Turkey Stories

All the images of Christmas past run together like the mix for some sumptuous fruit cake, from which the crumbs will scatter memories, trivial and momentous, garnished by the flow of years. Each crumb falling, out of any natural sequence, so that youth overrides childhood, middle-age falls ahead of youth. Yet childhood remains forever the most crystal-clear of Christmas images, and are relived—and relived. As all the cake...

The house was quiet. The children slept, while their mother and I labored in the kitchen. It was Thanksgiving Day and we worked to prepare our dinner. The turkey sat in the sink where cold water ran over it. A big yellow bowl sat on the counter full of stuffing mix, vegetables, melted butter and broth. I stirred it carefully making sure that everything mixed well. We had two cats, one a Russian Blue named Smokey, the othe...