'In The Garden'

Driving through the dense fog and drizzle, I pass through miles of country back roads in Dighton and Rehoboth, Massachusetts.

But even under overcast skies, the vegetation is gorgeous. The trees, heavy laden with new leaves, bend across the road creating a tunnel into the Garden of Eden; and bright spots of fuchsia rhododendrons catch the eye around every bend.

The mist gives this isolated place an ethereal quality, and my slow speed navigating unfamiliar roads gives me the opportunity to pay close attention to my surroundings.

I begin to notice how many pre-Revolutionary homes sit close to the street with their barns and outhouses nestled close by. 

And I imagine colonists on horseback galloping by...                         

Arriving for the service at Reboboth Congregational Church, I climb the old wooden steps, and I am greeted by Pilgrims.

There is a Pilgrim with a musket over his shoulder and a Pilgrim couple on the seashore, depicted in two of the beautiful stained glass windows. Along another wall of windows, Jesus beckons. 

According to their history, the congregation has been entwined with that of the town of Rehoboth since 1643. The Reverend Samuel Newman, along with others, established the settlement and erected the first meeting house on the east bank of the Ten Mile River, and called the town “Rehoboth.”

A book enshrined in a glass case at the front of the church is open to this King James passage: “So he called its name Rehoboth, because he said, ‘For now the Lord has made room for us, and we shall be fruitful in the land.’” (Genesis 26:22)

Wanting to worship regularly, the Reverend David Turner, and ten founding members of the new congregation, completed a “new” meeting house on November 29, 1721.

The third meeting house, their present sanctuary, was completed in 1839 and was known as “The Church in the Barnyard.”

The stained glass windows were added in 1906.

A plaque on the wall commemorates the life of one of their members, a deacon of the church who was born in 1744 and lived for 98 years.

Sitting on the small hard bench, I pray silently, while I await the start of the service.

I smile when the lovely young minister takes the pulpit. What would our Pilgrim forefathers have thought of that?

Stepping out into the bright sunshine, I retrace my path on the winding roads; and this time I see the contemporary homes sprawled on acreage along the way.

As a New Englander, I am rooted to this land; and sometimes I feel I have one foot in the past and the other in the present.

I crank up the engine of my shiny blue sports car and glide along these now familiar roads with the words of the old hymn "In The Garden" still ringing in my ears:  

 

“I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses; and the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses. And he walks with me, and he talks with me, and he tells me I am his own, and the joy we share, as we tarry there, none other has ever known.”

Thanksgiving with the Pilgrims

In 1621, Pilgrim Edward Winslow wrote to a friend in England. His letter records the only eyewitness account of the first Thanksgiving feast:

“Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. The four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed on our governor, and upon the captain and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty.”

Personally, I once had the good fortune to meet a Pilgrim.

Working as the food editor for Hometown magazine, I received an assignment to interview an impersonator.

A self-taught historian and gifted cook, the lady had applied for a position at Plimoth Plantation.

“I picked Plimoth Plantation for no good reason,” she told me. “What kind of skills do you need to be a Pilgrim?”

She portrayed Julia Kempton, the older sister of Governor Carver’s wife.

A 40-year-old widow with three children, Julia was marrying a 21-year-old.

“I’d always say that he was marrying me because of my great cooking,” she quipped.

Julia Kempton shared a homestead with her nephew.

“My ‘housemate’ was a trained chef, who was between jobs,” she said. “At Plimoth Plantation we were expected to do the actual cooking, but it was important that everything we prepared was cooked authentically. It got so that the head of the Cooking Department there would give us the very best ingredients, and we’d have a feast at our house.”

The Pilgrims ate lobster sometimes out of necessity.

“They didn’t enjoy it, but we sure did,” she told me.

Next Thursday, we, New Englanders, will recreate our forebears' harvest feast, with turkey, native to these parts, and all the trimmings.

By the goodness of God, I pray that you are so far from want and partakers of plenty on this Thanksgiving Day.

Not just another fish story

I am a Yankee through and through, raised on rocky New England soil with the sensibilities of our hardy Pilgrim predecessors.

Yet, I am also third-generation Azorean-Portuguese and that part of me surfaces in my desire to live near the water’s edge, as well as in words – in the language of my forebears – that occasionally come to mind.

Last week without thinking I spouted a phrase that I heard my grandparents often say. Frankly, I never quite understood its meaning before; but this time it described the situation perfectly.

I said, “Nao mata engorda,” which loosely translated means: “If it doesn’t kill you, it will fatten you.”

My husband loves to fish, and he always hooks the requisite amount of scup. After he cleans the fish, he coats it in a layer of flour seasoned with salt, crushed pepper and garlic; then slowly grills it. When done, it looks like a steak; and there is no fishy smell.

Although I like fish and often order it in restaurants, I prefer filets. While scup is a tasty fish, it has a multitude of tiny bones that no matter how hard you try are difficult to avoid. They blend into the white flesh and after a bite have to be fished out of the mouth.

Consequently, I never eat scup – that is, until last week.

My husband had caught a gigantic specimen, and he grilled it to perfection. He asked me to give it another try.

Before handing me a small portion, he removed the center bone and every single sliver of bone that he could unearth from the flesh.

Carefully, I put pieces into my mouth no bigger than a peppercorn and chewed them to mush before swallowing. I filled up on boiled potatoes and salad.

Every time we eat fish, we always talk about the first time my husband sampled trout. We were dating back then, and my brother brought home his catch. Used to saltwater fish, we were anxious to try them.

Unfortunately, my husband swallowed a bone, and rather than make a fuss, he went to the bathroom where he says he did surgery on himself. Needless to say, it was a harrowing experience.

When we were done eating, I took a drink of orange juice, sucking the liquid through a straw; and that’s when I felt a dart pierce the right side of my throat.

I’ll never forget the ashen look on my husband’s face, as I coughed and choked, trying to remove the tiny knife embedded in my flesh. He kept apologizing over and over again, but it was my fault for breaking the fast.

Every time I pushed under my chin, I swore I could still feel the bone, nailed in place. I drank “gallons” of water, downed huge chunks of multigrain bread; and with my husband’s bidding, ate a whole bag of microwaved popcorn.

My husband insisted I go to the Emergency Room; but the sharp pain eventually ceased; and I was pretty sure, I had swallowed the thing.

The next day I awoke with a sore throat.

Five days after the injury, I am thankful that I can relate this fish tale to you. I am well, although a tiny bit heavier.