SHAWALLAGAH PA. BET ON CRAZY

First published 2008

Thanksgiving Day plus One started the Holiday season on West 47th Street. Accordingly the majority of the ground floor exchanges extend their operating hours and stay open every ding-dong day until Christmas. Throughout the week regular customers and natives to New York flock here, but on the weekends they are replaced by busloads of tourists from Shawallagah, PA or Dover Delaware. Armed with a box of chicken and a bag of quarters, they gawk at the jewelry and demand incredulously, "Those aren't real diamonds, are they?"

"All of our diamonds are real and set in 14K and 18K gold or platinum jewelry," I answer cordially, for the most part.

We might enjoy poking fun at these out-of-towners, yet their purchases can add to our profit line, so once they're in the store we treat them as we would any valued customer, even if they're only looking for a Big Apple charm or want to tell us about an opal ring their great-grandaunt possessed back in Schwallagah, PA. As Manny, my boss says, "Be nice. It can't hurt."

While my company prided itself in dealing relatively fairly with members of the trade and our customers, there are a few diamond dealers who prey on these unsuspecting tourists like wolves tailing a cripple calves and every year ABC NEWS1 20/20 puts out a report to warn about unscrupulous diamond dealings on 47th Street.

Typically during holiday season the show's producers send out a young man to purchase a diamond engagement ring and inevitably ends up getting nailed by the same dealer on the corner of Sixth Avenue. The entire process of the sale is recorded by a hidden video camera to reveal the dealer's misrepresentation of the diamond's quality.

Weeks later Diane Sawyer, the network news commentator, will confront the dealer with the proof of his lies and close with a warning for the public to beware. One would expect that the dishonest merchant would be punished by such negative publicity, however the dealer points to a photo of Diane Sawyer hanging on his wall and proudly states, "Diane shops here every year. One of my best customers."

To avoid getting fleeced, we suggest anyone looking for a diamond to head up to Tiffany's or Cartier first and get one of their diamond buying guides, which are free and offer a great thumbnail source of information to the novice.

Otherwise caveat emptor. Let the buyer beware and remember if it sounds to good to be true than it is too good to be true.

For any questions on jewelry or the diamond trade stop Manny Winick at 34 West 47th Street.

The first piece of advice is always free.

Everything thereafter cost. How much? Depends on the hour.

First sale of the day always gets the best price.

Sie gesund.

Happy Thanks Wampanoags

My family’s ancestors crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower in 1620. The Howland clan spent that first autumn on the Cape and then sailed to what became the Plymouth Colony. Their spring pkantings failed and autumn found their food supplies were dangerously low. Only the intervention by Wampanoags, the native tribe, spared the settlers from starvation. Americans have celebrated the largess of the Indians with an annual feast of turkey and all the fixings.

Little if any mention is made of the Wampanoag Indians, who were nearly wiped out by European diseases and the Puritans in the King Philip's War in order to steal their lands, then again talk of extermination has no place at the holiday dinner table in America.

Prayers of thanks are saved for family friends and God.

Turkey is the main meal.

I’ve had the bird most every Thanksgiving in my life.

Mothers around the USA spent hours preparing the feast.

My family was no different from the rest of America. The early part of the day was filled by the chore of peeling apples, potatoes, turnips, carrots for our eight family members and another 5-10 guests. My older brother called it ‘KP Day’. My mother would cool the bird in the garage. Why was never explained to us. She would just take the big bird out of the oven and say, “Put it in the garage to cool.”

One Thanksgiving I obeyed her command. The garage door was open. The air was cold. I had spent the morning at the football game between my hometown and their arch-rivals. My next-door neighbor came over to the driveway with a football. We went into the backyard to emulate the day’s heroes. After bobbling a long pass Chuckie pointed to the front lawn.

"What's with DJ?"

DJ was a neighborhood dog. I was in love with his owner, Kyla. The German Shepard had his entire head was stuck inside a turkey. My mother's stuffing was delicious. I had not shut the door to the garage. I ran from the backyard and heard my mother scream.

“The turkey.”

I picked up a stick from the ground and charged to save our holiday meal. The big black dog fled from our yard with a slobbering snarl, leaving behind a mauled meal. My mother cried, “Where are we going to find a turkey now?”

