The First Thanksgiving

Tags

English language, Indians, Native Americans, Pilgrims, squash, Thanksgiving, Turkey, Vikings

Accounts of the origin of Thanksgiving differ.  At best, it was a gracious gesture of mutual respect between Pilgrims and Native Americans.  At worst, a cynical cover for the eventual subjugation of the land’s original inhabitants.

A recently-discovered document, recounting a discussion between a Pilgrim (P) and a Native American (NA) suggests a more innocent beginning:

P: How!

NA: How what?

P: No “what,” just “How,” as I understood your traditional greeting to be.

NA: Hmmm.  No, that is not what we normally say upon first meeting.  But this is very curious.

P: Curious?

NA: Just now, I seemed to envisage a situation in which future generations of my people would be portrayed as using that as a greeting, and also raising a hand, palm outward, as you did.  Why did you do that, as well?

P: We understand it to be a sign of peaceful intent among your people.  We are sensitive to your ways.

NA: That is appreciated, but, no, that too is not our custom, although one can see that it could be a non-threatening gesture, the position of the hand making it difficult to reach suddenly into the waistband or pocket for a knife.

P: So, what should I say and do in these circumstances?

NA: A simple nod is appropriate.

P: I will certainly keep all this in mind.  But, permit me to ask, where did you learn such perfect English?  Did you study in my country?

NA: No, you may be thinking of Tisquantum, whom you call Squanto, but, in all honesty, his English is rather rudimentary.  I, on the other hand, learned my English from my father, who learned it from his, and so on in a chain that goes back to the Vikings, who preceded you by some centuries.

P: To the Vikings?!?!  They were here?!?!  My God!  But didn’t they speak Nordic or something like that?

NA: Of course, but also perfect English.  I’m not certain where they learned it.  Perhaps in their numerous forays into your homeland.  In any case, everyone knows that Nordics speak better English than the English do.

P: Well, if you speak the English you inherited from them, I’d have to agree.

NA: In any case, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?

P: It is about the squash …

NA: The game in a room, with a ball?

P: No, I don’t think that’s been invented yet, but it is an interesting idea.  No, it’s about the vegetable.  Much of our first crop has either withered on the vine or simply rotted before it could ripen.  Could you help?

NA: I would be happy to.  Why don’t we repair to my abode where we can share a distilled libation and discuss your agricultural problem.

P: Yes, certainly … firewater in your tent.  

NA: My heavens, what a narrow conception you have of how we live.  I would wager that our distillations in the comfort of a log structure such as mine would at least match the beer and ale found in your drafty public houses.

P: I would not doubt it.

(Note: At this point, there is an interruption in the document.  This may be accounted for by drinking superseding conversation, which eventually resumes.)

NA: Well, that is all we have in the house.  We should resume our dialect … I mean dialogue … when we are better able to focus.

P: Excellent idea.  And maybe then we can talk squash … the vegetable.

NA: Better yet, let us then eat some as well.  And turkey!

P: Ah yes, a frank discussion.

NA: No, not talk it.  Eat it.  The bird, that is.

P: A bird?  Really?  What does it look like?

NA: Well, it’s quite large.  Think of it as a cross between a goose and a chicken, but more delicious!

P: Ah, now that you mention it, I’ve seen them at a distance.  An excellent idea, eating turkey and squash. Thanks!

NA: Giving is its own reward!  Ha ha, I like that!

P: Pardon?

NA: We have joined “Thanks” to “Giving.”  An appropriate combination!

P: Indeed.  But, realistically, we two could not possibly eat all you propose. Should we not invite others to share in this … this … shall we call it Thanksgiving?

NA: Yes, we shall!  And, yes, we should not be selfish.  Still, we should not promise more than we can deliver.  I’m thinking … 

 

My Life in Squash

Tags

Abu Dhabi, AKS Lambton, Arlen Specter, diplomacy, father and son, fitness, mid-life crisis, School of Oriental and African Studies, SOAS, sport, squash, Tad Friend, The New Yorker

In the January 18, 2016 issue of The New Yorker, Tad Friend wrote an entertaining article about facing the mid-life crisis through squash (the sport, not the vegetable). My post-mid-life choice for feeding the illusions of youth has been hockey, but I have brushed shoulders with squash from time to time, with mixed results.

My father taught me. I was about 14, Dad was about 45, getting paunchy, in need of exercise as he gradually retired from side-yard games of catch and we kids began edging him out of his lawn-mowing, leaf-raking, snow-shoveling monopoly.

He decided on a return to squash, which he had played a little in college, and he drafted me. We joined the Y and started on the basics: a four-walled room; a thin-shanked wooden racket; a hard rubber ball, which could be shot off any wall but had to reach the front-wall on the fly; out-of-bounds lines on each wall, including the front, with its tin bumper at the bottom, shouting a sarcastic, metallic BLONK at every low-ball.

There was strategy — grab the center of the court (the T) and fire shots side-to-side and short-long, to keep your opponent off-balance. There was etiquette — don’t intentionally block your opponent’s path to the ball, nor maliciously hit him with racket or ball. And there was jurisprudence — he who holds the T has property rights.

Dad played strategically, and I ran, which was appropriate for our differences in mental age and energy-level. But, even a teenage Energizer Bunny gets tired and erratic. I didn’t mean to hit him, but I whacked at a ball from deep in the court and got him square in the back.

He assured me it was more painful than harmful, but worse than either was the hideous purple grapefruit that bloomed. We did continue in the months that followed, Dad with his gradually withering bloom, I with hesitancy.

I played occasionally in college, usually against my roommate, who was an excellent tennis player, but used his wide-sweeping, stiff-wristed tennis stroke, an unintentional, but not exactly fair, land-grab in that little room.

A few years later, studying at the University of London’s School of Oriental and African Studies, I started playing again, often against an unfailingly cheerful and very good Singaporean fellow-student.

Above the back wall of each court there was a viewer’s balcony. One day, as we were playing, I noticed a strikingly regal, gray-haired woman watching us. When we finished, she was outside and asked me if I‘d like to play sometime. My yes was polite. I masked my doubt. She had to be at least 65. Was I being fair?

You know the result! She took the T and never relinquished it, yo-yo-ing me from side-to-side, up-and-back. What made it even more impossible, she wore an ankle-length gray skirt and, with her feet planted wide, blocked much of my view with her opaque capital A. I’m reasonably certain I didn’t win a single point.

She was Professor A.K.S Lambton, world-famous Persian scholar, and gracious victor. (She died in 2008 at the age of 96. Her obituary in The Guardian mentions her skills as a horsewoman, but inexplicably neglects her squash mastery.)

Over the next decades, I played only occasionally: a couple times in Kuwait with a Palestinian who, I knew, was courting me for a visa and dumped me when he didn’t get it; at the Air Force Academy, with younger, much fitter fellow-instructors who beat me regularly, but consoled me with, When I’m your age, I just hope I’m …

Just about my last match was in Abu Dhabi, when I was posted at the U.S. Embassy. Senator Arlen Specter was due to visit, and looking for a squash partner (he was well-known as a squash fanatic). The care and feeding of visiting Congresspersons was a top priority, and I was the only one at the Embassy who played.

He was an aggressive but fair, though not very stylish, player. Still, I might at least have had a slim chance but for two mildly distracting factors: (1) Abu Dhabi had provided him with an armed escort, one of whom stood menacingly on the back balcony, his rifle held across his chest, watching us sternly as if warning me to behave; (2) It seemed that something the Senator had eaten was disagreeing with him. True, we were both breathing the same air, but I suspect he was more accustomed to the oxygen deprivation than I was. He was victorious … graciously so.

It is possible that, in my squash career, I never won a match. I’ve repressed that part of it. But I bet that few squash players can say they were trounced by a world-renowned Middle East scholar and a U.S. Senator. Just sayin’.