Passage I

Turkeys, Wild and Otherwise

A track in the mud beyond my garden that was bordered by cranberry shrubs caught my eye. Large as my hand, the print had toes that splayed like the tines of a bent fork. Wild turkey. I thought. The tracks of these intelligent, elusive birds are much easier to spot than the birds themselves. One is always surprised at their stealth, because I know all too well how feather-brained their cousin the domesticated turkey has become.(4)

Eventually I began a small turkey farm a few years ago that I discovered their sweet-tempered stupidity. I began by purchasing fifty chicks for my coop. I didn't realize at the time that breeders, in pursuit of the most succulent fowl for the oven, has inadvertently favored the most feebleminded. I had learned soon enough.

After I got over the initial shock of having to teach my hatchlings to drink by dunking their heads in the water bowl, we grew fond of each other. The gander of my flock would flop his long neck over my shoulder as a greeting, which seemed to me, myself as close to a hug as a turkey could manage. (10)

Perhaps he felt sorry for me, knowing I was not prepared to raise turkeys. One night a violent thunderstorm passed over the farm. I ran through torrential rain, it being at the covered turkey pen and found my birds in a state of panic, trampling and pecking at each other. I knew I had to calm them or they would seriously injure each other. I concluded and decided that if a lullaby could soothe a child, it had a shot at soothing turkeys. Sure enough, as I had sang, they began to settle down. Twenty minutes later, after three renditions of my favorite ballad, they were swaying side to side and my throat was raw from singing over the booming thunder.

I was in bed with pneumonia for two weeks after that, during which time I read magazines. After I recovered, I bid my birds a fond good-bye. Still, whenever I cross a wild turkey's path, I feel a twinge of nostalgia and remember my months with their domesticated cousins.