My father looked at me. This was my fault. I didn’t even bother to explain my side of the story. When you’re wrong as a child, proving you’re right is a waste of breath.

My older brother and younger siblings thanked me for ruining Thanksgiving, although it didn’t turn out so bad, since DJ’s owners paid for our meal at a nearby hotel. Kyla kissed me on the cheek. The food was good and my mother didn’t have to wash any dishes.

We didn’t have a home-cooked Thanksgiving meal for the next five years.

We still thanked family, friends, and God, but my older brother and I also thanked DJ. Even bad deeds can turn out good as long as no one brings up the extermination of the New England tribes on the Fourth Thursday of November. The People of the First Light survive to this day on the Cape and Martha's Vinyard and Nantucket and are free to say Âs Nutayuneân or we still live here. ps there is no word for thanksgiving in Algonquin, but I do thank them. Always.

No Thanks Day 2021

My family can claim that we arrived in the Americas on the Mayflower. The Howland and Hamlin clans owed its survival that second autumn to the Wampanoags or People of the Dawn. The Saints and Strangers of the Old World showed their gratitude by forcing the disease-weakened natives from their ancestral home, much as the Moses' ancestors had evicted the Philistines from the Land of Milk and Honey. The Pilgrims thought that they owned the land, while the Indians believed the land belonged to the people born on it.

Native animism versus the Old Testament. The Bible offered many lessons for those of the past and present and probably the future. The Wampanoag Tribe luckily survived the mass extermination of the coastal Indians and every Thanksgiving gather on Nantucket to mourn the failed alliance between the Old and New Worlds.

No Thanksgiving.

At least the wild have come back to their native land.

Give the Wampanoag Tribe a few slot machines and who knows where they'll celebrate No Thanksgiving on the 400th anniversary of the Pilgrims' landing.

Me, I wish I was in Thailand eating crab curry with my children.

Mea Culpa Wampanoags.

Today's Thanks

Published on 11/23/23 2:30 AM

Today America commemorates Pilgrims’ gratitude to the local Indians lessons in food-gathering, especially those tribesmen of Squanto. who helped the religious refugees survive that first year in Plymouth. In response to this unexpected aid the settlers held a 3-day feast for their neighbors. The holiday was made official in 1789 by George Washington, although Squanto’s tribe had nearly vanished from Massachusetts and Indians don’t celebrate Thanksgiving.

Neither do I.

Even though I am a Mayflower descendant.

There was a Thanksgiving parade in New York this morning. I saw none of it. High school footballs between bitter rivals will be played this morning. I haven't seen the results between my high school and their North Shore rival. I've yet to leave my house, but I do have things to be thankful for this year.

I survived a liver transplant.

I am alive.

I make some money.

My children are healthy.

Sirinthip loves me sometimes.

So does Aphinya.

Every fourth Thursday of November Americans travel by train, plane, and car to feast with friends and family on turkey and all the fixings. Once their bellies expand to a girth of near-explosion, the men watch a meaningless football game in a stupor mimicking a boa who has swallowed a goat, while women repair to the kitchen.

Being male I have no idea what they do other than clean dishes and pots and recount old familar tales of youth, families and friends. Younger children are happy to gorge themselves on pies, while their older siblings sullenly vow to not end up like their parents.

Like all holiday the situation is prime for a good argument.

Eight years ago my father cautioned my lovely twenty year-old niece that she wouldn’t lose weight, if she ate any more pie. Sensitive about her size she broke into tears. My older brother demanded an apology. My father adamantly said he was only telling the truth.

My brother ordered him to leave the house.

My father grabbed a turkey leg and exited from the house, plowing his car across the lawn rather than wait for anyone to move their vehicles out of the driveway.

I would have really like to have seen his tires plowing furrows in the grass, except I was in New York. No turkey that year either.

I celebrated the holiday alone.

Google Goggle Hey Goggle Hey to paraphrase the Ramones.

Max’s Kansas City had turkey dinner for the punk orphans during the 1970s.

Free too.

Beer half-price.

Today I'm dining with Professor Ollamn, the famed Marxist, and his son Raoul.

Praise be the Turkey.

And those sexy Pilgrims.

