Why we all have so much to be thankful for, I need to first take a quick moment to mention that for which I have no thanks…wrong numbers. Some stranger woke me up at 6:15 this morning by inputting the wrong seven digits into her phone. Ugh! I had many Deep Thoughts about that one, but none of which can be reprinted in this family friendly blog. Since I haven’t been able to fall back asleep, I thought I’d get up and post something new. My loss is your gain, right? I guess that makes you thankful for wrong numbers. How ironic…
If you are a regular follower of this blog (I am thankful for all my followers, and if you’re not one, you really should consider it because this blog is written in a somewhat serialized form. I am constantly referencing things that have been previously posted, so the best way to keep up and stay in the know is to read every entry fresh from my brain…) you would know that I live in Maine, and my new home state is quite the magical place. Maine’s unique residents provide me with wonderful fodder for this blog, and this post is no different.
Priscilla Prury was 11 years old when she sat down to enjoy the very first Thanksgiving Feast. That is not a typo, my friends. Priscilla is normally media shy, but she was willing to talk to me because, as she put it, “I have established myself to be a positive and supportive voice for the those who make Maine a magical place to live.”
We met up at last night’s laser show, and then continued our discussion as we walked along the banks of the Penobscot River. Normally, I wouldn’t want to be down by the river so late at night, but walking with Priscilla made me feel extremely safe, and I could sense the creatures in the shadows that wanted no part of my companion’s attention.
I would be remiss if I did not tell you that Pricilla was strikingly beautiful. Her long red head cascaded well past her shoulders and halfway down her back. Her green eyes were as stunning as emeralds, and she had the figure of a world class sprinter.
All in all, she looked spectacular for someone pushing 400 years old. Then again, Vampires are always known for their incredible looks.
“I was bitten when I was nineteen, ” Priscilla explains almost apologetically. “The woods were rife with wild creatures, and the Elders warned us about entering them alone at night. They tried to frighten us with tales of devils, werewolves, and creatures that were not of this world.”
“So they were pretty much describing the Maine woods,” I interrupt because it was a witty line and because I often enjoy the sound of my own voice.
This earned me a giggle. “You could say that, yes. What the Elders didn’t realize was that their tales made us want to go into the woods even more. The New World still held so many secrets, and so many places we were desperate to explore. The Elders never wanted us to leave the Colony. They said it was because they feared for our safety, but now I know it was because they knew there was safety in numbers.”
“People my age were disappearing all the time, and we believed it was because they had left on new adventures and to strike out on their own. After I was turned, I came to understand that my friends had indeed left for someplace new, but it was to go out and hunt blood to keep their vampires hearts pumping.”
Priscilla’s tale was amazing, but for the purpose of this particular post, I wanted to focus on that first Thanksgiving meal.
“It was quite the gathering,” she assures me. “We still did not know what to make of the Natives. There were those amongst us, my Father included, who thought them to be savages who needed to be treated as the enemy and kept as far from the Colony as possible. There were others, luckily the ones who held most sway in our group, who believed the Natives were our friends and saw them as necessary allies were we to learn how to properly till and harvest the land.”
“The feast was a strategic move to not only gain the trust of our new friends, but also to win over those of us who still thought the Natives should be shunned and treated as threats to our survival. Essentially, it was a stroke of political genius that won over hearts and souls, both of the Pilgrims and the Native Americans.”
I had to know about the quality of the meal. Priscilla confirmed what I had long believed to be true…”It was the best supper any of us had enjoyed since coming to the New World. We had been very careful with our rations because we knew a harsh winter was on the horizon. For this meal, however, there were no limits. Had it not been the culinary success that it was, had only a minor, bland meal been prepared, then I believe we never would have made it to the spring. The Natives probably would’ve killed us right then and there, but I know they allowed us to live because they so enjoyed all the carbs and starchy foods and needed to learn our recipes.”
I knew it! America is fat because unhealthy eating is the only reason we survived in the New World in the first place.
We talked for hours, and I asked all the typical Vampire fan boy questions. Priscilla was patient with me, but like her fellow Pilgrims at that first feast, her kindness had an ulterior motive. “I need you to paint a pretty picture of Vampire life for your readers,” she explained. “The Vampire population in this country is dwindling. Maine is the last true refuge for my kind, but we know that even the kind of people of this state would be less tolerant if they were reminded of what a threat Vampires once were. We are lucky that Zombies have become the new go to creature for panic and hatred, but I can see hesitation even in you. It is not normal for a man to cower from a beautiful woman, is it?”
