In anticipation of Mark Twain’s birthday on the 30th of this month — and to explain the origin of Thanksgiving — we offer the second entry in a three-part series running consecutive Tuesdays. Twain moved his family to Connecticut, in 1872. As he began to explore Hartford’s scenery and history, one imagines he might have found some curiosities in both. One imagines he might have been prompted to reflection. One imagines he might have written this.
Chris’s astonishment notwithstanding, he was so grateful to have company in the New World (and for them squaws in their full bosom-ness), he thought he should gather his crew together with the Indians to have a big dinner. At first, since his crew was in a state of full nautical dress, and the Indians were in a state of complete nakedness, Chris thought he’d call the dinner The United States. He ruled that out, though, thinking the term wasn’t catchy enough to have any historical value. But, not being one to look a budding tradition in the mouth, Chris decided they might as well take their chances with posterity, call it Thanksgiving, and hold it every year in the Fall, after the mosquitoes went to New Jersey for the Winter. (Chris had originally planned to land his fleet in New Jersey; but, while passing the island of Manhattan, one of his crew remarked, “I’ll bet if we played our cards right, we could pick this baby up for cheap.” Chris responded, “Right.” Taking the remark as a direct order, the helmsman pulled hard to starboard; and the rest, as they say, is history. Chris died without ever having smelled an oil refinery.) Which brings me back to Thanksgiving and transportation and them brave Indian braves and the history of Hartford.
Not knowing that turkeys were indigenous to the immediate environs of Plymouth Rock and that they’d be considerably easier to stuff, Chris chose four of the bravest of them brave Indian braves to bring back a couple of lions for the feast. Since there seemed to be a marked scarcity of lions ’round about Plymouth Rock at that time, and since them brave Indian braves didn’t have any transportation, let alone bus fare, Chris let them borrow the Nina to cruise the coastline for lions. The plan was to sail parallel with the big cats, shoot them with the boat’s cannons, paddle ashore in a canoe, haul what was left of the lion carcasses down to the water, pull them with the canoe back to the Nina, tie them off from her stern, and drag them along behind the boat back to Plymouth Rock. (Hence, the expression, tow the lion.) But by the time them lions fielded a few cannonballs and took 
on the toothy treachery of the shark-infested Plymouth Harbor, there wasn’t enough left for a cat burger. So, Chris and the crew settled for a couple of squirrels – and a woodfinch, which was too small to stuff – and took a few hits off the peace pipes. Which brings me back to the munchies and Thanksgiving and transportation and them brave Indian braves and the history of Hartford.
Feeling none too thankful and more than a little hungry after their rather hapless holiday repast, Chris and the boys bolstered their crew by drafting a few of them brave Indian braves – and bolstered their chances for a little sea-going lechery by recruiting a handful of them squaws in their full bosom-ness – and set sail in a southerly direction the next day, navigating along the Massachusetts coastline toward Sandwich, in hopes of scoring a decent Lobster Roll before heading on to Cuba for a post-prandial cigar. When the first mate reported that the local diet just then consisted exclusively of cat burgers, squirrel, and woodfinch – owing to a particularly pernicious strain of red tide – Chris said “Right” again, the boats hooked another fortuitous tack to starboard, and the floundering fleet traversed the Cape Cod Canal. They emerged in Buzzard’s Bay, sailed its length, narrowly missed discovering Martha’s Vineyard, and stopped for provisions (but no catburgers, squirrel, or woodfinch) at the naval bases in Newport and Groton.
Neither of those cities bore the names of their respective states at that time because the nominal submissions were tied up in committee, in keeping with the legislative protocol still practiced in the New World. The name Massachusetts was officially approved after the few Massachusett Indians who survived a European-introduced plague between 1616 and 1619 moved to Hollywood to get work as extras after the English colonization of 1630. The name Connecticut was officially approved in 1639 after Thomas Hooker and his congregation left Massachusetts to be closer to their in-laws; although, the Dutch explorer Adriaen Block, the first European in Connecticut, had been to Connecticut and sailed as far north as Hartford in 1614. Nevertheless, Connecticut was adopted as the state’s name after the legislature deadlocked and a referendum was held to decide between Blockhead, Hooker Heaven, Nutmeg, and Connecticut. Which brings me back to Thanksgiving and transportation and them brave Indian braves and the history of Hartford.
After leaving port in Groton, the boats resumed their southeasterly course. As they passed Old Lyme, a deckhand exclaimed, “Hey! Ain’t this the place where they grow them fruits the Brits eat to prevent scurvy?! Maybe we can grab a few to make up for that lousy Thanksgiving dinner.” Chris, as had become his wont, said “Right”, and the flighty flotilla hung yet another starboard turn and headed up the Connecticut River. (Unlike the State, the river derived its name from the word quinetucket, which, in the lexicon of the Obvious Indian tribe of northern New Hampshire whence the river originates, means long tidal river. Adriaen Block and the other Dutch settlers called it the Fresh River, and used it to mark the border between New Netherlands and New England. But when New Netherlands was given to the Lenape Indians as compensation for the Manhattan Swindle of 1626, nobody cared.)
Still feeling a tad punky for lack of tryptophan – and having not brought enough of them brave Indian braves to accomplish the storming of Gillette’s Castle – Chris and his crew decided to take a rain check on that particular task, opting instead to proceed straightaway to the annual air show at Pratt & Whitney in East Hartford. But Fate intervened again. Mistaking the steam coming from the CL&P co-generation plant for smoke signals from Pratt & Whitney’s air traffic control tower, the faltering formation put into port at Dutch Point in Hartford. As they disembarked, Divine Providence afforded them witness to a magnificent vision – the Hartford Moose, scratching his antlers on the Charter Oak high atop Wyllys Hill – and daftness was forever fused with destiny. Which brings me back to them brave Indian braves and the history of Hartford.
To be continued ….
Related posts:
- Betwixt and Be Twain: Part One
- Betwixt and Be Twain: Part Three
- The Official Article About Official State Of Connecticut Stuff
- Hot Air
- Is There a Homeowner in the House?