The Elegance of the Wampanoags

The Wampanoags were not the savages. The people of the dawn were near extinction from a bacterial infection carried the settlers and wars with the Micmacs and Pequots. Despite these calamities the natives living near the Plymouth supposedly invited the starving Pilgrims celebrated their good harvest in the autumn of 1621. The event is poorly documented by the colonists, but the legend lives in the minds of Americans as a cherished moment of peace between the Old America and the New.

Within forty years the thousands Wampanoags would suffer through the King Philip War. Only 400 survived the fighting. They sought refuge on Martha's Vinyard. Today the Wampanoags number almost 2000.

I know one. Big Ralph. 6-8. A big man in Fort Greene. Wampanoag and proud of it.

Happy to be alive.

And me too, because I'm half-Irish.

Happy Turkey Day.

One and all.

Free the Turkey

Benjamin Franklin never proposed the turkey for the national bird. It is a myth, however the turkey of his era were nothing like the present domesticated bird slaughtered for Thanksgiving. The wild turkey was a cunning wood creature living in large communes of fellow avians. Huge flocks of brightly plumed turkeys clouded the skies. Still Benjamin Franklin was vehemently against the choice of the eagle as the national bird.

"I wish that the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country, he is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly, you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk, and when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to its nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him.... Besides he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, not bigger than a sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest. . . of America.. . . For a truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on."

Nice talk for the national bird.

Wonder what Eagle would taste like for Thanksgiving.

Vulture???

Nice talk for the national bird.

As for eagle as a meal, I googled cooked eagle and only came up with the following query on answers.com

I was driving the other day and hit a bald eagle that was flying across the street. It was a country road that usually isn't very busy, but I figured I would cook it, since I've never had eagle before. Are there any recipes I should know about? Or any spices specifically? I live in Eastern Iowa so you know what may or may not be available to me. I didn't mean to hit it, it was like if a deer ran across the street.
Two years ago

This posting attracted outrage and weirdos.

KILLER: I kill eagles all the time, for fun. Especially since bald eagles don't even exist where I live.

maie: okay i believe you didn't mean to kill it, well you cant help things like that all the time, but they are an endangered species and it is illegal to kill it (on purpose I'm sure they will forgive an accident) and it is also illegal to have possession of it. i would call the local animal control center and see what they would tell you to do cuz if someone says that you have one, or sees it in your trash then you can get arrested. at that point you haven't made a report and you cant prove what happened.

OUTRAGE: It is a Federal Offense to Kill a Bald Eagle or even possess a single feather.

MOR: WITH HOT SAUCE AND POSSUMS! NOM NOM NOM!
just cook it like chicken

Otherwise nothing else on the internet.

So I guess eagles don't taste like turkey.

Bad Behavior Thanksgiving

After Bad Bob's description of the insane weekend with my former husband and in laws, I can only refer to the quote in your last email. It's something my mother would have loved, even though she always betrayed her own advice. She once said to me, after the first time she met the whole lot of them at Thanksgiving,

"How can people that poor be that fucked up?" She was shit faced at the time and certainly not a snob given her predilection for stable hands, plumbers and drug dealers but it was absolutely dead on accurate because that family, every last one of them, is completely whacked and not in a ha ha, amusing way.

We invite people like that to tea, but we don't marry them.

Lady Chetwode on her future son-in-law, John Betjeman. Slough
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add The profits of the stinking cad; It's not their fault that they are mad, They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

Lady Penelope Chetwode, the poet's wife and grand Indian explorer of Himal Pradesh

New Haven Turkey Day

Seven years ago I traveled north to have turkey with my younger sister's in-laws outside of New Haven. They were good people.

Back in the 1940s New Haven had been a prime destination for commuters from the surrounding towns, however in the 1950s the Federal Courts had ordered the New Haven railroad to divest itself of the trolleys running from the various stations along the Connecticut shore and the rail line plummeted into insolvency, as the car replaced rail as the primary form of transportation in the suburbs. While the city's population declined in those years, its inhabitants still number 130,000 making New Haven the Nutmeg State's second more populous urban area behind Hartford, although exiting from the train station I wasn't able to verify that 2012 census claim.

Once the other passengers were picked up by family, I noticed the projects across State Street were devoid of humanity. Even the minimart was closed for the holiday.