Clearly, Priscilla did not know men well. Beautiful women are scarier than Zombies, Vampires, and Boogie Men combined. Plus, I am spoken for, and part of my panic is the fear of how my better half will react when she finds out I was on, what some might consider to be, a romantic late night stroll with a woman who could be classified as “easy on the eyes”.
“Shouldn’t we fear you?” I challenge. “We are your main source of sustenance, are we not?”
Her eyes light up at this. “This is another reason why I agreed to this interview,” she informs me. “You are a proponent of Deep Thoughts, no matter what the issue. I need you to challenge your readers to ponder on a world where Vampires would not be a threat. They need to know about my very strict bleegan diet.”
Apparently, a “bleegan diet” is along the lines of a vegan one. Nothing living is killed for the Vampire’s meals. The blood is given voluntarily, and from what Priscilla tells me, a majority of her diet is no longer human.
“Another great benefit of living in Maine is the abundance of non-human creatures, all of whom have blood pumping through their bodies. While it might be a different color and have a slightly different taste, blood is blood. I’m sure you’re aware of the blood rituals of the Blogons?”
The Blogons are an Alien race that reside deep in the North Woods. Their home planet is constantly in a state of civil war, so refugees flee that big icy rock at an alarming rate. Many have chosen to settle on Earth, and since their planet is covered in ice, a large percentage of those settlers now live in Maine and then summer on one of the Poles.
They are a reclusive group, but I have heard stories of how every 7 weeks, which is about a month on their planet, their bodies replenish the blood supply. It’s some sort of evolutionary process and, if I understand correctly, has something to do with the new, warm blood keeping their bodies from freezing on their frigid home world.
“Basically, the Blogons had a blood disposal problem, and Maine Vampires swooped in to solve it,” Priscilla continues. “This provides more than enough food for all of my kind in Maine, and also allows us to ship the surplus to other Vampires across the continent. UPS has been an amazing partner in this process, and we also owe a huge debt of gratitude to President Obama and the floundering economy. In better times, I’m sure UPS would be much more suspicious of the steel drums of odd smelling liquid we load onto their trucks on a weekly basis, but at this point, they are so desperate for the business, they accept the parcels with no questions asked.”
Aliens and Vampires working together for survival. Isn’t that very much in the spirit of the First Thanksgiving? I posed that Deep Thought to Priscilla and awaited her response with bated breath (well, more like I was holding my breath because all this talk of blood consumption and foul smelling, blue alien blood was making me sick to my stomach and I really didn’t want to puke during an interview).
“I think you’re right, Austin,” she answers with a huge smile. “I don’t remember the Native Americans being so cantankerous, but there were some trying times at that first gathering. One never reads in the history books about the bloody battle that broke out in the middle of the meal. Some of our guests took offense to how a few of the more Elder Elders were getting too ‘friendly’ with the young, attractive squaws at the table. There was an offer of beads and blankets for permission to take the native teens home for a ‘meeting of the minds and bodies on improving race relations’ that did not go over well. There were several deaths on both sides of the table as a result, but cooler heads eventually prevailed when more stuffing and cider were provided.”
That revelation took my breath away and made me forget my nausea.
“Don’t make this about the murders and the lechery, though,” Priscilla pleads. “Remind your readers that the First Thanksgiving was about American ingenuity. Food can solve all of our problems. Luring people into a false sense of security so that you can later trick and betray them is the American way. We have survived this long because of those ideas, and we aren’t going anywhere.”
At this point, a chill ran down my spine because I had a sneaking suspicion that Priscilla was talking about Vampires rather than Americans. I realized that it was after midnight, so it was now officially Thanksgiving, and suddenly feared that my healthy Modern Philosopher blood would make the perfect feast for a sentimental Vampire who was probably growing bored with Blogon blood.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” I say to indicate that the interview is done. “I’ve learned a lot and I know my readers will enjoy this.”
Priscilla moved in, perhaps to shake my hand, or perhaps to go for my jugular. Luckily, I had my Gorvakian transporter remote in my pocket and pressed the button. Faster than a Vampire could pounce, my particles were zapped back to The House on the Hill and reassembled in the transporter pod in my basement.
It’s times like that when I definitely appreciate living in Maine, and am glad I stopped to give a ride to those Gorvakian engineers who had been hitchhiking on I-95 after their saucer blew a vilgo booster and had to crash land in the woods. I told those guys they didn’t need to repay me for my act of kindness, but they insisted on building me the transporter. And it had probably just saved my life.
Humans and Aliens working together. That’s totally what this day is all about.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends.