The Turkey Shoot

For Jack, it had been three years now, maybe four that he had begun the Thanksgiving/Christmas season, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, amongst old friends, for a good old-fashioned wild turkey shoot. When they got together, there was always great camaraderie and questionably-believable story-telling, and lots of lies. They caught up on old times and discussed life’s misadventures. There may have been stories of stolen tractors, crooked salesman, and pesky lawyers. There were undoubtedly stories of the best college football teams and how the University of Buffalo would one day be among them.

This all led up to a special moment that, for Jack, signified the beginning of the crazy holiday season. It was a moment for men (and a wife or two) to be men and wild turkey to be plentiful. It was the kind of tradition a father passed down to his son and grandson. It could span generations with its simplicity and virility. It was an event to be treated with reverence, dare I say holiness. When the time came and a clear shot at wild turkey right in front of them, there was a brief hesitation, filled with a short toast and words of thanks. The fight then became personal. They must each dispose of their own turkey. Those are the rules.

Some of the weaker among them may have cringed at the thought of the first shot. But experienced shooters, like Jack, remained calm. They would set their sights and, with steady aim, BLAST the wild turkey down their gullet, then SLAM the glass on the table with pumped-up chest, a burning throat, and maybe a small tear and a little nausea. The beast had been slayed. The Wild Turkey had been shot.

Let the holidays begin.


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