Thanksgiving shall soon be upon us and for those of you unfamiliar with the turkey story, I have decided to once again print it out for you since this is a new computer and I have a new family with LCG. To lay out the scene, I was in college and the assignment was to write a short story about Thanksgiving. It had to be a TRUE story, which I like to write about anyway. It ended up being my last story just prior to the car accident and the 23 years of no reading or writing afterwards. This story was published in the Palm Beach Post in Delray Beach, Florida. EVERY WORD of this story is true. I am now 61 and I can still get my legs over my head! HA! Toms Revenge by Constance M. Standley (Espinoza) My old faithful recipe book lay before me on the kitchen counter, the canning pot on the large burner. I had to multiply the ingredients in the recipe by four that Thanksgiving morning due to what brimmed over in the sink. I had gone to the local live turkey farm as usual that year where the gobblers had been fed the very best diet of sweet succulent corn. Drool had run down my chin as I stood in the midst of the thousand or so creatures. Ruefully the birds had looked up at me; a hungry smile had been on my lips. Fantasies of crisp golden skin and the aroma of baked stuffing had flooded my senses memories. Greed had set in. I ordered the biggest Tom they could find that year. Two days before the holiday arrived, I went to pick up our then deceased naked, thirty-two pound bird. Stuffing prepared, turkey bathed, I stood ready to pack the bread and meat mixture into the birds body cavity. The farm had placed one of those fancy wire do-dads in the turkeys behind to eliminate the old fashioned need to truss with the skewers and string. A grateful thought passed through my mind at the sight of it. Sewing had never been a strong point of mine and the method of trussing had left me in a tangled mess time and again. The last scoop of dressing strategically placed, the first drumstick was snapped down into the cradle of the wire holder. How easy can you get? I mentally had questioned. The next drumstick clopped in with a thudding. Odd, I thought. Sheering pain suddenly grabbed me. The middle finger of my left hand, which had joined forces with the drumstick, was painfully wedged in the wires snare. Attempt after painful attempt, the more I struggled to free my finger, the tighter the wires grasp became. Horrible swelling accompanied with a deep shade of purple began to develop rapidly. I knew that I would have to elicit aid in freeing my finger. My eyes dashed about the kitchen as sweat broke out across my brow. The sink where I had been held hostage was situated four feet from the counter top which was behind me. Three feet beyond that, in the corner behind the canister set; there was an intercom on the wall. It would enable me to have called for help to the workshop at the end of our acreage. My husband had been in there working. Figuring he would have come to help me get out of the mess Id gotten into. No problem. Just pick up the stuffed bird and carry him to the counter. Id beep the intercom, explain the situation, and hed come rescue me. I had the problem solved. Placing my right hand under the bird, I exerted a lifting motion. The once thirty-two pound Tom, now stuffed to maximum capacity, wouldnt budge. I crammed my wrist around him further. This time he rose up from the sinks floor, only to be returned to his resting place extremely fast! Pain had shot to my brain for the finger had then wedged yet tighter still. Panic was then attempting to force my determined calmness out of view. I called to my two young children who were fighting at the other end of the house behind closed doors. Thanksgiving Day parade festivities could be heard blaring from the television in their room. Raising my voice louder, the bickering and T.V. volume was increased, drowning out my pleas for help. The queasiness of fainting made a gnawing pit in my stomach. The pain was rapidly amplifying. Panic was setting roots within me. I thought I would vomit. Perching on just one foot, hand locked firmly into the birds anchor, I swung my right leg up onto the counter behind me. Pointing my raised foot in ballerina fashion, I had slid it in the intercoms direction. Sweat broke out on my lip and forehead as I strained and shook under the realization I would be...a foot short. I strained harder still to struggle under the weight which held me captive to reach the button on the intercom. Immediately my outstretched leg rushed to join its cohort in the endeavor to support my body from the wracking pain which sought to bring me to my knees with faint. Repeated deep breaths filled my lungs until the room stopped spinning and swimming before my eyes. A final scream for help reached the scrapping boys. They ambled toward the sound of the distress with guilt laden expressions upon forced cherubic faces. What could possibly be wrong? they had queried innocently. Trying to put my intense pain aside as to not have let my angels detect my extreme distress, I had explained that I was stuck in the turkey. Before I could conclude my explanation, riotous laughter broke out between them. I yelled at them that this was no laughing matter! I was indeed being glued to that bird! They doubled over in fits of laughter! The youngest dashed off to the bathroom for fear this comic event would cause bladder relief! I glared at his brother square in the eye and growled the hostile directive to call his other parent on the intercom! Subdued giggles and snorts escaped from him as he punched the call button. What do you want? boomed the voice from the other end. Dad, Giggle, giggle, snort, Moms got her hand stuck in the turkey, my first-born quipped. Run that by me again, the voice said sarcastically. After explaining once more the situation at hand, a pregnant pause came from the unseen workshop intercom. The voice finally responded with one of its philosophical explanations of the situation then dead silence. More laughter broke out laughter broke out now from all of them. Get in here! I snapped. Im not joking! Twenty or so minutes had endlessly ticked away since my ensnarement. With a great deal of delicacy, the boys father had me at long last painfully set free. that night as we sat about the table to begin our feast, the swollen, bruised deep purple finger, brought yet another flurry of hysterical rippling. Many years have slipped by now since that fateful Thanksgiving morning. Yet, as I stand here in the grocery store selecting a frozen turkey I am reminded of that day. I am forever grateful for having all of my appendages still functioning after that buzzards vicious attack. A word of caution to all of those who shall be stuffing their purchased poultry delights. DONT drool too obviously when you pick through the birds. Tom Turkeys revenge could come back to strike yet another unwary victim. As for me? Well... Ive taken up sewing.
Posted on: Wed, 13 Nov 2013 16:56:55 +0000
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