I called my sister. She was running thirty minutes late. I decided to take a walk. It was a sunny day and New Haven possessed some striking brutalist architecture.

Some trees still showed the colors of autumn.

Some more than most. Winter was far away from New England and I strolled down the deserted streets to the Knights of Columbus Tower.

The 23-storey modern style reinforced concrete building was designed by Kevin Roche John Dinkeloo and Associates and finished in 1969. According to Wikipedia 321 feet (98 meters) tall is the third-tallest building in the city's skyline. No one was there too.

Flowers adorned the sidewalks. They didn't know it was almost winter.

Another low building exhibited all the signs of 1960s urban service.

It took me a little time to discover its function. Knights of Columbus Museum. Protectors of the Catholic Church. As an atheist both the tower and the museum threatened by my godlessness and I hurried away toward the train station. It was almost time to meet my sister.

I walked past the New Haven Police Station. It was having a quiet day. So was I.

After all I was a Mayflower descendant and Thanksgiving was all about celebrating New England's conquest of the Indians.

We should have treated them better. New Haven too. There was no aroma of turkey in the air.

Only loneliness. And it felt familiar. But not for long, because I would be with family and friends. And that was a good reason to come to New Haven.

Thank you Squantum.

Thanksgiving 1978 From My Journal

Thanksgiving 1978 was spent at our Easts Village apartment; Alice, Kim, Bobbie, Andy Reese, and Grant. I ended up dropping LSD with Bill Yusk. The first hit was weak and I dropped another tab. Still nothing coming on and I drank wine with Alice and Kim.

Two hours later I was drunk and the LSD hit hard. Cooking the turkey was very spacey and the bird spoke to me several times. Bill laughed and Ann asked, "What's so funny?"

"A talking turkey."

"A talking turkey, a talking turkey, a talking turkey."

I saw everything in triplicate. Ann wasn't even high and ordered Bill and me to get more wine. We left laughing and wandered to the Bowery with the street reflecting a shimmering glow.

We passed two women sitting on the curb. Dykes. Both were dressed in black and both were gnawing on turkey legs. Bill and I laughed at them, then the short one called my name. I didn't know the big one, but the small dyke was Gilly, a waitress at Dojos. Their wild eyes emanated yellow.

It was an LSD Thanksgiving for them too.

"You want turkey?"

"Talking turkey."

Bill lost it and I tried to get him away, but he wanted to feast on turkey bones and I returned to 256 East Street. Everyone was gone, except for Kim and Alice, who asked, "Are you okay?"

"I have wine and I have you two."

Kim shook her head and asked, "Where's Bill?"

"He's chomping on a turkey bone on the Bowery with two hippie dykes." I didn't want to rat out Gilly. Alice was very jealous and Kim said, "I hate hippies."

"You hate me?" I asked Alice.

"Not you. Only hippies."

"Well, Happy Thanksgiving to them all."

"And us too."

The trip last into the evening and I came down on the couch, as Alice and Kim watched a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers movie.

It was very funny.

Especially how Ginger danced backwards.

"Talking turkey."

Acid came onto the scene in the 1960s. I was too young for it then, plus I was only into pharmaceuticals, dexies and 'ludes.

In 1971 I hitchhiked up to Montreal to visit friends from New Zealand. I bought a horse choker capsule from a midget dealer.

"Is it any good?"

Tres bonne."

I split it with Brian Alwinkle and his girlfriend, Chris Bilkensapp.

It was very strong and the universe vanished into a webbed mystery.

Forever indeed.

November 23, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry - VDO

Thanksgiving 1978.

Rainy.

High 45.

Low 31.

LSD.

I cook the turkey without a gauge on the stove.

It came out perfect.

Mistaken Identity 2011

Whenever I mentioned to my friends in the USA or Europe that I was moving to Luxembourg in 2011, they immediately stated, "Luxembourg is the most boring city of Western Europe."

Actually nearby Brussels won the prix d'or d'ennui in most competitions followed tightly by Zurich and Warsaw. Birmingham has supposedly given all three a run for the money with the added detraction as the most unromantic city in the EEU. I've actually had a good time in Bruxelles on several occasions in different decades. I don't know Zurich or Warsaw, but they are not on the top of my 'must see' list or even in the middle and nothing short of $2000 could get me to visit Birmingham, England's Venice of the North.

