We grew up on a small farm in Minnesota. We grew corn. As a side note, there are approximately three days in which the weather in Minnesota is suitable for growing corn. We did not grow much corn.
We were a very poor family. But we lived on love. And welfare. All through the year, we lived and worked hard. There was no Joy. Hell, we could not afford Joy. Our dish soap was not even brand name. The irony was that we had no dishes, but what else does a farmer’s wife do but stand at the kitchen window doing dishes? Every night, Mom would stand for hours at the kitchen window washing a spoon that we stole from a Denny’s over and over again. Even then, we lived in fear. You don’t screw with Denny’s.
And so it was, until Tom came. Tom was a turkey. He was a beautiful bird. Big neck, feathers, scrawny legs, bald head with big flabs of skin hanging off it. I have to say, I fell for Tom when I saw him. We called him Ol’ Gobbler. I was only 10 at the time, and each day Ol’ Gobbler and I would go out in the fields running and playing and laughing (or gobbling). Ol’ Gobbler was useful, too. When I was 10, I fell down a well 47 times, and each time Tom would run home and find my father mending the fence and he would gobble like crazy until finally my father, not the most patient of men, would jam a cattle prod into Tom – knocking him out for several days. Usually, a few days later, Mom might realize I was not around and the whole family would come out to the well where I was suffering from severe gangrene and pull me out.
And we’d laugh and laugh and laugh. Then Dad would jam a cattle prod into us. And so, as the four day weekend we knew as a Minnesota summer faded into the three-year Minnesota winter, we found ourselves facing another empty Thanksgiving. Suddenly, one day, my father called me to his study – actually, the bathroom – and said, “Son, we don’t have much in our lives, but we do have Ol’ Gobbler. He makes your mother laugh and he’s proved to be a best friend for you. He gives us so much by his very presence in our lives. He makes the days bearable. So we’re going to eat him for Thanksgiving.”
I was shocked. I cried and cried. Not Ol’ Gobbler. There was no way I could save him. I went to bed that night to the sound of my father sharpening his ax. Only a miracle could save Ol’ Gobbler now. The next morning, my Mother shook me awake and said, “Go out to Ol’ Gobbler’s pen, Timmy! It’s a miracle!”
I raced out to the yard and saw my father and the farm hands all staring with wonder into Ol’ Gobbler’s pen. There sat Ol’ Gobbler looking pleased with himself and above him – in the corner of the pen – was the most beautiful spider web. And, if you looked really close, you could see that the spider had clearly spelled out the word, “Edible.” And there was Ol’ Gobbler looking as edible as possible. This was not good.
The next morning, we awoke to yet another display: “Succulent.” This was not helping. Over the next few days, other words appeared on the web – “Juicy,” “Tender,” “Mouth-watering,” “Fat-free,” “Eat me, now!” Thanksgiving was two days away and this spider had pretty much made up my father’s mind. That night, I tossed and turned in my bed. Around 2 AM, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I snuck out into the yard and tip-toed to Ol’ Gobbler’s pen. He ran out to greet me and we embraced briefly. Grasping his wing, I led him into the yard and out through the gate into the fields. “Hurry, Ol’ Gobbler, there’s not much time.”
We ran through the fields as fast as we could until we reached the edge of the property line. There, we stood on the side of the road that led into the city. “Here’s $34, Ol’ Gobbler, it’s all I have. It will get you as far as St. Paul. After that, you’ll find work.” I picked him up and hugged him one final time. As I held him in my arms I sobbed, “You’ll make it, Ol’ Gobbler . . . you’ll follow those dreams we talked about. I’ll never leave this one-horse town, but you’ve got the drive and ambition to do it!” With those words, I tossed him into the air! I tossed him into freedom! I tossed him into a life where he could follow his dreams! I tossed him into the path of a Greyhound bus!
There’s some in those parts that say even today you can hear the strangled warble of Ol’ Gobbler as he ricocheted off the fender. They say you can see his little three-toed footprints on the side of the road as he walks to St. Paul to live his dream. But now he only lives in my dreams.
As the years went by, Denny’s found my parents and they came and raized the farm to the ground. We were placed in a Denny’s work camp for 14 years, until finally I was freed in my 24th year. I found work in St. Paul and took a wife. They made me give her back. When I was 30, I went back to where our old farm used to be. I walked through the fields – remembering chasing Ol’ Gobbler across the plain until I would fall into a well. Finally, I came upon the spot where I buried the bits of Ol’ Gobbler that were not wedged into the engine compartment of a bus. I kneeled on the little mound with the makeshift cross. And I cried one last time for Ol’ Gobbler.
And as I rose and dusted the sod off my knees, I swear I heard – carried on the wings of the wind – the last words of Ol’ Gobbler: “Gobble, gobble. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. Thud.”
Happy Thanksgiving.