Plimouth Plantation, Plymouth MA
On a blue-sky day in June, Karen and I step back in time nearly 400 years visiting the pilgrims at Plimouth Plantation is Plymouth Massachusetts. In the 17th century village Francis Cooke, sitting on a bench and carving a wooden spoon, asks if we had come over land or over the water. “We drove” I say absently and then “We came over land.”
“Are you here to see anyone in particular?” He asks.
“Yes, I hope to see John Howland or possibly Peter Brown if they are here.”
“You are in luck” Francis says, “Here comes Peter Brown now.”
I turn to see a man about my height and maybe a few pound heavier walking toward us. He wears a long sleeve shirt, a loose felt hat and has a short beard. He drinks from a small leather bota. When I introduce myself as his tenth great-grandson he is taken aback, possibly because he is at least ten years my junior.
We learn that Peter did not leave England because of religious persecution as I had thought. His interests are more the opportunity that life in the New World can provide. “I am the third of three boys and so I am unlikely to inherit much other than my good name but here, here I hope that my hard work will lead to a better life for my children.”
Later he tells us that through land grants he will have 400 acres of land in his name, much of it he hopes to give to his daughter. “Here Mary has opportunity. In England she would have only what a husband might provide. We are really no different than anyone else, are we? We just seek something better for our children.”
I ask Peter why he thinks the colony will be successful while others like Jamestown have failed. He laughs. “We came here because we wanted to be here. Look at Jamestown and others. They were military outposts. Once the settlers arrived they started fighting amongst themselves. We are a tribe of sorts. We work together for the betterment of our colony for our group. We are not individuals.”
Finally, I ask what he fears coming so far, and from a city to a very remote land on the other side of an ocean. “We are in God’s hands so I am not fearful. It is His will that we are here. How else to explain our safe passage?” Peter tells us of a night last winter when he and a friend became lost with their dogs. As darkness fell they decided it would be best to stay put until morning when they could get their bearings but then they heard what they thought was a lion creeping just out of sight. They heard a second and a third lion. Unarmed and fearing the worst they sought refuge beneath the branches of a tree whose boughs drooped to the ground. They huddled with their dogs by the trunk of the tree making as little noise as possible while the lions circled. Soon the lions left and in the morning they climbed a tall tree saw some familiar land and found their way home. “The Lord watches over us. I am not afraid.”
We bid Peter good day and walk the length of the village entering several of the small houses. The homes are spare, usually no more than a room or two with a hearth at one end for both cooking and heat. The walls are thin, usually boards insulated with brick or clay. Furniture consists mostly of strictly functional chairs, benches and tables hewn from hardwood since arrival but here and there furniture brought from on the ships; a crib, a chest of drawers, in every home a bible. Most homes have dirt floor and everywhere the smell of woodsmoke. It is hard to imagine a winter’s cold and darkness.
We meet two women preparing a fire in the common baking oven. One of the women turns out to be Elizabeth Tilley Howland, or as we are corrected, Goodwife Howland, my 8th great grandmother from a different line of descendants. After Peter’s reaction at being told of our relation I decide it might be best to limit my introduction to Elizabeth with a simple “Hello”. Elizabeth is more melancholy than Peter Brown. She tells us that the first years were difficult losing both of her parents along with many others in the first winter, but John has been a good husband. “Ah, but he’s flematic” the other woman adds. “The man is always sick.” The woman tells us that as the Mayflower sailed into Plymouth Bay John Howland fell overboard and nearly drowned. “You don’t come up from fathoms below in the middle of winter and expect to be well”. Elizabeth’s expression tells us she agrees. I ask Elizabeth if she was scared having recently lost her parents. “No” she says “I know that I am in God’s hands and He will look over me.” God’s hands or not, I get the sense Elizabeth does not share Peter’s exuberance for the New World.
Karen and I look through a few more gardens and leave the colony passing through a small Native American settlement and the museum before returning to the car and joining the masses on Route 3. Cruising along the highway as Karen checks email on her phone it is hard not to notice how much has changed since the Pilgrims arrived.
Days later I visit Bay Farm, an open space at the end of Duxbury Bay. Clover grows in the field.
The morning sun strikes a cedar on the shore, a heron stalks prey at the edge of the marsh, an osprey flies overhead.
Later I walk along the beach. The Pilgrims must have stopped to smell the same pink beach rose.
I visit Myles Standish’ homestead and Round Pond, all places Peter and Elizabeth likely visited centuries ago. I try to imagine what these places looked like to the Pilgrims and the Native Americans before them. Next time I see Peter and Elizabeth maybe I will ask.
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