Mark Sachs (ksleet) wrote,
Mark Sachs

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Ah, the days of my youth... like the scent of fresh lemons...

I needed to get the hell out of here so this afternoon I drove over to the Ellsville Harbor State Park (a nice, obscure beach -- it's rocky so you probably wouldn't want to swim there, but it's pleasantly quiet for lying in the sun on.) I then figured that since I was going right through the place on Route 3 anyway, I'd visit Plymouth on the way back. So I pulled in there to this pleasant small town and headed over to the little area on the seashore where Plymouth Rock is.

And, oh, yes. That's the Massachusetts I remember from when I was a little kid. Cool breezes, boats, wooden docks, houses with shingled sides, stores selling T-shirts and fudge, gravely presented historical facts, soft-serve ice cream, and tourists everywhere. Aaah.

I'm not sure I'd say you should go out of your way to see Plymouth Rock. One should not have enormously high expectations for what is, after all, just a rock (and entertainingly enough there's no real evidence the Pilgrims stepped onto it first either -- the rock in question was identified a hundred years later by a 95-year-old resident who claimed his dad had pointed it out when he was a small boy, and it was then cut into pieces and shipped all around the eastern seaboard as a tourist attraction. Plus the Pilgrims ran into Provincetown first anyway.) But then again, what's important is not what little piece of stone they touched first: what's important is that they did it at all. There's also a replica of the Mayflower moored nearby, and the thought of crossing the Atlantic Ocean in that tiny little thing in 1620 with no knowledge of what was waiting at the other shore: it deserves respect, you know what I'm saying?

Tags: personal
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