THE first year my parents decided to serve turkey for Christmas, they went out and got a teenage bird to fatten up for Dec 25. We children were little then and we became accustomed to the gobbler strutting around in the side yard under the clothes hanging on the washing lines or calling it stupid when we accidentally stepped into its squishy droppings with our bare feet.
One of my younger brothers, no taller than that growing bird, chased it around all the time. The turkey’s wattle was an infinite source of fascination for him and he tugged at it at every opportunity.
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