I can only say that during the last three months in Luxembourg I have not made a single friend from local population. The people are well-mannered to tourists, but they have embraced the Germanic coldness of half their make-up instead of Gallic warmth, so I was happy to meet the new American ambassador. Bob was my age. We shared similar tastes in books and he loved art.

"What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" He asked at the US Chamber of Commerce Turkey Dinner.

"Nothing." I had no plans. Madame l'Ambassador was visiting her oldest daughter in Paris. I was on my own.

"Not any more. You're with us this Thanksgiving."

I thanked him for the invitation and showed up on time with a Paris Guidebook as a gift. His wife and he were planning a trip to the City of Light for the New Year. The guards confiscated my iPad, but allowed me to enter the embassy with my camera and telephone. Bob was waiting at the entrance. His guests were his daughter and her boyfriend, a niece, the Marine contingent, several couples working at the station, and assorted other invitees. The food was a classic holiday offering of turkey and all the fixings.

"Sorry about the paper plates, but I don't feel like washing dishes." Bob apologized before the meal. At least we had real silverware. I ate to my heart's content and drank a little more wine than i would have, if Madame l'Ambassador was present. As a teetotaler her appreciation of a good buzz are limited to the effects of a bar of chocolate.

Bob and I were having a talk about Obama's chances in 2012. Both of us were supporters of the president. He had spoken with 'Barack' earlier in the day. I was duly impressed by his proximity to the POTUS and toasted the president with a plastic cup of California chardonnay.

"You know from the first time I saw you I thought you looked like someone."

"Really?" Not many people have said this, although once at Max's Kansas City two kids from the Student Teachers came up to my table to tell me that they were playing PSYCHOTIC BREAKDOWN, which was a New York Dolls song. They had obviously mistaken me for David Johansson, but that wasn't the case with the US ambassador.

"Has anyone ever said that you look like Al Franken?"

"Al Franken?" Comedian and now senator from Minnesota. I was slightly horrified by the slight. "No."

"You have the same hair and round glasses."

"A full head of hair and glasses." But Al Franken was much older than me. One whole year and totally more successful than me. I was supposed to be an outlaw and Bob thought I resembled a US senator. I took it as a compliment, but when Madame l'Ambassador heard the story upon her return from Paris, she go a good laugh.

More a chortle.

"Al Franken, you."

More laughter and most of it derisive.

It is definitely time to get a haircut.

Who knows who I look like with short hair.

A slightly younger Barney Frank?

Big Bird Day

Last year I walked through Grand Central Terminal. Thousands of passengers sought to catch a train home for Thanksgiving. My sister had invited her family feast outside of Boston. I have to work on Friday and opted out on the holiday exodus to spend a quiet day at the Fort Greene Observatory.

I made myself eggs and toast for breakfast.

My options for a turkey dinner are limited to the buffet at Mikie Ds.

It's only a few blocks from my house.

That afternoon millions of mothers were putting on the final touches for the big dinner.

As a youth my Thanksgiving mornings were consumed by peeling apples, potatoes, turnips, carrots for our eight family members and another 5-10 guests.

My older brother called it ‘KP Day’.

After the turkey was done, my mother would extract the the crispy-skinned carcass out of the oven and order me to carry the big bird out the garage. Why was never explained to us.

One Thanksgiving I obeyed her command.

The garage door was open.

The air was cold.

It wouldn't take long for the bird to be ready for dinner.

My next-door neighbor came over to the driveway with a football. We had spent the morning at the football game between my hometown and their arch-rivals. The two of us went into the backyard to emulate the day’s heroes. After bobbling a long pass Chuckie pointed to the front lawn.

"What's with DJ?"

DJ was a neighborhood dog. I was in love with his owner, Kyla. The German Shepard had his entire head was masked by turkey and I heard my mother scream, “The turkey.”

I picked up a stick from the ground and charged to save our holiday meal. The big black dog fled from our yard with a slobbering snarl, leaving behind a mauled meal. My mother cried, “Where are we going to find a turkey now?”

My father looked at me. This was my fault. I didn’t even bother to explain my side of the story.

When you’re wrong as a child, proving you’re right is a waste of breath.

My older brother and younger siblings thanked me for ruining Thanksgiving.

