A history lesson

So how often does this get to happen? You learn about a period in history, read books, color maps, etc. etc., and then get to go there. And people are dressed and working as they would have been then. I felt like Ms. Frizzle from the Magic Schoolbus. So serendipitous to have family living in Massachusetts!

Here are a few pics to tell the story of our trip to Plimoth Plantation last Friday (and I am happy to say that the Plantation IS handicap-accessible, and I like to get my dad out and about when we visit, so huzzah huzzah, the whole family went this time!).

The Mayflower! (A reproduction, of course)


A fearless sailor I brought on board.


Ian spent a long time sketching in his notebook.


Caroline and I outside the door of a Wampanoag hut. (Smoky inside!)


Real Wampanoag women, doing traditional cooking and beadwork. See the toddler? Interesting fact -- our generation of Wampanoags, of which there are two communities in MA, teaches their children to speak Wampanoag first, then English, in order to preserve their threatened culture.


Plimoth Village -- gotta love those thatched roofs. Going into the dark houses, though, and imagining spending a long winter cooped up inside for much of the day with only a smoky fire and a few candles for a light, all my little presentistic mind could think was, "Hello, seasonal affect disorder!"


Ian explaining to one of the "Pilgrims" (and yes, he made the quote marks with his fingers when referring to them later -- too funny) a new strategy for keeping his matchlock gun going. I love that the guy actually listened to him. Sort of like the security guard at Logan Airport this morning who managed to look appropriately concerned and even alarmed when Ian, compelled by the posted admonitions to "report suspicious activity," gravely mentioned to him about the "bald man SNEAKING behind a pillar outside." I'm nominating that guy for Security Guard of the Year. Must be a dad.


Our happy crew, minus my sister and her husband, who were photographing. Oh, and as a finishing touch, guess what Eliza chose from the gift shop as her souvenir?

A smooshed penny? A plastic Pilgrim doll? A stick of rock candy? No. A ball of yarn.

A beautiful, crimson ball of hand-spun woolen yarn.

Somehow that makes me love her even more, if that's possible.

And now she's teaching her siblings how to knit using one of these.