The Yule Turkey

 By James E. Morison

Christmas on the farm was bleak that year. A virulent form of bovine tuberculosis destroyed our dairy herd, and the farm was quarantined for years. The financial loss plunged our family into poverty and life became very difficult. My day on the farm had started at 4 a.m. to do chores, milk cows and didn't end until late in the evening.

However, all that changed almost overnight.

The once-busy dairy now was just a small group of buildings and the farm equipment sat idle. The big red barn and feeder pens, once active with animals, now stood silent. The daily stream of people arriving to buy our fresh milk and butter had disappeared. Sad to say, my parents were financially ruined, but we managed to stave off starvation for quite a while. Eventually my shoes had holes in them, and I always kept my feet flat on the floor so no one would see.

I was lucky to have a sandwich to take for lunch at school once in a while. School lunches didn't exist then, and I would just tell friends that I wasn't hungry. This was far from the truth.

Christmas was coming and the hope of having any presents under the tree seemed very distant. However, our family had a long-standing tradition of reading the Christmas story followed by everyone singing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve. My sister would single-finger play the old piano that once belonged to my grandmother.

Uncle Chester (my mother's brother), recently divorced and with nowhere to go, arrived just before Christmas bearing several bags of foodstuffs, small gifts and turkey. Everyone was seated at the big table on Christmas Day and the smell of roasting turkey filled every corner of the house. Finally, my mother stepped into the dining room with Uncle Chester's large turkey on a small platter.

Suddenly, and without warning, she tripped, staggered and stumbled while desperately trying to keep the platter upright. It almost seemed in a slow motion dream as the turkey took sudden and glorious flight. Just when the large bird seemed to break the bonds of gravity, it nose-dived straight down and crash-landed on the floor. It seemed to shudder as it belly-flopped on the aging carpet and freshly cooked dressing flew into the air.

"Well," my mother said while standing over the remains of our dinner, "it's a good thing I cooked both of Uncle Chet's turkeys."

My father soon had the mess cleaned up and he helped steady the platter as the second turkey made a safe arrival from the kitchen. The second turkey was wonderful, and we had a great dinner. However, our continued laughter and conversation about our mother's less-than-graceful entrance made her blush more than once. The grease stain never did come out of the carpet.

The farm was later sold for pennies on the dollar, and we were forced to move into a small home. The once-fruitful land later became a subdivision of homes. We saw Uncle Chester again at his funeral. He died tragically while trying to save a drowning swimmer.

Years passed and our parents' 50th wedding anniversary brought family and friends together for a wonderful time of celebration and a nice dinner. The days of extreme poverty on the farm were now just fading memories. Laughter and chatter broke out when someone mentioned the Christmas Day when our mother dropped Uncle Chester's turkey. Our mother then rose and said some nice things that brought tears to the eyes. She then paused and looked around at us all.

"Well," she said, "everyone remembers that Christmas when I dropped the turkey. Your Uncle Chester was confused because he had only brought one turkey. I told him that I had just made that story up about two turkeys. I just couldn't let it ruin the dinner. I stuck some hat pins in it, and it was as good as new."

There was stunned silence as the truth finally came out about the flying turkey. Finally, everyone present laughed and laughed for the longest time.

I never had the chance to say goodbye to my mother before she passed away, and every Christmas is a time for reflection. Yet, the sacrifices she made for the family during those difficult times will never be forgotten and never can be repaid. This Christmas, my family with children and grandchildren in tow, will again gather around the dinner table as we celebrate the birth of our Savior.

As we sit to enjoy the meal of roasted turkey as part of our Christmas tradition, I'm suddenly a young boy again on that day long ago when I learned that turkeys really can fly.