Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

Tell me why the wind blows Winter whispering so coldly Ancient shadows make me old? Why are leaves like aging Bitter rain falling like time that’s Painting wrinkles on the rhyme? Why are squirrels hiding Birds are silent, kittens gliding Into comfort While the windblown branches frown. Why’s it fall? Giving thanks for seasons

She walked those steps each day with sinking tread, climbing to work on the spongy, broken, old. She knew the dull gray mud that filled the gaps, the grass, the flowers; knew to avoid the tangled briars and ragged raging rose. Sunshine or showers, she walked this way, eyes downcast, cold and closed until one day, one tiny faded blade of green arose. She watched the plant daily until it bloomed, a sparkling yellow crocus, and she smiled. A squirrel ate it and a bird complained. But skies were blue and eyes were open again. And her footsteps grew light.

“It’s not our way.” “New land. New ways.” So the people changed. Slowly their faith, their certainty changed; their government, their dreams, their lives, their freedoms and their hope. Strangers and enemies changed. Buildings changed; the land where they grew crops; the shape of their seas. Wrong-doing and forgiveness; wrong-thinking and war; wrong planning, believing and more. Too many wrongs don’t make a right, and might’s not right either. But in the end, they were all changed. Their faith, their certainty, their government—their dreams, lives, freedoms, even hope—they learned to share. So Plymouth grew, and Mayflower’s remembered there.

They sat in their fortress and planned. They made their alliances, tribesman to tribe, future promise to weigh against pain. Then fire from the sky drenched their village in flames, flowing blood quenched the blaze, and bullets and knives wrenched their lives and their families’ away. Men women and infants all killed on one day, in one battle, at Mystic River. “It’s not our way.” “Too many slain.” “No bravery or honor in this.” “Too furious.” But it was the way of that land far away, and the victors gave praise, sang their bliss, and prayed “Thanks be to God.”

“The land is the land’s; it’s not ours to divide; not ours to say who lives or dies.” “Still, so many have died...” “…leaving space for us all, and the white man has paid with his beads, coats and shovels and spades…” “…shoes, a pot, and some cloth for a robe with fur sleeves...” Those who paid for the land, that still wasn’t theirs, sold it on, growing rich on the spoil. Those who sold squeezed their people to forest and shore, rich in beads while their tribesmen grew poor, while they toiled to survive on that portion unfairly divided.

“They’ve given us a garden my dear.” “Given a what?” “A whole plot, all our own.” The husband led his wife out of town, to the place where his field was assigned. “We’ll grow corn,” he promised. “Keep chickens and pigs and eat eggs,” though by we he meant she. The boy said “We used to have cows back in England.” “I know,” said his Dad. “And if any arrive on the boat then maybe we’ll buy one.” “How?” Mother frowned. “Well, they’ve given us a garden my dear. You grow things and sell them and I’ll buy the cow.”

A wise man said, “Once blood is shed it’s seldom staunched,” except by length of war. "If only you’d converted them before," he said, but time for talking done, they set their enemy’s head up on a stalk and praised the day. The wise man said, “More glorious in men’s eyes than pleasing God’s” is the spreading of fear. Then nations split, alliances changed, and curious flag was raised, held strangely dear. Not red and white against the clear blue sky but cream stained brown; the cloth that bore the enemy’s head proclaimed the enemy’s fate. Peace lay down dead.

Windows were parchment and linseed, walls wattle and daub, and roofs made of reeds; not really home. Stockades dripped sap, tree-bark peeled back, and cannon stood on guard upon the hill. Men guarded too, the ones that weren’t already starved and gone. Cold breezes dripped, war sipping on the wind. The steady drip of fear led to despair, and dripping hunger to their flight elsewhere. The ice dripped too. But drips of lies from scheming spies brought threats to cruel truth. A woman’s face, dark epigraph carved deep on Indian knife, dripped hard-earned tears from blood-stained eyes. The Indian died.

What’s a man to choose? You can dig in the sand and find clams and call them food but you’ll still go hungry. You can steal the corn that Indians seal away and pretend it’s okay. You can beg them to teach you to fish and they’ll make you a slave but at least you’ll be fed. So what do you do? They knock the sand-filled clam-shells from your hand and mock and scorn. Will you ignore their taunts and wait to eat? Sneak into their stores and steal? Or beg for help and admit they know better than you?

He rose from prisoner to interpreter to friend, but wanted more. He planned and tricked and played the game of war and politics. “They’ll make you sick,” he swore of those whose hands protected him, and sowed dissent. “Kill him,” said Massasoit, but the white man said he still needed him. “Kill him,” said the messenger, but the white man said not yet. “Kill him,” said the man with knife. “We’ll pay,” but the white man said no, because even a man accused of betrayal might still be called a friend. When Squanto died, their peace came to an end.

