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Copyright Notice© Lynne Schaefer and Lynne's Notebook, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Lynne Schaefer and Lynne's Notebook with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
American schoolchildren learn the first Thanksgiving occurred when the pilgrims and Wampanoag tribe shared a feast to celebrate the Massachusetts colony’s first successful autumn harvest in 1621.
American schoolchildren did not learn that East Coast Indians celebrated and gave thanks for their fall bounty for centuries before Mayflower pilgrims set foot on American soil November 11, 1620 at what is now Provincetown, Massachusetts.
Squanto, a member of the Pawtuxet tribe belonging to the Wampanoag Confederation, served as an interpreter who taught the Mayflower settlers at Plymouth how to survive in New England.
Around 1614, Squanto was captured as a young man along with 23 other Native Americans by an exploring English sea captain and taken to Malaga, Spain where they were sold as slaves. Squanto escaped to England where he learned English, found employment with a London merchant, sailed to Newfoundland, and made his way in 1619 to what is now Maine.
Squanto showed the Mayflower settlers how to plant and tend 20 acres of corn and use fish (herrings) to fertilize the soil.
Fifty pilgrims, Chief Massosoit and 90 Indians belonging to the Wampanoag Confederation attended the three-day Harvest Celebration of 1621.
Pilgrims used only a knife, a spoon, a large napkin and their fingers to partake of venison (the Natives brought five deer); wild turkeys, geese and ducks stuffed with herbs, leeks, wild onions and shelled chestnuts; eels, clams, lobsters, and mussels with parsley and vinegar; beans, sunchokes, stewed pumpkins, plums, melons, grapes, currants, cranberries, and sweet Indian corn pudding.
The harvest festival was not repeated for 10 years. The pilgrims and Native Americans lived in peace until thousands of settlers arrived and spread a plague that almost decimated the Indian population.
On October 3, 1789, President George Washington declared November 26, 1789 a day of thanksgiving to express gratitude for the creation of the United States.
During the Civil War, On October 3, 1863, President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed the first national holiday to observe the harvest festival on November 26, 1863 as an annual Thanksgiving Day celebration for family gatherings to feast and enjoy each other’s company.
In 1939, President Franklin Roosevelt changed Thanksgiving observance from the last Thursday in November to the fourth Thursday to allow a longer Christmas shopping season during that difficult economic year. The change was made again in 1940, and Congress made it permanent in 1941. (The fourth Thursday is usually the last Thursday in November.)
The USA is only one of several countries to celebrate a day of Thanksgiving for a year of good harvest.
- Canada observes Thanksgiving on the second Monday in October.
- Germany celebrates “Erntedankfest” (autumn harvest festival thanksgiving) the first Sunday in October.
- The Chinese Moon Festival is celebrated on the 15th day of the 8th lunar month with a full moon. (October 4, 2017; September 24, 2018)
- The island of Barbados in the Caribbean celebrates at the end of the sugar cane harvest.
- The African nation of Liberia celebrates on the first Thursday in November.
- Brazil thanks God for all good things in life on the fourth Thursday in November.
- Since the 1948 American Occupation, Japan has observed November 23 as Labor Thanksgiving Day, an opportunity for unions and workers to celebrate their labor and production.
On Thanksgiving Day, present day Native Americans include a celebration of their survival.
First snow of season, Friday October 13, 2017
Mom felt well enough to accompany me on a two-week road trip across Nevada to Utah, Wyoming, Idaho and Oregon in my first car, a 1954 Ford Victoria. The Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, and Sun Valley, Idaho, exceeded our expectations.
When we arrived home, Daddy told Mom their friend and his coworker Agatha had filed for divorce.
As Mom’s condition gradually worsened, she consented to use a wheelchair.
I married and moved a 30-minute drive away across the bay to Marin County and continued to visit her once a week. By then she was completely bedridden. During one visit, she told me, “You are the apple of your father’s eye. I want you to know some things because I can get back at him only through you. He spends a lot of time at Agatha’s apartment in between chauffeuring her daughter to and from school events. Agatha wants to take my place. Promise me that when I die, you will take my cup and saucer collection. I do not want Agatha to have it.”
I could not believe what I was hearing, but I agreed to her request.
On my next visit, Mom was very upset. “Your father sold my shotgun. He took it and sold it without asking me. My father gave it to me,” she said as tears welled in her eyes. He taught me to shoot it and to hunt with him. Your father had no right to sell my gun.” And she cried.
Note: Years later I learned he gave it to my younger brother Ransom. It would have given Mom peace of mind to know that her favorite child inherited her .410 shotgun. I’ll never know why Daddy lied to Mom.
Mom hanged herself seven months to the day I married. Within hours Daddy showed me her death certificate signed by the family doctor. I scanned down to read the cause of death: strangulation, self-inflicted.
“This could ruin me,” Daddy said. “Promise me you’ll never tell. Ransom must never know this happened.”
Note: After publication of my memoir, a cousin informed me that all the family in Martinez knew immediately after it happened. If I had known, it might have eased my burden of keeping Mom’s suicide secret for 60 years. I’ll never know why the father I adored, admired, and believed could do no wrong, lied to me and later disowned me.
Another note: After Daddy died 40 years to the day he married Mom, I obtained a copy of Mom’s death certificate. It was half the size of the original death certificate Daddy showed me the morning Mom hanged herself. No cause of death appeared; only the date and place. Daddy fixed it so Mom’s suicide would never surface.
