Turkey Duck & A 'Revised' Thanksgiving

*From the holiday archives*

*Something new, then an archived and seasonal favorite*

I've heard of hysterical revisionism in school, but this one was too good not to 'build on': a great-grandmother that frequents my place of employment simply had to tell me about her discussion with her 5 year old great- granddaughter.

She had asked her great-granddaughter if she was ready for Thanksgiving, and the answer she got was curious: "uhm, no, grandma".

"Why not?"

"Because, grandma, Thanksgiving is a sad time!"

Surprised at that, great-grandma queried further:

"Why is Thanksgiving a sad time, hon?"

"Because, grandma...the Pilgrims borrow a ship to leave England because they wanted a new place to take over. And when they got to Plymouth Rock, they spread their diseases to the Indians -- the people who were already here -- and all the Indians died!"

No matter what great grandma said in correction, this little five year old refused to believe that there was a feast of Thanksgiving between the Pilgrims and the Indians, before "all the Indians died!".

Great-grandma shook her head, and asked me how does one overcome that kind of thing being taught in school?

*TOING*

If idiot political correctness teachers can make it up as they politically indoctrinate, so can ol' Skunk, in an politically incorrect mode:

The Pilgrims -- persecuted in England for wearing funny-looking clothes -- decided to find a place where they could practice fashion in freedom. So they leased a boat from Mayflower Moving & Storage, and set sail on a "Journey of Discovery", not knowing that they would be in copyright violation almost two hundred years later (with Lewis & Clark, who discovered that the Louisiana Purchase was kinda bigger than that). And when they arrived at Plymouth Rock, they discovered a land that was wild, untamed, and didn't have public restrooms, pubs, traffic circles or a Super 8 lodging already built. This distressed them, having called ahead for reservations, or so they thought they had. Obviously, the travel agent screwed them. But, they found reason to be happy with their place of arrival, because the local inhabitants -- Native Americans that didn't know that that's what they were, and wouldn't until someone dreamt up the term "political correctness" -- already had freedom of fashion, and dressed even funnier than the Pilgrims had been accused of. The Native Americans -- amused by the fluffy white shirts and high-water pants, giving the "pale faces" the look of the dude on the Quaker Oats box -- took pity on them, and taught them how to grow turkey and shoot maize, and thence a great feast of thanksgiving came to be. During which, the Pilgrims taught the Native Americans a new sport called "plates and sticks widda ball", which the Native Americans found really weird, but fun. And THEN, half the Pilgrims died from a pre-Ted Kennedy progressive health care plan that really sucked, as well as half of the Native Americans, who thought the sport was fun but the health care plan from the fat pale face really sucked. So what was left of the Pilgrims planted, sewed, and procreated because there was no late-night TV to otherwise distract them, and they gradually prospered until some idiot came up with the idea of "share the wealth" communism. Meantime, what was left of the Native Americans, thinking "screw the pale face notion of progressive taxation with and without representation", moved to Cleveland, and their descendants formed a baseball team. And thus was born the tradition of Thanksgiving in one culture, and a really disappointed Cleveland fan base each October thereafter.

Great grandma didn't know any better, so she laughed, and said I should blog this story.

So this is really her fault...and now:

*A seasonal and personal favorite from my website archives*

Family holiday anecdotes come in many forms: funny. Touching. Memorable. Annoying. And then there are anecdotes that didn't happen during family holidays, but should have.

Thus I present to you the following holiday, non-holiday anecdote. This is a true story, one I have shared with readers since the family likes to remind me of it at least once a year.

In early 1970, my family lived in rural Iowa, along a highway that was travelled by flatbed semis bearing loads of live poultry, likely enroute for KFC or Butterball conversion. On one day when Fate's smile was especially obtuse, a young turkey somehow escaped the confines of the cage upon a passing flatbed, and jumped into the roadside ditch, not 50 feet from where my younger brother was skulking about, dreaming of doing something spectacular on an otherwise dull spring day. With the dream springing conveniently into his midst, he decided this escapee needed succor, so he rounded up the bird and presented it to Ma as an exile seeking political sanctuary from culinary persecution.

He really didn't present it to her that way, but it sounds good to the politically correct in the audience. What follows -- to the politically correct -- won't, but no one cares.

My brother fancied he'd caught himself a pet: we did live on a farm, after all. My folks fancied another notion, involving fattening up the culinary refugee for a Thanksgiving reckoning, months from then (so much for succor). The rest of us just considered the bird as one more chore (feeding, watering, etc). At any rate, the turkey rated his/her own pen, under the shade of an orchard apple tree at the NW corner of the yard.

This was, as I recall, in late February/early March. Now advance to April or early May, same year. My father was a sheriff's deputy for the local county, and had recently acquired what was and is known as a "back up gun": a .22 magnum semi-auto pistol. On one Sunday, he decided to take the gun out and test fire it. Being 13 at the time, I tagged along, hoping to get the chance to cross the Rubicon, and fire my first non-BB gun firearm, under the trained guidance of Pop.

Using our trash burning barrel as a backstop, he attached a silhouette target to it, stepped back about 30 feet, and placed a few accurate holes in the target. Taking it all in with the image of John Wayne in mind, I was more than ready for when it would be my turn. My turn came with a brief lecture on firearm safety and handling, followed by my being allowed to hold the firearm directed toward the target, with the safety on. After giving me all the directions on target acquisition, pointing, aiming, breathing, etc., he took the safety off, handed me the firearm, and closed my pre-firing inauguration with the totally absurd-sounding admonition, "now don't shoot the turkey".

"Dad!" was my semi-indignant response: the turkey was in a pen, 15 yards further on and to the right of my intended target. I was almost insulted. I carefully sighted in, closed one eye, and squeezed the trigger.

*BLAM*

Instantly, the turkey started flopping about it's pen, mortally wounded.

Pop -- straight-faced -- quietly removed the gun from my hand. The subsequent autopsy, conducted by Ma under the guise of prepping dinner, revealed the turkey died from one bullet hitting it dead-center through the middle of the neck at the base of the head. In those days, I couldn't have made that shot with a scoped rifle. It's no better today, but I digress.

In retropect, I know I committed at least two beginning shooter's faux pas: I failed to anticipate the recoil of the pistol, and I jerked the trigger. To pull the shot that far to the right, well, I couldn't explain it then, though I suspect a sudden tornadic gust of wind was involved. I just know that at turkey dinner that night while the folks and other siblings snickered at me, my one brother sat there, glaring at me. Far as he was concerned, I'd murdered his pet.

Since I was older and bigger, glaring is all he got to do.

I get to relive that episode at subsequent Thanksgiving dinners down the years ("Yo, Big/Lil' Bro, did you shoot this one too?"). But it's allowed me to conclude one critical and overlooked element that significantly contributed to the premature demise of that particular fowl so many years ago. My late brother wouldn't buy it, nor do my other siblings, but it's my story and I'll stick to it to my dying day.

The turkey forgot to duck.