Guest Post by my daughter, Madison (14).
Perhaps one of my favorite things that I pride myself in doing this time of year is reminding mom of holidays past. I might be the only child who jokingly teases mom about her bloopers. We have a few precious stories and I think this may be my favorite.
It all started when mom had gone to some super store while she dropped Ansley and me off at Saints for a time of sweaty flag football, volleyball, tennis, and other outdoor games (AKA: Homeschool PE). Meanwhile mom browsed around with Asher (5) and Sabal (2) in the shopping cart. Our relatives from mom’s side of the family were soon to be in town for Thanksgiving, so mom was stockpiling the food. (Grandma was sure to bring some goodies too.)
Now I want to tell you that the turkey mom picked out was the biggest she could find. I mean, it was massive; the thing weighed around 30 pounds.
I wish that was all true, but alas, I can neither confirm nor deny this. But, for the story’s sake, the turkey was a 30 pound whopper.
Ahem, so, after mom heaved the thing into a shopping cart and everything was paid and accounted for, she drove over to the Wellington Park to retrieve her two oldest children. I recall mom asking us to quickly get in the van—there were frozen items onboard. With a push of the button, both of the van doors automatically opened before us. I’m sure there was a hungry, fussy, and tired toddler in the car-seat too that added to the urgency for us to get home.
Ansley and I hopped in, seated for the 30 minute ride.
When we arrived at the little yellow house, we began to unpack. There were A LOT of groceries—a sizeable job for my sister and me. After we removed every bag, Mom asked, “Have you girls seen the turkey?”
I can imagine looking at 7-year-old Ansley at this point, who shrugged her little shoulders and shook her dark, pig-tailed head no. I looked back at mom, “No, ma’am.”
“Can you look again? I can’t find it.”
We dug through that van; we looked under the “secret” seat compartments to see if it was tucked underneath our feet. We found zilch.
Back inside we marched and relayed the news to mom who was now very concerned.
“Can you please search the trunk?”
We did. Nothing. We searched the kitchen and anywhere else frozen food might hide.
We never found that bird.
Mom hoped that someone in need of a Thanksgiving meal must have found ours. Noble idea or not, mom still lost that frozen bird, and a story that classic was not going to be wasted. We still to this day razz her with the tale of the Turkey that got away. I love mom; she plays along and we both end up giggling about the mishap. Besides, she knows better than anyone that I’ve got a few funny mistakes behind me too.
(One of which includes setting the tablescape on fire. The ironic thing was that the decorations consisted of logs. Go figure.)
I’m thankful for these recollections that I hold, no matter how many poor objects were destroyed in the making of the memory.
Sometimes, I just wonder if we’ll ever find a moldy/withered no-longer-30-pound-turkey in that “secret” seat compartment.
Until then, the turkey telling tradition continues.