A month after Mom died, Daddy asked if I would go with him to attend his father Pa’s funeral in Martinez. Pa had never been a grandfather to me or to Ransom. He disliked Mom because he blamed her for his wife Laura’s death. Laura was dying from a kidney disease with no hope of recovery. Mom offered to help care for Laura during her final days at home in addition to working as a registered nurse at the community hospital. When Daddy’s mother died four days later, Pa blamed Mom because she happened to be with Laura when she died. Pa never acknowledged me as his first granddaughter or Ransom as his second grandson. Every holiday season, an envelope addressed to Manfred Richards arrived by mail to our house saying “Merry Christmas, Son.”
~ Fini ~
He always knew the correct answers to questions that stumped me. I thought he knew more than my school teachers. I wanted to learn from him and, someday, know as much as he did.
He studied to be a contestant on a San Francisco radio quiz show among local newsmen. The subject was Abraham Lincoln. Daddy knew everything about Lincoln. Daddy was smart; I knew he would win.
At the appointed hour, Mom and I sat by the radio. Men answered the questions, but we didn’t hear Daddy’s voice at all.
“Is Daddy there?” I asked.
“Shh! Listen,” Mom said.
When he came home, Mom said, “I know you were there because the announcer introduced you.”
“Christ, I was so nervous I just froze.”
One winter weekend at Twain Harte, Daddy drove us above the snow line until he saw a “nice little slope” as he called it. He parked the car off the road and lifted the rental toboggan from the car.
“Let me try it first,” he said, “to make sure it’s safe.”
He pushed off down the slope and disappeared over a rise at the bottom. We waited for him to reappear. And waited. And waited.
I ran down the hill and over the rise. There he was, sitting on the toboggan in the middle of a shallow, icy stream.
Daddy planned more than one vacation a year: summer at the Russian River or southern California beaches, and the Tournament of Roses Parade and Rose Bowl game New Year’s Day.
Mom & Lynne – Dad & Ransom, La Jolla Caves, 1948.
I thought we enjoyed our times together.We never missed an episode of Hopalong Cassidy after Daddy bought our first black and white television set. For Christmas in1950, Daddy’s coworkers presented him with a Hopalong Cassidy doll.
Daddy looks happy in all my album photos. Decades later, however, I heard that “his life was filled with unhappiness and frustration.”
He sure fooled us.
Additional excerpts from my memoir, His Daughter’s Remembrance, to follow . . .
Mom experienced increasing difficulty walking and felt too unsteady to travel east again with my father for his annual visit to the American Society of Newspaper Editors (ASNE) convention in Washington, D.C. so he invited me to accompany him. It was my first trip east of the Rockies, and a grand one at that, but I never imagined it would be our final vacation together.
First stop was New York City where he showed me the historical spots, tourist attractions, restaurants and Broadway shows he had shown Mom.
It could happen only in Brooklyn. At Ebbets Field to be exact. We were among the more than 25,000 in the stands for the opening game of the 1956 National League season. Drill teams, bands, marching units, and hundreds of youngsters paraded past home plate to congregate in center field. Dodgers and Philadelphia players stood at attention along the foul lines, and the crowd rose for the national anthem. The band began to play and then paused. Instead of singing “The Star-Spangled Banner”, a voice over the loudspeaker asked, “Who’s going to raise the flag?”
Embarrassed officials had no one to raise the first ever World Champions flag to fly over Ebbets Field. A Marine Corps color guard rescued the ceremony.
After a thirty-six minute delayed start, the Phillies outscored the World Champion Dodgers 8-6.
When Ebbets Field opened in 1913, Brooklyn officials had not only forgotten the stars and stripes flag but also the key to open the ballpark. Only in Brooklyn.
Additional excerpts from my memoir, His Daughter’s Remembrance, to follow . . .
Continuing with excerpts from my memoir, His Daughter’s Remembrance, our family followed the Seals away games to Oakland and Sacramento and planned vacations around games in distant cities.
In August 1948 when we visited the Oregon Caves and Crater Lake on our way to Canada, we cheered for the Seals in a Pacific Coast League game against the Portland Beavers at Vaughn Street Park. We rooted for the Seals’ Yakima Washington farm team in Vancouver’s Capilano Stadium and watched another PCL game at Sick Stadium, home of the Seattle Rainiers.
The following summer, we drove south to see the Seals play the San Diego Padres at Lane Field, the Los Angeles Angels at Wrigley Field, and the Hollywood Stars at Gilmore Field, where Mom was hit by a line-drive foul ball. Despite a severe headache, she insisted we stay in our seats above the third-base dugout until the end of the game.
Every spring, Daddy assigned a photographer to Seals Stadium to shoot pictures of each player for publication during the season. In 1949, the photographer printed an extra set of 8×10 black-and-white glossies for me. Before each game, I stood with youngsters by the third-base dugout and asked each player to personalize his picture by signing “To Lynne”. Some of the players asked, “Where did you get these?”
When I explained that I wanted to hang them in our rumpus room, they eagerly obliged, most adding “Best Wishes” or “Good Luck”. I framed and hung the twenty pictures on the blank wall above the studio couch.
The following January, Daddy hosted a Hot Stove night in our rumpus room. Two of Daddy’s sports reporters swapped baseball anecdotes with chief Seals scout and former PCL umpire Al Fioresi, Joe Orengo, manager of the Seals’ Yakima, Washington farm club, pitcher Dick Larner, outfielder Brooks Holder, infielder Jim Moran, and Seals’ vice president Charlie Graham.
When they entered the room, someone said, “Oh, so it’s this rumpus room!”
Team members thought their autographed pictures were to hang in a popular bar they frequented on the Peninsula named The Rumpus Room.
To be continued . . .