Yes, we have heard the glory of the pilgrims, how those dour chorophobes subdued their neighbors and performed bold agricultural deeds—but when you’re unaccustomed to hot Novembers and the flapping of turkeys toward Valhalla fails to drown out football, you roam the strands of bleak retention ponds with a seven-year-old looking for grass snakes and fish.
In the mud, behind ferns and broken boughs, rests a sleeping stone baby.
One of you raises the obvious point: “If we get too close, will its eyes snap open?” (Unanimity. Two steps back.)
“How’d he get here?”
“I don’t know, man. I imagine it’s a mystery.”
“Did people put him here?”
“Maybe he just washed up on the shore, like a king in a famous old legend.”
“Wait, what legend?”
“You’ve heard of the Vikings, right? One of their very first kings.”
“Who? What was his name?”
“Well, nobody knows where he came from, or where he went when his ship sailed away, but I heard that his tribe called him Scyld…”
Then you find that some stories don’t really need snow, and you’re thankful for more than just turkey and pie as you rest in the bayou, wide-eyed at sunset, surrounded by monsters and kings.