On Christmas day the families play. That’s just the way things are. The governor called them out to work but instead they all agreed, “No, not today,” so he let them stay. The holy ones, religious, didn’t choose to follow the crowd. On Christmas day their families worked, a day like any other. The governor called and they set out to labor. On Christmas day, workers returned to find the town at play. The governor confiscated their games. “No more,” said he. “You can pray if you must, but otherwise work like us, all fair and just.” On Christmas day…

The snake in the grass shook its rattle and dared them to pass. But the snake in the mind whispered fear and dismay, and the snake in the hand was a skin filled with arrows that day. “It’s a challenge,” said Squanto, “one tribe to another.” A snake in the promise of Eden. They filled up the skin with gunpowder and sent it straight back. The challenge was met and the threat settled down but the promise of fear didn’t leave. So they chopped down their Eden’s fair trees to build forts and prepared lest a war should be fought.

“There’s a ship!” It was exciting at first. Maybe Mayflower had returned, but she stayed offshore. “Still there.” The people watched and grew afraid. “Close now.” The ship rounded the bay while pilgrims fired their cannon rounding laborers from the field. “Who’s there?” they asked, and Fortune was her name. It wasn’t the enemy after all, not French but Englishmen in this small vessel to join their group. But they brought neither food nor aid, only orders for furs to trade, and winter soon. “She’s gone.” The strange ship sailed away. “Count your blessings, one by one.” The people prayed.

At the mercy of rain and soil, reaping rewards of backbreaking toil, ruled by law and God together, with practical steps the pilgrims prepared for the cold. And if the strangers had colored skin, spoke foreign words, dressed odd and worshiped a different kind of God, well, so did strangers everywhere. The streets of Leiden had never quite been home. “Can I sleep in Sam’s wigwam?” “Can Sam sleep in my house?” “Can we have dinner together?” At the mercy of love and peace, now quarrels ceased and they were chosen friends. But others made their own plans, wanting more.

“We’re free from Crown and Bishop here.” “And from soldiers defending us.” “We fight alone.” So they marched to rescue a captured friend—-a different crown for them, or else a headdress of feathers. They brought the wounded enemies home to treat and purchased peace from the store of good relations. Wild ducks and geese were torn in half for the first Thanksgiving feast, and enemies sealed their friendship with venison. Green leaves turned scarlet and gold under pale blue sky over wind-blown grass. “They said we’d not last; be dead in a year.” “I’m dead serious. We’re still here.”

“I’ve seen a lake,” said the boy. “There’ll be fish. There’ll be food.” But adults told him “Come down out that tree or you’ll fall.” “I’ve seen people,” he said. “They’ll help us. They’ll tell what to do.” But adults told him “Get on with the job lad. That’s all.” “I’ve seen the future,” the boy said, and walked in the woods, and disappeared. Empty valleys were filled with wandering tribes, scary natives with fearful memories of betrayal. And strangers wanted their corn and grave-gifts back. The boy who saw the future came to lead them out of the past.

They walked side by side with Indians, following the river, and stopping at holes in the ground. “Here,” said the native and sat down to talk. Here was where someone had lived, where something had happened, where history’d been made. And here; he stopped again. And here; another told the tale of another hole. The walk from lobstered harbor to village was a walk through history. Empty plains were homes of the brave; empty hills their throne. “Where are they gone?” “They died. Caught by the plague.” Life hung by a thread and holes in the ground told its shade.

“Will you marry me; my wife is six weeks dead, I need another?” “Will you marry me; my husband's eight weeks gone?” “Will you marry me; my daughter’s sad'n' really needs a mother?” “Will you marry me, be father to my son?” “Will you marry me; I need someone to cook the food I grow?” “Will you marry me and bring me food to cook?” “Will you marry me; I’m lonely here, and so…” “I’ll marry you; I’ve nowhere else to look.” They married each, no need for priest, which Gospels don’t decree, In accordance with “laudable custom,” secular, free.

Sea and sky colored dismal gray in light that drained away to speckled haze. “Don’t like it here,” said Emma watching Mayflower’s wavering form. “Tough.” Her mother pulled her away. “Will you help me cook tomorrow?” The daughter sighed, watching birds that cried their song in colorless shade. “Indians,” she said. “They’ll not come near.” But they marched bright-robed and dancing like snakes in the pass. “Are you scared?” asked Emma. “They’re just visiting dear. Will you help me clean tomorrow? “ Mayflower sailed, the Indians left, and Emma chose a gray-green grass-snake pet. “Will you help me build tomorrow?”

War or Peace? I don’t mind. Here’s the deal; tipped arrow shining, or blunt release. Which one d’you choose? And yes, I know I’m not wearing coat’n pants. I’m not naked though, for all your fine words in your book. Have a look. Walk around me. Stare. I don’t care if you find our ways strange. You’ll learn enough. Food’s good, yes, thanks. Reminds me of Somerset. And I learned soon enough in my time. Call me Samoset, if you need a name, but tell me what you’ll give. I’m offering War or Peace. Will you die here, or live?