounts of your specific subject of interest. Watch for articles in an interview format." I will forever be grateful to Mr. Mason.
As my mom began reading the story of the first Thanksgiving on that gray, November morn in 1963, I raised my hand shortly after she read only a few pages.
"Yes," with a small but non-trusting smile on her face.
"Mom, the pilgrims didn't have buckles on their hats or shoes. That didn't become popular for another fifty years."
"Thanks, hon."
As she proceeded, I soon raised my hand again.
"Mom, the pilgrims didn't really wear black and white clothing, except on church days. And when pilgrims died, they would pass their clothing to other relatives and friends. Mr. Brewster, who lived during that time, described red and gray overcoats, maroon and brown vests, green and blue pants, and white, red, and blue stockings. He wrote about this in his diary."
"Thanks, hon."
Mom continued, "So, one day the pilgrims decided to invite their new friends to a Thanksgiving meal to give thanks to God for what He had provided. They were of the Wampanoag tribe."
I raised my hand again.
"Yes?"
"In Mr. Bradford's notes, who was also there at the first Thanksgiving, the whole feast happened by mistake. The pilgrims decided to have a harvest day festival in honor to the Lord. They really did not intend for the Wampanoags to come. The pilgrims arranged games in the early morning hours including a best marksman's contest. As they fired their muskets, the Wampanoags thought the pilgrims were about to wage a war against them. That's why they entered the area where the pilgrims were celebrating, dressed for war."
"Thank-you, Shane Joseph."
I smiled quietly. Mom's facial features signaled she was quite irritated.
She continued, "So, they fixed turkey and ham--"
My brother spoke up, "Bologna?"
"Well, I don't know if they had bologna," offering him a warm and gentle smile.
I spoke up once more, " Mom, they might have had turkey, I don't know. They lived near the ocean and according to Mr. Bradford and Mr. Brewster, they had fish, eel, mussels, deer, duck, and pheasants for sure. I don't know if wild turkey lived in the area at the time."
"Okay," mom quickly responded.
My cousin Timmy asked, "What's a mussel?"
I replied, "I don't know for sure but I do know they are slimy. I think you suck 'em down your throat like an oyster."
Both my cousins and my little brother cried out, "Ewwwh."
My mom continued reading out loud, "Well, the natives and the pilgrims all gathered together and feasted the entire day. That's how they became good friends!"
I raised my hand again.
"What?" This time her voice was firm and angered.
"Mom, this feast didn't last only one day. It was more like seven to ten days. That's how the Wampanoags celebrated. They even went and killed a bunch of deer so the meat remained plentiful. There were only fifty-one pilgrims and probably one hundred and fifty Wampanoags."
"Okay, Shane Joseph, answer me why I am even reading this story? Why is your story so different from what this book describes?"
"Mom, the reason we celebrate Thanksgiving is because President Lincoln declared the fourth Thursday of November as a 'Day of Thanksgiving.' Artists during the time President Lincoln declared a Thanksgiving day sold paintings of the first Thanksgiving without really knowing what happened. They just wanted to sell their paintings. Same with stories written by some...not always factual. And President Washington wrote that Thanksgiving Day should be a day of fasting and prayer. What we celebrate is a 'Harvest Festival Day."
"Where did you get all this, Shane Joseph?"
"At the library. Mr. Mason showed us how to research. You know, the area you tell me not to go in."
Mom replied, "The reference area? It's not that I mind you going in there, it's just you cannot check any of those books out."
"I know that now. Mr. Mason taught a couple of classes about Thanksgiving history. He showed us how to find stuff. I know how to use the card catalogue file."
There was a moment of silence. Mom looked around the table and spoke with her eyes staring at me. "I was going to have the younger ones cut out some turkeys, buckles, and feathers with construction paper. I thought they might color their cutouts with crayons. But, now I am not sure--"
"Sure, Mom, I can help. I still like Thanksgiving the way we celebrate. I think the pilgrims had oyster dressing...like yours." Mom couldn't hold back a smile. "Besides, the first Thanksgiving took place sometime in September, not November. And, they only had one."
Mom stood up, shook her head a little, and walked over to me. She exhaled slowly, offered me a warm smile, and gently ran her fingers across the top of my head. Moving a couple steps to her left, she reached for the construction paper and crayons. They were in the top, left drawer of the china cabinet.
Not long before her death, I visited mom and enjoyed dinner together. She resided in a nursing home. A nurse came up and asked if we would like to go upstairs and see a Thanksgiving play put on by a nearby elementary school. Mom quickly spoke up, " No, not today. But thank you for letting us know."
I looked at her and replied, "why don't you want to see the play. I bet it will be cute."
She smiled, "No, No, No. You don't remember the dining room table Thanksgiving story when you were ten? I have been through a 'Thanksgiving Epiphany' once, and am keenly aware of the real Thanksgiving story."
We sat and reminisced of that day. It was the last time I remember her laughing.
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