How many places are there around you that you might travel to see, but choose not to because, well, it’s right there and ‘we can see that anytime’? The experience is kept as a hip pocket deal, never to be used, seen or done. That is how we were about the sights and experiences of Plymouth and Plimoth, the new and the old.
To set things right, I coaxed my wife into a trip to Plimoth Plantation this summer past. It is close enough to be considered walking distance for us, yet people from around the world come to visit. Nearly every school age child within, say, forty miles of Plimoth Plantation experiences a field trip to it. I went when I was in elementary school. But when I went as a child, it was smaller and had little to do with the Wampanoag people.
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Plimoth Plantation was bustling with activity when we arrived on Thanksgiving Day. It had to be the busiest day of their year. We got lucky and found a parking spot right across from the huge timber staircase leading to the main building. I saw license plates from virtually every state in New England, Virginia, and Ontario. There were outdoor pavilions set up all around the main building. They served varying degrees of Thanksgiving Day fare, the smell of mulled cider was strong in the air. Our tickets included all the regular attractions, but we had visited during the summer when it was warmer.
Our reservations for the Victorian Dinner were made in June for a two-thirty seating and we arrived a half hour early so we wouldn’t have to rush or be seated late. The early arrival turned out to be a good call. The overcast sky showed the age of the year, but it remained a warm fifty degree day and I opted for a fall jacket over a nice shirt and slacks. My wife wore a pants suit. The attire at the Victorian Thanksgiving Dinner was, for the most part, a well dressed affair; though the people milling about around the grounds were dressed as variously as you’d find at any mall.
There was an information table just inside the doors of the main building where we were informed that people would be seated shortly, and given directions – take a right, go to the end and bear to the left and it’s right there. A line had formed for the dining room that ended right at the entrance to the gift shop which helped add to the confusion of the hallway. Two ladies in wheel chairs sat contentedly conversing about the day, down in their own waist-high world. Children hurried about full of the exuberance of youth. There were some who were lost and parties involved in the search, and sometimes one could match them up.
And the line started moving.
At the bend in the hall was a makeshift bar serving all manner of alcoholic fare; wine bottles of local vintage were placed prominently. Between that and the French doors of the dining hall, another table held a cornucopia of fruits and nuts. A hostess podium skirted the French doors where my name was checked off and my assigned table was announced. Hurriedly, my eyes scanned the room and the table numbers, but I didn’t see ours right away.
We were escorted to table fourteen; a table by the windows at the far corner. Our seats faced the room which made them excellent seats for sure, but facing the other way would have given us a view of the pond below and the ocean farther out. It was a no-lose situation. Once seated, the chairs are a sort of time machine.
The year was 1863; the year a day of Thanksgiving was first officially set aside as a national holiday. President Lincoln set the holiday for the last Thursday of November as a way of celebrating Union successes. Before that, a day of thanksgiving was observed irregularly, and had actually fallen out of favor in most areas of the country.
The reserved couple seated across from us hailed from Dennis, on Cape Cod. At the end of the table was a man claiming to be from Texas (pronounced Tex-ass) who was gregarious and extremely vocal. Once dialed down with a polite amount of good ole New England disregard, the Texan from Fairhaven, Connecticut whose ‘wife’ bore no rings (hint, hint, nudge, nudge) didn’t detract from the atmosphere.
The table was well set for a fine meal. We drank cider from goblets and started by passing about plates of celery and carrot sticks, grapes, cheese, and bread sticks; and baskets of rolls and pumpkin bread with a strong hint of molasses.
At various points around the room, in keeping with the year 1863, were men in top hats and high collars, women in hoop skirts and lace gloves, and even a few Union soldiers who talked about those ‘damned persistent Southerners’. They stayed in character throughout. Once everyone was seated and situated, a well dressed man in top hat and tails, announced himself as a Hoxie of the New England Hoxie’s and proceeded to say grace.
Once thanks were given for the bounty of the season, and for Union successes, we were served a split pea soup that carried a peppery aftertaste.
Soon glasses were being tapped with silverware at the insistence of one of the hosts who presented something of a toast; most of which included an ode to the venerable pumpkin pie. A resounding ‘Hear, hear’ from all points of the room could be heard as we finished the toast.
In the interim of dishes being cleared, the room joined in a song called We Gather Together. The words of which were printed on the back of a leaflet left at each place setting. It was heartwarming to hear the measure of sincerity I heard during that song. It is a damn fine thing to be a citizen of these United States.
The main course was then carried out to the tables which included roast native turkey with a large boat of gravy, traditional bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, butternut squash, steamed and cubed turnip, Harvard beets, creamed onions, and cranberry relish. Everything arrived at the table piping hot and was as delicious as anything I’ve had that was made at home.
A Union soldier came by the table and asked where everyone was from. I told him I lived right up the street. Then I mentioned that the man seated next to me hailed from Texas. The Union soldier said, “Really?” and turned to him. I could see another boastful Texas tirade coming as he inhaled and considered how to start. In keeping with the year 1863 I seized the opportunity by interjecting with, “Yes, he’s a southerner and he’s wearing shoes.” That got a good smirk from the soldier and he let it pass, seeing the Texan’s chest deflate some. I could almost hear the rest of the table breathe a sigh of relief.
Our table passed the platters of food around twice. During the meal, a group of singers in period attire sang songs as varied as The Battle Hymn of the Republic and, once they learned the man next to me hailed from Texas, they sang Skip to my Lou. The end of that song goes like this:
Off to Texas,
Two by two,
Off to Texas,
Two by two,
Off to Texas,
Two by two,
Skip to my Lou, the darlin’.
Yes, those were simpler times. The singers were very entertaining harmonizers and at several points were joined by the room to great effect.
At a point before dessert, a Union soldier gained the attentions of all by announcing he had a proclamation from the President. He then loudly read the proclamation written by then Secretary of State, William H. Seward and signed by President Lincoln. It was the beginning of our nation observing Thanksgiving Day on a single day, that day being the last Thursday of November as a national holiday.
Desserts included Indian Pudding about which the Union soldier standing next to me said, “It’s good. You can barely taste the Indian.” Other desserts included pumpkin pie and apple pie. Now apple pie is something that many things are as American as, so I wasn’t inspired by that selection. My wife makes the best pumpkin pie this side of the Mississippi, and I didn’t think I’d find any competition for that title on Plimoth Plantation. I was, on the other hand, intrigued by the Indian Pudding. I’m not sure if I’ve ever had the likes of it. It turns out that it is made of corn meal and egg and hasn’t a bit of Indian in it. I thought it was very good for what it was made of and imagine it was probably the most authentic thing available there.
During dessert, a gal in a hoop skirt came by and introduced herself as a member of the Spooner family. She told us that her father operated the Cordage factory in town. He learned his craft down south and came to Plymouth to start his own business, hiring paid labor instead of using slaves and shipping the hemp in from Russia. Nowadays, Cordage Park is a historic location that has been partitioned off for various businesses. My primary care physician has an office there.
We decided to leave after a cup of coffee because we had some stops to make and time was moving on. We had been there for two and a half hours and enjoyed it as though it were only an hour.
My only regret is that we did not bring a camera. I would recommend this experience to everyone who is in the area, but you must plan ahead. Tickets go on sale in June and sell out quickly. And the Victorian Dinner is definitely the way to go. It is an experience that is truly unique.
