One October morning just at sunrise I was jogging along Mathers Avenue. A farmer in a truck transporting fowl to market passed me. After it disappeared into the distance, I noticed a white shape in the middle of the avenue. As I approached it, I realized that a large white turkey hen, whom I later named Tomasina, must have fallen off the truck. As I came close to her, she flapped her wings awkwardly in a futile attempt to escape; she was maimed from that experience.

What a windfall! A FREE turkey in those inflationary times! And Thanksgiving Day was just around the corner.

From past experience, I knew that all I had to do was shut out the light and the struggling Tomasina would be subdued into complete immobility. I acted quickly. In matter of minutes, I had my red polka-dotted hankie tied securely in a blindfold around Tomasina's head. As I anticipated, her struggling ceased. With great difficulty, I squeezed and stuffed Tomasina, tail first, into my knapsack. The blindfolded head stuck out and the wings projected from both sides. I heaved the knapsack onto my back. I walked for a while to catch my breath. Then, slowly at first, I started to run. The movement of my body and the air triggered the flight instinct of Tomasina. Rhythmically, Tomasina flapped her wings, synchronizing their movements with my footsteps. The load on my back lightened considerably. I literally glided along in flight, barely touching the ground. Thus, in high spirits I flew nonstop till I reached the safety of our garage.

I braked myself to a stop. Tomasina punctuated my halt with a stifled 'lobble! mobble!' My 'high' waned as I extricated myself from the knapsack. I set the coveted load on the cement floor of the garage. Tomasina was alive and well and none the worse after all from her tumble and piggyback ride. Carefully, I peeled the knapsack off her. The blindfold was intact. She continued to remain motionless.

Now for the KILL!

Since I grew up on the farm, I had ample opportunity to see a chicken being killed. How vividly I recollect the first time I saw my Dad kill a chicken! He emerged from the coop, firmly gripping in one hand, a hen by both its legs. The widespread wings flapped uncontrollably as the hen raised her head and viciously pecked at Dad's hand.

In anticipation of the inevitable, I felt FEAR setting in. At a comfortable distance, I followed Dad who proceeded quickly to a chopping block that propped up a hatchet. He reached for it. Gingerly, he placed the head of the struggling chicken on the block. Simultaneously, I stepped back and covered my eyes with both hands. My heart was pounding wildly as I waited in anticipation of the execution. One fatal WHACK! The head dropped to the ground. Dad released his firm hold of the hen's legs.

Gripped with fear, I ran to Mom who was coming out of the house. She stopped, hugged me, and offered words of comfort. I dared to look back. Horrible! There was the hen in convulsions on the blood sprayed grass. Mesmerized, I couldn't look away till the involuntary jerking dwindled to a dead stop.

"No, no," Mom assured me. "She feels no pain. She feels nothing. Really!" But I was not convinced. For weeks after, I had recurring nightmares of a bloody headless chicken chasing me.

Now, years later, there was a live turkey to be killed. I felt squeamish. On second thought, this definitely was a MAN's job. Pronto I went into the house to get my husband, Ted.

"Hey! Have I a surprise for you?"

"Yeh?" responded Ted nonchalantly.

"Yeh! Yeh! Come with me." I pulled him by his arm to the garage. As I opened the small door, I imitated a flourish of trumpets, "Tah! rah!" With a dramatic gesture I presented him with, "Meet Tomasina!" With this I removed Tomasina's blindfold.

"Where in hell did you find her?"

As I explained, Tomasina quietly cocked her head from one side to the other eyeing us suspiciously.

"Let her go!" suggested Ted. "Let someone else find her."

"Oh, No! Not on your life!" I responded adamantly. "After struggling to bring her home, I'm not about to give her up! Now, you do your bit. Kill and pluck her and I'll do the rest".

Ted wasn't very enthusiastic.

I encouraged, "There's nothing to it. Take that fire log. Put Tomasina's head on it, and with the hatchet..."

Ted interrupted, "Why don't you do it, if you're so smart? You seem to be an authority."

The first part of his speech twinged my fear nerve. "Well, uh, because..." I hesitated. Then with assertiveness I added, "Chicken killing is a MAN'S job!"

Now, he knew there was no way out. Without any more arguments he slowly picked up a block of firewood and set it in the middle of the cement floor. He turned and stood there momentarily.

He looked at Tomasina.

Tomasina looked at him.

They just couldn't take their eyes off each other.

Good humoredly, I offered, "See that look in her eye? It says, 'Wanna go steady?'" This drew a forced chuckle from Ted, as he continued to stand there. Then he smoothed the ridge of his nose with his finger a couple of times. This always activates the wheels of his brain. He was planning strategy. A few minutes later, he stepped toward Tomasina. She flapped her wings awkwardly in fright. Dragging one broken leg, she recoiled to the furthest corner, her tail crushed against the wall.

There Tomasina remained, cowering while Ted just stood back. Then very slowly he picked up the hatchet. With his thumb nail he tested it for sharpness. Even more slowly, he went about honing it. Then he propped the sharpened hatchet against the block. He just stood there, planning more strategy, no doubt. He pulled off his train engineer's hat and scratched his head. That's a sure sign of 'putting off for tomorrow what he doesn't feel like doing today'.

Mounting suspense was aggravating my impatience. "Go ahead!" I encouraged, with some urgency. "Get it over with!"

He replaced his hat, put on a pair of work gloves, and almost catlike , began to sneak up on his prey. When he was within a foot of Tomasina, she garbled several raspy gobbles as she pressed even closer to the wall. Simultaneously, as his gloved hand reached her, she snarled "Turkeyly", and maliciously attacked his hand. Startled, he moved back, but immediately his hand shot back, catching Tomasina off guard and grabbing her feet. The squawking commotion with the desperate beating of wings, made the hornets in my stomach do a tattoo dance of fear. This was reminiscent of my first horrible experience of chicken killing, I turned and fled to the house.

The phone rang. Fortunately, my sister Mary called me to help her can tomatoes. I was happy for the diversion, a chance to get out and avoid seeing the repulsive, bloody murder. On my way to the car, I hurriedly by-passed the garage. My heart was thumping, as I shouted agitatedly, "Ted, I'm going to Mary's to help her can tomatoes!" There was a response, but sheer DREAD prevented me from hearing it.

Three hours later I returned home to find Ted reading the newspaper at the kitchen table.

With some misgiving I ventured, "Where's Tomasina?"

Without looking up from the newspaper, he answered, "In the fridge."

I opened the fridge. "Boy! You sure did a good job! Looks professional!" I facetiously added, "You missed your calling." After a pause I added, "I didn't know you could eviscerate a fowl."

Ted peered over the newspaper. With a sheepish grin that melted into a light smile he responded, "Oh, I'm a man of many talents."

Just then, the phone rang. I answered it. "No, this is Mrs. Fibbs."

The voice on the phone informed me, "This morning when your husband brought a live turkey to be killed and dressed, he left his gloves on the counter."