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When the grocery store man handed me our family’s 20-pound turkey on Thanksgiving morning, something felt a little off.
Inside the plastic wrapping, I felt my legs wiggling around. No one who sent me on this mission said the turkey would be moving inside the wrapping.
It was squishy all around the breasts. Seemed as if I could feel my heart pumping.
Oh well, whatever, I thought.
“Feels like the turkey’s alive,” I said to my brother who was along for the pick-up duty.
“No way,” he said. “What do you know about turkeys? They don’t give away live turkeys in plastic wrappings. It’s pre-cooked. All we have to do is heat it back at home.”
While carrying Tony Turkey into the house, I felt the legs wiggling again; the heart was aflutter. Plopped Tony down on the kitchen counter and went in the other room to write a blog about Tony being alive when I picked him up.
Seconds later my vigilant sister-in-law walked directly at me with eyes more bulging than usual.
“Where did you get that turkey? It’s alive.”
Perfect, I thought. A blog subject no one with a pulse will be able to scroll past.
Panic pulsated through the house, especially the kitchen. What were we going to do? It was already Thanksgiving. What were our options? Get another turkey that was no longer alive? Find someone in the house up for taking the life of a turkey which seemed unseemly on a sacred holiday? Cancel Thanksgiving dinner and order five large Grottos pizzas. I voted for the latter.
But others insisted we must have turkey on Thanksgiving – not Grottos.
So we made the youngest among us, my son, deal with the live turkey in the kitchen sink while the rest of us scurried to other parts of the house far away from the sink. My son did what had to be done. There was blood. Turkey guts were yanked out and thrown into the garbage can and – don’t even say it – down the disposal.
The turkey was deceased.
“All right, everybody can come back in,” said my son. “Tony’s toast.”
His mother had assigned the task to him.
Re-gathering in the kitchen, the crime scene had been cleared of any physical evidence although the psychological vibe was palpable. My son started bathing Tony with margarine and sprinkles of salt and pepper.
No one could look at Tony directly without wondering what he had been thinking since being wrapped up alive and slaughtered by the youngest among us.
Safe to surmise it was a tough Thanksgiving for Tony the Turkey.
Cooked him at 450 degrees for five hours. Tony probably didn’t like that either or maybe being deceased he watched from above, in Turkey Heaven, as his life came to a dramatic end with people all around watching it all unfold.
Then we gathered around the table, a clan of 10 or so, and passed around the plate stacked high with slices of Tony’s soul.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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