The Turkey Talker

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The Turkey Talker

By Jack Rawlins

Ever since I can remember, Sundays and holidays Momma, Daddy and I went to dinner at my grandparents’ farm. Each visit was an adventure I cherished as I did all time I spent with Me-Ma and Gran Da Snorkel.

I was their only grandchild and they made me feel they loved me almost as much as their black Labrador, Rufus, and the menagerie of fowl, goats and sheep they coddled on their organic farm.

Me-Ma --Maud Snorkel --was a retired show girl from Atlantic City, political activist, member of the SPCA --and as Daddy used to say—as ornery as cat shit.

Gran Da Snorkel was a retired surgeon, a political in-activist (said he couldn’t care less about those crooks), a writer, and a delightful story teller.

My Aunt Tillie --Me-Ma’s sister --Sister Teresa Tillie, a retired nun, lived with them. Aunt Tillie was a free-loader, but said she stayed with them to provide moral guidance.

One Thanksgiving when we arrived we were surprised to see Mr. Wattle, an obese tom turkey, sitting in a pile of straw. We knew from our visits that Me-Ma had been prepping Mr. Wattle for the supreme sacrifice. We were surprised to see him strutting his un-stuffed carcass while the rest of the flock cowered under the pine trees that bordered the farm.

When he fluffed his feathers and waddled over to greet us, Dad said, “Why aren’t you in the oven where you belong?”

I don’t know if turkeys can smirk, but Mr. Wattle gave a dismissive gobble and went back to sitting in his pile of straw.

Later, after everyone had commented about how much I had grown since our last visit a week before, we settled down for dinner.

Sister Tillie Teresa needed no urging to offer the blessing. But she did need a hint to stop. She rambled on and on, blessing and thanking, until I saw her flinch when Me-Ma kicked her under the table.

“How come we’re not having turkey, Me-Ma?” I asked as Gran Da donned a gauze mask and rubber gloves and attacked a ten-pound roast beef sirloin with his favorite instruments. He always apologized for the mask and gloves: “I’m all thumbs without them,” he said.

Me-Ma passed the candied sweet potatoes before she answered my question; “A turkey,” she explained, “is really just a big bird—a big tasty bird. And they do not like the idea of being guest of honor for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“How do you know, Me-Ma,” I asked with all the sarcasm of a ten-year old. “Did you ever talk to a turkey?”
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“Well, bless your heart, Ziggy. Of course I talked to a turkey…all our turkeys. How do you think I know how they feel about Thanksgiving?”

Daddy chuckled and said, “Ever since your grand mother read The Horse Whisperer she’s been talking to birds. She figures if a guy can talk to horses, she can talk to birds…all kinds of birds."
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“You little smart ass,” said Me-Ma (Daddy is 6.2 and weighs 230 lbs.) “You think if you can’t do something, nobody can. Well, you are so wrong. When I say I can talk to turkeys--damn it-- I mean I can talk to turkeys!”

“Okay,” Mom,” sighed Daddy. “You can talk to turkeys.”

“I know what it looks like, “offered Gran Da. “But it’s not creeping senility .I’ve seen Maud talking to Mr. Wattle, and the other turkeys. They were whispering, though, so I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

“Me-Ma, “ I asked with a little less sarcasm than before, “what do you guys…you and the turkeys talk about?”

“Oh lots of things, but mostly about mortality,” she said with a peaceful smile as she passed the peas.

“Yours or theirs? “asked Daddy.

“Both,” laughed Me-Ma.

“You mean you talk about dying?” I asked.

“Well, yes, Ziggy. Unlike Mr. Wattle and his friends, I know my days are numbered, but until we started talking, they thought they were going to live forever. They never thought about dying the way old people do. Actually, I wish I hadn’t told them.”

“Mother!” snapped Daddy. “It’s Thanksgiving. Can’t we talk about something pleasant?”

“Sure, Leroy. You want to talk about my will? Long term care? Well, balls! I’d rather talk turkey.”

“Mom, please. Watch your language,” mumbled Daddy. “You think because you’re eighty-five you can say anything you want.”

“That’s right, big guy. I can say anything I want. People say, ‘Oh she didn’t mean anything by that. She’s eighty-five years old.’ Well, goose poop. I usually do mean it--whatever it is. I’m not goofy. I ‘m just too old to put up with crap anymore. I don’t have time for nonsense.”

“Me-Ma, “I said, “Let’s talk turkey. Do you ever say nasty things to them?”

“Of course not, child. They’re decent critters. And now that they know they’re going to be eaten, it’s really quite sad.”

“Well what do they say? I probed.

“Well, Mr. Wattle said, ‘Que, sera, sera...I’ve had a good life. Except for one thing that upset me very much. Nowadays, almost all turkey hens are artificially inseminated. I miss the old ways.’ ”

“Dear,” interrupted Gran Da, “Ziggy doesn’t have to know about artificial insemination.”

“Why not?” bristled Me-Ma. “It’s knowledge that won’t hurt him, but it sure does tick off tom turkeys. That’s why I decided to offer Mr. Wattles executive clemency…a stay of execution. He was very grateful.

“Me-Ma,” I asked, “Can you teach me to talk turkey?”

“No, “she said, “It’s a gift.”

“Can you talk to beef cattle?” I asked.

“No,” she answered with an ornery smile. “I don’t talk steer. So you see, I don’t know how they feel about being eaten. And until I do, we’ll have roast beef every Thanksgiving. Please pass the gravy.”

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