memories of tom

memoirs of a turkey: To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I recall that I was hatched. Hatched a fluffy down ball to a hot light. My father was a turkey, as was his father before him, as was his father before him, and….(by the way, the turkey came first; not the egg. If it had been an egg, it might have come out as an ostrich). (Somewhere in my family history, one of my early parents, I think, someone bumped their head on a branch after a dare from a vulture. Ever since then, we’ve been what the unenlightened call “dumb).
I never went to school, because, we couldn’t afford it. I didn’t do anything, ever. All I did was eat. “Be a wild turkey,” my mom would say. “there is no future in agriculture.” but I didn’t listen. I looked around me, at the horses, and the cows, and the humans, and all of them worked. But not me. My life had no direction, no purpose. I was living in a muck of self-indulgence. It was great. To educate myself, I’d practice my time tables with pieces of corn. I figured out all by myself that four times four equals twelve, if I took a lunch break between every set of numbers.
I moved around a lot as a kid, met new friends, all of whom were named Tom, went into new pens, and was hauled around in a big truck, packed like a slave in the swirling sea of poultry. Then one day, me and my family of brothers and sisters-at least I think they were my brothers and sisters, I couldn’t tell- were grounded, shipped to an all-natural farm where we would spend the rest of our days happily eating bugs and corn flavoured corn. For a little variation, we ate rocks. It aids the digestion. I know, that doesn’t really sound right. We had sleeping quarters, a tight fitting house for me and eighty-one other turkeys, but shelter nonetheless.
It was there that I met…Her. the heritage breed. Wow! Her feathers looked like those on a wild turkey, like old ketchup or dry blood, with splashes of a lovely white. I tried to win her heart. But alas! I failed, and my life became bitter. One of the, like, thirty pounders with big wingspans and tail-feathers won her heart. I had to settle for one of those hyper-average white gals. At least she was dressed for the wedding. I took her out to eat, gobbled with her, I even had her over for gravel. But alas, that affair failed as well, for I could not afford a ring; there was no one to perform the ceremony; and she got tired of the white tux. As always, miserable.
Then one day, everything changed. We were rushed into the bunk house like slaves, or something, with no explanation. The funny fellow with the goatee did it. We thought about calling the law, but 1) they cut the lines and 2) I couldn’t get service in the bunkhouse. We waited. It was horrible. We heard vehicles. Then it happened. The goatee guy and a tall guy with brown hair came and stole away four of our number. I was puzzled. What had we done to deserve this? We never killed (except the bugs); we never stole (except others peoples corn); we never embezzled (except when there was semi-precious gravel involved). And, we weren’t French aristocrats in the nineteenth century. What was the deal?
They were slowly taken. Even the bullies (heh heh). Then, to my utmost horror, they took the hen of my dreams away from me! we did our best to avoid them, but more and more were taken till only I was left. After that it was kind of a blur. I was chased. I was caught. I was carried upside-down (I felt the corn rush to my head, and I got a beak-bleed). My feet were tied. I was placed in a cone. I…
I ask you, what is a turkey? Is it a wild bird? I cannot help but think that that is our dream, and not what we essentially are. Are we poultry for laying eggs? Heck no: that’s work. Are we simply stupid birds, with less brains than a mentally handicapped fence-post? That is simply what people see us as being. Really we are… only useful for thanksgiving dinner? Who came up with that bird-brained…cow-brained idea’r? I’ll bet it was a human. It could have been those two brown haired assassins. The desecrated our bodies by scalding and plucking us, after they had cut our throats. But I bet it was really the guy with the goatee. (Humans. grunt).

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  1. #1 by ellie16 on November 27, 2008 - 7:45 am

    Jake… you’re a sad, strange little man.

    This was really funny. Espiecially the part about the heritage breed. Also this-
    “Be a wild turkey” my mom said “there’s no future in agriculture”
    ~Ellie

  2. #2 by Brandon on November 27, 2008 - 4:14 pm

    Don’t forget, the last week of his life the nice long haired lady brought out a feast of yummy sweet potatoes everyday.

    That ‘ode de scalder water’ is getting to your head…

  3. #3 by Katie on November 27, 2008 - 4:30 pm

    Jake… words fail me. (Sort of in a good way, but not completely in a good way.)
    (If you followed that at all – sorry, I’m a female, what else can I say?)

  4. #4 by virgie-cake on November 27, 2008 - 10:21 pm

    hilarious…..:]

  5. #5 by Nathan on November 30, 2008 - 4:39 pm

    That was funny. weird, but funny

  6. #6 by flinding on December 1, 2008 - 2:32 pm

    Katie,
    Would you care to expound?
    Nathan,
    It’s all true. (sniff).
    Jake

  7. #7 by Lanny on November 25, 2010 - 7:14 am

    Yep, Ellen is right – “a sad, strange little man”. But . . .one who makes me laugh and gives me great reason to praise our good God for your friendship and our common bond in Christ.

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