I have strong doubts that the first Thanksgiving even remotely resembled the 'history' I was told in second grade. But considering that (when it comes to holidays) mainstream America's traditions tend to be over-eating, shopping, or getting drunk, I suppose it's a miracle that the concept of giving thanks even surfaces at all.
There is properly no history; only biography.
Words build bridges into unexplored regions.
The two greatest characters in the 19th century are Napoleon and Helen Keller. Napoleon tried to conquer the world by physical force and failed. Helen tried to conquer the world by power of mind — and succeeded!
Nothing, like something, happens anywhere.
Everything stands out, still and back-lit, so different to the ever-moving sludge of the present day. Nothing is real until it's gone: before then it's just shadows playing. Today is a joke, accidentaly and flawed. It's only yesterday that sings.
"Let them call me a rebel and welcome it. Fore I feel no concern from it; but I should suffer the misery of devils were I to make a whore of my soul"
You can't rewrite history. Not one line!
Like everyone else I am what I am: an individual, unique and different, with a lineal history of ancestral promptings and urgings; a history of dreams, desires, and of special experiences, all of which I am the sum total.
The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you can see.