![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I was asked earlier this week, by a visitor, 'what do people do here for Thanksgiving?'. An awkward question, in so many ways. I responded approximately that we didn't observe the festival, but that the extra day off work would be nice.
Of course, we don't practice Thanksgiving: instead we've a fundamental sense that we're entitled to all of this to begin with and that it's not all that fantastic anyway. Or maybe that's just me.
I suppose 'Harvest Festival' is similar - a few tins of baked beans and Mr Smedley's prize marrow from the allotment dumped by the font like a socially embarrassing Ocado delivery. That's as close as we get.
But then I looked up the origins of this Thanksgiving business and encountered the Pilgrim Fathers. An insufferable bunch of gits. Outcasts from the East Mids: they were actually Too Dull for Lincolnshire. They'd sit in the pub over a glass of orange juice all evening, if you could even get them in there. Throwing paddies about anything looking like fun. Limited sense of humour. It's said they were so uptight you could bend them over and use them as pencil sharpeners. Good thing we got shot of them.
So we, as a nation, do have something to be thankful for. Cheers to the Native Americans, for taking the puritans off our hands. You must have had the patience of saints. We're much obliged to you for the tolerance and hospitality you have shown. Particularly given how things turned out. You know, the smallpox and so on. If you're ever over here we'll buy you a drink. You'll probably need one by now. Thank you.
Of course, we don't practice Thanksgiving: instead we've a fundamental sense that we're entitled to all of this to begin with and that it's not all that fantastic anyway. Or maybe that's just me.
I suppose 'Harvest Festival' is similar - a few tins of baked beans and Mr Smedley's prize marrow from the allotment dumped by the font like a socially embarrassing Ocado delivery. That's as close as we get.
But then I looked up the origins of this Thanksgiving business and encountered the Pilgrim Fathers. An insufferable bunch of gits. Outcasts from the East Mids: they were actually Too Dull for Lincolnshire. They'd sit in the pub over a glass of orange juice all evening, if you could even get them in there. Throwing paddies about anything looking like fun. Limited sense of humour. It's said they were so uptight you could bend them over and use them as pencil sharpeners. Good thing we got shot of them.
So we, as a nation, do have something to be thankful for. Cheers to the Native Americans, for taking the puritans off our hands. You must have had the patience of saints. We're much obliged to you for the tolerance and hospitality you have shown. Particularly given how things turned out. You know, the smallpox and so on. If you're ever over here we'll buy you a drink. You'll probably need one by now. Thank you.
