Growing up on the Maple Hill Farm west of Monroe, we always had a few chickens for eggs, a steer and a pig or two for meat, and, the year I'm thinking of, one tom turkey. I don't know how we managed to have one turkey, but we did. I think my grandmother gave him to us. We called him Tom.
Tom was quite large, close to 30 pounds, and spent a lot of time hanging around the back porch in full strut. He was kind of a watch turkey, gobbling when anyone pulled in the driveway, and defecating all over the sidewalk. Tom was going to be our Thanksgiving turkey. I couldn't imagine eating a family pet, but life on the farm is what it is. Until it isn't.
Dad rounded up Tom by the feet, hung him upside down on the clothesline, and was going to lop off his head. Tom was so heavy, he pulled the clothesline down. Dad had to restring him up, Tom flopping the whole time, nearly beating Dad to death. But Dad got the job done.
I remember vividly when Tom was dunked into a kettle of boiling water for scalding and feather plucking. He was upside down in the kettle, and he started kicking. Dad slammed the lid on the kettle, sat on it, and shouted, “He's alive!”
Dad was joking. It was reflexes. But at the time, I thought Tom was alive.
Anywho, we were going to have a big family Thanksgiving dinner. Grandma and Grandpa were invited along with my older sisters and brother who were married and had children. So there were a lot of people coming, but in the huge old farm house of Maple Hill, we all fit nicely. BTW: Maple Hill Farm is on display on the walls of an I-80 Rest Area near Newton.
Grandma and Grandpa arrived the night before so that Grandma could help prepare the meal. Grandma was a firm believer that on Thanksgiving, the “electricity ran slow” because of all the people cooking. So she got up at 4:00 am, stuffed Tom, and popped him in the oven.
Well, Tom was so fresh, that by 7:00 am, he was done. The smell of Turkey wafted through the farm house, pulling us out of bed by the nose. There was nothing left to do, but sit down and have Thanksgiving dinner at 8:00 in the morning. Which was all right by me. Dad returned thanks and the meal began. There were mashed potatoes and gravy, pies, cranberries—the works. Tom was so tender he melted in our mouths. I had a little trouble swallowing, as I could still see Tom kicking at the lid of the kettle. But I got'im down.
A little side story: Grandpa and Grandma had an old jalopy, a 1945 Chevrolet. Grandpa didn't believe in changing the oil. He just added to it. The oil was black as Iowa dirt. After Thanksgiving “breakfast” while Grandpa was napping, two husbands of my sisters, stole Grandpa's car and drove it to town. My dad ran a Mobil station. They changed the oil and lubed Grandpa's car, thinking they were doing him a favor.
Grandpa awoke while his car was gone, and was so upset, he started walking to town. But here came his car back, with fresh oil in it, and two smiling Grandson-in-laws. Grandpa was still upset. He rounded up Grandma and took off for home. “Clean oil will ruin an engine,” he maintained.
Grandpa was known to be stubborn. A few years after this, when the United States put astronauts on the moon, Grandpa didn't believe it, and sided with the people that said the event was staged in Arizona. Arguing with Grandpa was like arguing with a brick wall.
I was 16 at the time of this Thanksgiving dinner. My girlfriend had invited me to her house for Thanksgiving dinner also. Back then, I could eat my weight. I had two Thanksgiving dinners that day, a full stomach, and a lot of stories to tell my grandchildren.
Have a good story? Call or text Curt Swarm in Mt. Pleasant at 319-217-0526 or email him at curtswarm@yahoo.com. Curt is available for public speaking.
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