Beginning is never easy. Persevering is harder.

Lydia and I had been to Plimoth Plantation before (and yes that is how they spell it because it was named prior to the standardization of spelling). In 2008, we had followed Hwy. 20 from its beginning in Newport, Oregon to its end near Fenway Park in Boston. This time our visit included two grandchildren and their mother, our daughter, Heather. The Plantation is a recreation of the original Pilgrim settlement, staffed by re-enactors who maintain character while interacting with visitors. Built using period methods and tools, both the houses of the Pilgrims and the nearby Wampanoag people, are a testament to the hardiness of the first people of the country.

The day was sunny but relatively mild except for the ever-present humidity. We had had breakfast at a “downtown” diner in Braintree. My quest for the perfect serving of biscuits and gravy continues. They served me two biscuits with enough gravy to claim that there was gravy, but not any more. I asked for a side order of more gravy. I was told that the cook didn’t have any more. I choose not to react inappropriately in front of the kids, but it seems to me that the definition of being a cook is that, when you don’t have something, YOU MAKE MORE OF IT. To add to my disgruntlement, the restroom was up an old, windy stairs, just past the storeroom. The “throne” sat on a pedestal of its own at the back of the room. I used my rescue inhaler and returned to my loved ones down below.

My proclivity for hiking has diminished as I’ve gotten older. I’m quite slow now, which is acceptable, but it means that when I go someplace, it takes longer. Again acceptable, until it gets hot. Then I spend more time in the sun and humidity. But it was for the children, so I soldiered on from shady spot to shady spot, from bench to bench, or stump to stump. My new Writers’ Museum of America hat became soaked through, the brim marked with white rings of salty perspiration. My admiration for the Pilgrims increased with every step. Had they been young and healthy? Had they respected their elders and let them sit in the shade during the heat of the day. I sincerely hope so.

The Pilgrims buried their dead at night, sneaking out of the fort to intern the departed ones in a secret location so the natives would not know how very many of them had died. It was a hard life, but it was a life free of persecution and so it was a life to be thankful for. We passed the cemetery after viewing Plymouth Rock, which our grandson was excited to see. He was truly disappointed. In his mind, the rock was on a beach with waves lapping against it. He hoped to climb on it and land on Plymouth rock like the Pilgrims. What he found was a small concrete platform with a cage-like iron structure which effectively prevented folks from touching the rock ten feet below.

I have said before that travel is a matter of coming and going and that in the going we take with us some new realization, some new understanding of ourselves and our world. In time Eli will find his meaning for what he saw that day. For me, his vision of the rock is my vision. If I accept the image of the rock as it is, confined to a little cell where no one can touch it, I accept an intolerable vision of how we treat hard-won freedoms.

The Road