DJ’s owners paid for our meal at a nearby hotel. The food was good and my mother didn’t have to wash any dishes.

The next day Kyla kissed me on the cheek for not beating her dog.

So even bad Thanksgivings can turn out okay, when life is good and it's always good to the last slice of pie on Turkey Day.

Bad Mouthing the Eagle

Back in the 18th Century Benjamin Franklin proposed the turkey for the national bird. The wild turkey of his era was a cunning wood creature living in large communes of fellow avians. Huge flocks of brightly plumed turkeys would cloud the skies. Benjamin Franklin was vehemently against the choice of the eagle as the national bird.

"I wish that the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country, he is a bird of bad moral character, he does not get his living honestly, you may have seen him perched on some dead tree, where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk, and when that diligent bird has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to its nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him and takes it from him. Besides he is a rank coward; the little kingbird, not bigger than a sparrow attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is therefore by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest. . . of America.. . . For a truth, the turkey is in comparison a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America . . . a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farmyard with a red coat on."

Nice talk for the national bird.

As for eagle as a meal, I googled cooked eagle and only came up with the following query on answers.com

I was driving the other day and hit a bald eagle that was flying across the street. It was a country road that usually isn't very busy, but I figured I would cook it since I've never had eagle before. Are there any recipes I should know about? Or any spices specifically? I live in Eastern Iowa so you know what may or may not be available to me. I didn't mean to hit it, it was like if a deer ran across the street.

2 years ago

This posting attracted outrage and weirdos.

KILLER: I kill eagles all the time, for fun. Especially since bald eagles don't even exist where I live.

maie: okay i believe you didn't mean to kill it, well you cant help things like that all the time, but they are an endangered species and it is illegal to kill it (on purpose I'm sure they will forgive an accident) and it is also illegal to have possession of it. i would call the local animal control center and see what they would tell you to do cuz if someone says that you have one, or sees it in your trash then you can get arrested. at that point you haven't made a report and you cant prove what happened.

OUTRAGE: It is a Federal Offense to Kill a Bald Eagle, or even HAVE one of its feathers in your possession.

MOR: WITH HOT SAUCE AND POSSUMS! NOM NOM NOM! just cook it like chicken

Otherwise nothing else on the internet.

So I guess eagles don't taste good.

Oh, the poor Turkey

The Elegance of the Wampanoags

The Wampanoags were not the savages, but the people of the dawn were driven near-extinction by a bacterial infection carried the Pilgrims, which left them defenseless to raids by the Micmacs and Pequots.

Despite these calamities the Wampanoags living near the Plymouth supposedly celebrated a particularly good harvest with the Pilgrims in the autumn of1621.

The event was poorly documented by the colonists, but the legend has endured in the minds of Americans as a cherished moment of peace between the Old World and the New World.

Within forty years the Wampanoags would once more be tested to the limit by the King Philip War.

Only 400 survived the fighting.

The Wampanoags sought refuge on Martha's Vinyard.

Today the the tribe numbers almost 2000.

I know one.

Big Ralph.

6-8.

A big man.

Wampanoag and proud of it.

Happy to be alive.

And me too, because I'm half-Irish.

And we were almost wiped out by the British.

Three times.

Happy Turkey Day.

One and all.

Trump Tricks Turkey

Donald Trump pardoned the White House turkey, but had the CIA rendition the bird to black-ops site, where his son shot it for sport.

He thought it was a leopard.

# 2 how do you feed the White House horde with one turkey?

One bird was barely enough to serve a white family of five in the 1950s.

With a lot of turkey helper stuffing.

Hmmmmm genetically modified food.

Facebook Ban on No Thanks Day

In 2013 I wrote the following on my Facebook page.

"My people arrived on the Mayflower. Howlands. We're still here. Where are the Wampanoags? On Nantucket protesting Thanksgiving. Happy Turkey Day."

An hour later the message and comments were removed by someone.

I am unable to use my home page and Facebook posted this.

Account Temporarily Unavailable.

Your account is currently unavailable due to a site issue. We expect this to be resolved shortly. Please try again in a few minutes.

Banned for Turkey Day.

I'm so unproud of America.

My Brother In Law's Thanks 1961

1961 was 51 years ago. I'm thankful to have DR as my BIL.