A turkey crosses a freeway

All,

This isolation is the pits. I miss my wife of course but I also miss having a dog. Jake, our latest faithful companion, passed away in 2007. Over time we disbursed his possessions and equipment to those in need.

Today I ordered, online, a new six-foot leash. Now I just have to find someone to walk me.

Today's story is an actual experience from simpler times, nonetheless enjoyable.

 Six-foot hugs,

Les

One Thanksgiving day, the Terry family was invited to the Dove home for a celebration of the holiday. My dad, Bud Terry, was a man of instantaneous humor. He was quick-witted and always made the room at ease with his personality. His best friend, Louie Dove, was one of the funniest men I have ever met; no one, who met him, didn’t walk away loving the man. The two of them, Bud and Lou, were a dangerous compact whose behavior could lead to anything. Fortunately, both had wives that could generate control, as long as they were watching.

It was a Thanksgiving in the late fifties. The Terry family of five was invited to the Dove family home for the traditional feast. Mom was to bring apple pie, mincemeat pie, and pumpkin pie. The Terry brood, consisting of three boys, was in disagreement over the day's activities. Mom and Dad wanted to join the Doves while the boys wanted to play football and eat the pies. Mom and Dad won, again. The boys were piled in the back of a ’51 Mercury, and immediately it looked more like opening night at the dog fights. Mom instantly took control with serious threats mainly revolved around pies. We arrived at the Dove house which was about one mile away and we were ushered up the stairs to the second-floor entrance like soldiers headed for their first GI haircut with threats of total emasculation should any bad behavior spring forth that day.  Further, there was always the threat of no pies which were always consumed by the terminus of the meal.

We were greeted by Louie whose smile was as big and genuine as the Pacific and Claire, his adorable and comedic wife who, like my mother could rule the roost when the rooster was in the pen. “Hi Terrys, Happy Thanksgiving, welcome to our home,” said Lou and Claire in harmony. Without missing a beat, Louie explained to my dad, Bud that they have a project to do.  Now both Bud and Louie were police officers in our town, but before that, they were both craftsmen. My dad was a master carpenter who could do anything; Louie, a sheet metal worker, could do likewise. My Dad was disappointed by Louie’s remark and replied, “Louie, not today, it is the holiday for Pete’s sake!” “Take it easy Bud! It is not a big deal; it’s a small project downstairs.” “Ok, I’ll take a look,” said Bud reluctantly. 

The staging began in earnest before the feast. Claire and Mom commanding the kitchen, which was mysteriously missing the addictive fragrance of roast turkey, would prepare the extensive side dishes that deserved to accompany the bird.  The children, the Terry boys, Yvonne and Frankie Dove, would occupy a second-floor room to engage in board games of the day. Louie and Bud were headed toward the first-floor garage for Louie’s “project”.

“Ok, Louie, what is this project?” said Bud with chagrin. “It’s right here,” said Louie as he pointed to the standing metal pedestal canister that was mysteriously emanating fragrance of roast turkey. “Oh, that’s why there is no turkey smell in the kitchen you’ve got it in the portable broaster.  So where is this project?” asked Bud. The bird in the can sat on the ground floor level which consisted of a voluminous garage space that currently held only one car. There were no wall coverings, only bare studs that were holding up the framing and the exterior covering of the building. “Well here’s our tool,” said Louie as he pulled out a fifth of straight bourbon whiskey concealed between the stud bays. “It’s ‘Old Overholt’ Bud, but in our case, since we are the craftsman that we are, should call it ‘Old Overalls’ for our project which is to baste the turkey from time to time,” he said with his comedic twinkle. “Ok,” said Bud, “Now that is what I call a worthwhile project.” With that said there was a muffled sound of corkage; the basting was on; butter and broth for the turkey, “Old Overalls” for the men.

The day went on. The women commanders performed their culinary miracles while the men made more and more frequent forays into the basement to baste the turkey and thin their bloodstreams further. The return trips upstairs became more difficult with each circuit. The commanders were becoming more impatient with the reports of the lack of roasting completion while the project managers made more excuses for the tardy bird with diminishing diction.

“Louie, you and Bud go down there one more time, and don’t come back without that bird!” commanded Claire. “Aye, aye,” replied Louie, lucky to get it out without chewing his tongue, “we’re on it.”

Down they went towards the final step of their mission: retrieve the bird which by now had already reached its completed cooking temperature for over an hour. With “Old Overalls” diminished, they’d lost their only tool and excuse for the task. The two craftsmen attempted to retrieve an overcooked turkey whose external temperature had exceeded 150 degrees and was squeezed tightly into the bathtub type like cooking vessel. No forks, no prongs, not even a potholder, these were brave and real men who knew their assignment and were about to engage. They finally got a grip on the elusive bird; within nanoseconds, they realized their mistake but they were determined to complete the mission. It’s too hot!  They both lost their handholds at the same time and the bird, without feathers attempted to take flight. It was a complete failure on the bird’s part as he descended rapidly onto the garage concrete floor leaving a streak of cooked turkey juices and broth; but through the miracle of the Thanksgiving holiday, he transformed himself into the “roadrunner”, the intended victim of Wyle E. Coyote; across the garage floor and hid under the 1956 Plymouth sedan; nestled cozily yet forcefully under the manual transmission. The two basted basters were now looking at each other in amazement (well, as well as two inebriated people can) and wondered about the next move. “I’ve got it,” spoke Louie as he reached for the floor broom. As much as he tried, that bird wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, it looked as if its condition was worsening with every stroke of the straw oar. They tried all the tools, two by fours, rope, even a hoe. No luck, no bird. “Ok,” said Bud, “it’s time for hand-to-hand combat.”

“Here’s the plan, Louie. I’ll crawl under the car and reach for the drumsticks (which were still pretty hot). When I say go, I’ll grab the drumsticks, and you’ll pull me out from under the car by my legs.” said Bud.” “Seems reasonable,” slurred Louie, circumspect about bending over at this time. With that, Bud assumed the military crawl towards the target; his bare hands were extended toward the drumstick handholds he hoped to employ. “Are you ready, partner?” echoed Bud from his cavity position. “All ready here?” shouted an unsteady Louie, hands wrapped around Bud’s ankles. “Go, pull, whatever,” shouted Bud as the coordinated effort was launched. Bud had the drumsticks; Louie had Bud’s legs. They both pulled.

Bud emerged from beneath Plymouth cavern with two drumsticks, no bird. “Drat!” said the team in unison. This had become more “Two Stooges” than a “Road Runner” cartoon. “I’m going back in,” said Bud, now armed with a straw broom and dustpan while Louie pushed from the other side with another former tool failure, the push broom. Of course, the mission veered slightly as the two commenced mutual combat, engaging in a hockey match under the car forgetting why they are there. At last, focus returned and the bird was freed; if you can call seven to eight disjointed pieces of over-roasted flesh a bird. A hasty reassembly onto a serving plate began while Claire beckoned from the top of the stairs, “Louie where is that bird?” “On the way, as soon as we find all the parts,” whispered Louie.  Reconstruction completed, the boys ascended the stairs to meet their fate.

The bird was presented to the ladies covered loosely by aluminum foil. Upon the unveiling, there was shock and wonder. “My God,” declared Claire, “this bird looks like it got hit on the freeway.”

“Pretty close!” harmonized the boys. Party on.