Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful for the blessings of God. School children don Pilgrim attire and reenact the first Thanksgiving. Pre-schoolers dress as turkeys and Pilgrims and sing songs about being grateful. We all celebrate in different ways. One such memory stands out as my favorite Thanksgiving.
Growing up, my family always enjoyed a large gathering during Thanksgiving. My parents, aunts, and uncles took turns hosting our family celebration. The year my aunt and uncle hosted Thanksgiving, they lived on a farm with a farmhouse and barn that housed a cat, a few chickens, rabbits, and Mr. Turkey. That year, my uncle decided to give us kids an old-fashioned Thanksgiving.
There were nine of us first cousins. We all arrived at the farm early on Thanksgiving morning. Our moms and grandmothers got busy in the kitchen while the men headed to the barn. They were going to harvest Mr. Turkey! I was mortified. My cousins and I had played with that turkey for the past year. We had grown fond of him. When I would spend the weekend, he faithfully crowed each morning, waking us from sleep and calling us to come and play.
My brother was fascinated. He followed the men out to the barn to watch them cut off Mr. Turkey’s head. Little boys are strange that way. The more morbid something is, the better they like it. He would later describe with delight the sight of Mr. Turkey running around in circles with no head while blood squirted from his neck. My twin cousins and I wanted nothing to do with it. We were upset that Mr. Turkey would be on the Thanksgiving table instead of in the yard.
My aunt brought a bucket of water out and began filling a big black pot that hung above the firepit. A short while later, Mr. Turkey’s headless body was laid beside the firepit. We had never seen someone pluck feathers from a bird, but my aunt was quite adept at pulling those feathers. After removing most of the feathers, she dropped that turkey into the big pot of boiling water. She told us kids that when she and my mother were young, that was always how they prepared a turkey. She explained that the hot water would loosen the rest of the feathers, making it easy to clean the skin. After removing all the feathers, the turkey was taken inside, prepared for roasting, and placed in the oven.
While we played outside, the women baked, mixed, and created all the usual sides and desserts for our Thanksgiving meal. Tables set with seldom-used china and silver promised good things to come. Our children’s table even had nice plates with sterling silver flatware, cloth napkins, and a centerpiece of pumpkins and gourds like the grown-up table. Our faces and hands were washed. Dinner was ready.
My dad brought in the turkey, browned to perfection, looking regal on a silver platter, and placed it on the table. After offering the blessing of God’s bounty and sharing what we were thankful for, my uncle began to carve up Mr. Turkey.
The first cut seemed to cut into my heart. While everyone was filling their plates with steaming turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce, my appetite waned. My stomach began to churn, and large knots formed in my throat. My face burned, my hands felt cold, and I ran from the table to the bathroom. I lay down on the floor; the coolness of the tile felt good to my cheeks, soothing my churning stomach.
Momma came looking for me, sitting on the floor beside me, and asked what was wrong. I couldn’t find the words, but tears streamed down my cheeks. Momma held me as I cried, soothing me with the comfort of her embrace. After a few minutes, the crying stopped. Momma washed my face with a cool, damp cloth, smoothed my hair, and helped me up from the floor. I returned to the table, and momma fixed my plate with everything but turkey.
That Thanksgiving was the year I realized where those frozen grocery store turkeys came from. It was an important lesson in my young life and put into perspective something the early settlers already knew about being thankful. I would answer God’s call on my life the following year, accepting Jesus’ sacrifice for my sins. Never again would I take for granted the sacrifice our soldiers make for our freedom or the farmers who raise the foods we need to survive. Thanksgiving is a day set aside for us to count our blessings, thank our loving God, who gave His Son for our salvation, and be truly grateful for all His wonderful blessings.
“The one who offers thanksgiving as his sacrifice glorifies me; to one who orders his way rightly, I will show the salvation of God!” Psalm 50:23