Thanksgiving memories are usually zany

Two days before Thanksgiving, our turkey arrived via Gar, straining slightly to pack it to the cupboard. That was my first clue that I was in for a tussle, but the real shock came as I peeled back the bag containing it. This thing was something out of Ripley’s Believe It or Not. It had been hand-plucked and cleaned, for which I will always hold Lyn, Tim and his dad, Ed, in a special place in my tiny heart, but the bird was gargantuan. With furrowed brows, I contemplated our refrigerator, too dopy to think ahead to the oven.