The Legend of the Thanksgiving Spoon

The Legend of the Thanksgiving Spoon (A True Story) By Michael Edds Thanksgiving conjures up many iconic images: the Mayflower crossing the Atlantic, Plymouth Rock, the early Pilgrims like William Bradford and Miles Standish, and that first historic meal shared between Native Americans and the newly arrived settlers. Over the years, countless stories have emerged around this deeply American holiday — some steeped in truth, others painted by the brush of myth or Hollywood. But one enduring tale has been passed down through 15 generations in my wife Jean’s family. It’s the story of an old silver spoon — a humble heirloom with an extraordinary legacy. According to family tradition, this spoon made the voyage on the Mayflower, clutched in the hands of one of its passengers: Stephen Hopkins. From that moment on, it was passed down to the youngest daughter in each generation. Jean’s Aunt Re is the current keeper of this curious artifact. I’ll admit, I was skeptical at first. Surely, I thought, my own lineage was just as storied as my wife’s. So I began researching her family’s connection to Stephen Hopkins — and to this so-called “Thanksgiving Spoon.” To my surprise (and slight dismay), I discovered that Jean is indeed a direct descendant of Hopkins — a genuine Mayflower blue blood. Still, there was no trace of a silver spoon. Not yet. Determined to dig deeper, I immersed myself in Hopkins’ remarkable life. What I uncovered was the story of a man as complex and captivating as the history he helped shape. Stephen Hopkins was no typical Pilgrim — in fact, he wasn’t even a Puritan. Born in Hampshire, England, he married Mary Kent in the parish of Hursley. Together they had three children — Elizabeth, Constance, and Giles — all baptized there. Constance, as it turns out, is Jean’s ancestor. In 1609, Stephen set sail on the Sea Venture, bound for the Jamestown colony in Virginia. But fate intervened. The ship wrecked in Bermuda — then ominously known as the “Isle of Devils” — and the survivors remained stranded for ten months, surviving on turtles, birds, and wild pigs. During that time, Hopkins participated in a mutiny against the ship’s leadership. He was caught, tried, and sentenced to death. But in a rare display of mercy, his emotional plea for the sake of his wife and children moved the court to spare his life. Some believe Hopkins’ ordeal inspired Shakespeare’s character “Stephano” in The Tempest, which debuted shortly afterward in 1611. Eventually, the castaways built a vessel and sailed to Jamestown. Stephen returned to England by 1617. After his wife Mary’s death, he remarried — to Elizabeth Fisher — and in 1620, he boarded the Mayflower with his new family: Constance, Giles, and baby Damaris. Hopkins brought with him not just his family, but invaluable experience from his earlier time in America. He played a vital role in the colony’s early days — joining exploration parties, assisting in diplomacy with local tribes, and even hosting the Native American leader Samoset during his first night in Plymouth. He was one of 41 signers of the Mayflower Compact — a cornerstone of American self-governance — and later served as assistant to the governor. Though deeply involved in the colony’s early administration, Stephen’s later years were more turbulent. By the late 1630s, Hopkins found himself at odds with colonial authorities. He opened a tavern, sold beer at inflated prices, and was fined multiple times — including once for letting people play shuffleboard and drink on a Sunday. He even clashed violently with another settler, seriously injuring him in a fight. Scandals followed, including the pregnancy of his maidservant by another man — an affair that embroiled Hopkins in legal trouble when he refused to support her and the child. But in time, Hopkins seemed to find stability. He befriended both Miles Standish and William Bradford, and his home became the colony’s makeshift arsenal and courthouse. Both Standish and Bradford would go on to witness and sign Hopkins’ final will. Stephen Hopkins died sometime between June and July of 1644. Still searching for the fabled spoon, I scoured every document I could find — finally discovering Hopkins’ will on the Pilgrim Hall Museum website. There, buried in the lengthy legal language, I read the words I’d been hoping for: “Also I do give and bequeath unto my foure daughters, that is to say Deborah Hopkins, Damaris Hopkins, Ruth Hopkins and Elizabeth Hopkins, all the mooveable goods… all wch said mooveables to bee equally devided amongst my said daughters foure silver spoones that is to say to eich of them one…” There it was — four silver spoons left to four daughters. But this posed a new mystery: Constance, my wife’s ancestor, was not among the named recipients. How, then, did her line inherit the spoon? The answer came through the writings of William Bradford, who in 1650 recorded the status of the Hopkins family: “Mr. Hopkins and his wife are now both dead… they had one son and four daughters born here. Their son became a seaman and died at Barbadoes, one daughter died here and two are married… Constance is also married and hath twelve children, all of them living.” One of the four daughters to whom the spoons were left had died. According to the will, in such a case, her portion was to be divided among the surviving sisters. That’s how Constance came to possess one of the original silver spoons — a legacy passed through loss, love, and the enduring spirit of family. And so the journey of the Thanksgiving Spoon comes full circle. It’s not just an old piece of silver — it is a thread connecting centuries, woven through hardship, faith, rebellion, redemption, and gratitude. This Thanksgiving, as Aunt Re sets the table and polishes the old spoon once more, it will be placed alongside turkey, potatoes, stuffing, and pie. But more than that, it will rest in the hand of another descendant of Stephen Hopkins — a silent witness once again to prayers lifted to a gracious God by those who remember, and those who give thanks.