Short Stories

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Standing on the side of the road under a large oak tree with its boughs spreading low over the well-traveled highway, my five-year old daughter Dawn and I waited for our Thanksgiving dinner to arrive.

It was cold there in the early morning mountain air as I keep Dawn close to me for warmth. There were two other seekers of a free turkey dinner waiting just across the road from us. They looked a lot more needy than we did. It was a given that my daughter and I would take the leftovers leaving the first choice to our competitors across the way.

As a matter of fact, they almost left the site until I told them it was okay to stay for the unmerited treat that was almost a certain. You see, I was the Chief of Police in the town whose law enforcement duties included the section of road on which we were patiently awaiting our expected bonanza.

Off in the distance came the familiar low rumbling that many before us came to know as the Turkey Express. I had learned of this weekly happening after being called to the site a couple weeks earlier to investigate a fight between three ladies. What a sight to see!

The rumbling became a thunderous sound as eighteen wheels slapped the dark bituminous with their singsong thumping. Dinner was just around the bend.

My daughter begin to clap and shout hooray as the familiar morning trek to market of thousands of Rockingham Turkeys approached the low lying boughs of the mighty oak. There on the top of a mound of crates all packed with white feathered morsels of Rockingham’s pride, stood six escapees who were leaned into the wind appearing as if they were some rather large hood ornaments like those that adorned the great land barge cars of the fifties. So gallant they appeared head forward into the wind.

As the truck passed under the tree, the startled birds were swept off the truck, hitting the pavement in a wild scrabble of white fluff. Before the wobbling gallinaceous birds could regain their senses, the mouth-watering gents across the street caught them up. With a big grin on his face, one of the joyous captors proudly strolled across the street and handed over the biggest of the unfortunate fowls to my little Dawn.

Yahoo…it looked like a thirty pounder for sure. With Thanksgiving just three weeks away, I was more than thankful for the freebee just handed to us. I wasn’t the richest person in my town; the cooks had all the money, so the savings looked pretty good to me.

Woe-is-me, not to be. Dawn named the dinner delight, Wobbles, for the condition he was in that cold morning of his departure from his fate. You got it, how can you eat something with a proper name. My daughter groomed her pet daily and fed it so much corn that I would have saved money by buying our bird instead of capturing it.

Two days before Thanksgiving, I tried to explain to Dawn the fate of turkeys around this time of the year. I was so proud of myself as I explained all about the first settlers, the Indians and the great feast they all shared. Dawn listened intently and then told me she was going out to set Wobbles free lest he ended up on someone’s table.

What could I do; I watched as Wobbles, my dinner, strut down the hill and disappear into the thick mountainous terrain of the Blue Ridge Mountains. A little tear ran down Dawn’s face as she slowly waved goodbye to her beloved pet.

Thanksgiving was a little different that year. Some how serving Thanksgiving pork roast just didn’t feel the same. I’m just thankful I never told my daughter about my childhood pet, Snot…my pet pig. Bon appétit, you’ all!

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