When this time of year rolls around, I can’t help but be reminded of a gang of turkeys that lived in our old neighborhood. A group of turkeys is actually called a rafter or a gang, so the Johnson Street Turkeys were aptly named. They resembled a gang of hoodlums, strutting down the street – showing off their metallic plumage – displaying their ample size. These birds were known to cross the street on a green light. At least they were a law abiding gang.
Not too long ago, I saw another rafter of wild turkeys slowly making their way off the exit ramp of Highway Ten, which happens to sit right behind our house. Had they followed me? Did it actually take them two years to discover that I had moved? I know they were well liked by the folks of my old neighborhood. A local newspaper even wrote an article about the blatantly, emboldened flock which ran after the mailman and trash trucks.
They didn’t do much damage, as you’d expect from a gang of ne’er do wells, but they ate all of my expensive cocoa mulch. They were also known to nibble on gravel near the railroad tracks, which happened to be situated right near the local butcher shop. My husband saw one unsuspected bird catching some rays one day as the butcher was coming at him with a cleaver. We never saw the results of the incident, but refused to buy poultry from that shop ever again.
Where are all the activists when it comes to this holiday of overeating? Where are the “save the turkeys” folks with their signs of protest? When you think of all the frozen turkeys sitting in your grocery store’s freezer case, think of all those birds who gave their lives so you could have a piece of white meat. I may just become a vegetarian after that rant.
“Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence”. Erma Bombeck