Surrounded by Turkeys

In the early morning hours, a mist sits low and wispy on the field next to Max's house.I watch it disappear as the sun moves higher and the air warms.

At the far edge along the tree line to the woods beyond,I see dark shapes emerging from the scrubby bushes until there is at least a dozen which have ventured out
a little way into the field. They are wild turkeys, dark brown and fat through the body with thin necks and small heads and they are feeding on the left-over grain scattered over the ground. They move slowly, casually; when I check back on them a short while later, they have blended back into the woods.

Later I am diving over some back country roads near our house, when I see a large dark shape take flight on the left side of the road. I realize it's a turkey and he is barely clearing the ground, just barely clearing my windshield.

It seems I am surrounded by turkeys this year, including the ones on television as cooks give out all kinds of advice on how to cook them. But I am torn about Thanksgiving this year. It was always my mother's holiday. And she did it wonderfully. I always meant to take it over, but I never did, and now she's gone and like it or not, do I get it by default?

I will not be able to taste her cooking again,and, even if I used all her recipes, I know I would not measure up. I won't be able to walk into her kitchen with my pitiful offerings of salad, cranberries, rolls - and smell all the aromas of the dishes she always made for us, including a roasting turkey.

My mother and I were a lot alike, but I am a pale immitation of her in the kitchen,
and somehow this year I don't even have the heart to try.

I think the turkeys are safe!