Few memories from my childhood have had more of an impact on my life than the Thanksgiving Turkey Bird.
Warning to readers: This story, although entertaining for a while, ends in the tragic death of a beloved family member. It’s a sixty-year-old memory that still carries with it the true sadness of that day. But oddly, even though this is my first story of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday, it has nothing to do with a turkey at all.
My three brothers, The Sister, and I spent seven magical years growing up on that old familiar street not so far away called Flamingo. And during that time, we celebrated seven Christmases, hunted for Easter eggs seven times, set off fireworks in our backyard seven times, but gave thanks over a turkey dinner just six times. Why only six times and not seven? Keep reading, Dear Reader, you’ll soon understand.
If you’re a regular reader of this column, you may remember Tweet. When we moved into our house on Flamingo, Mom also moved in a new member of the family a month later — a little green parakeet we all named Tweet. With only one television in the house, Tweet soon became our main source of entertainment – this was truly by accident.
A few days after Mom brought the bird home, she moved the bird’s cage into the kitchen. Now I know, having a parakeet in a cage in the kitchen probably wasn’t the most sanitary setup, but there was a logical reason for it. Dad said the birdseed was making too much of a mess on the carpet, and the linoleum floor in the kitchen was much easier to clean. Besides, with its cage door always left opened, the bird rarely stayed in its metal prison anyway. And just why was the cage door always left open? Don’t fly ahead in this story. We’re getting there soon.
The Tweet heard around the house
Soon after the bird had been relocated into the kitchen, The Sister walked past the cage and said, “Pretty bird.” To her surprise, Tweet answered her back, “Pretty bird.” Mom had bought a bird that could talk!
But every time we wanted to interact with the talking bird, we didn’t want to go into the kitchen, so we kept “accidently” leaving the cage door open. Mom finally gave up the fight of keeping the door closed, and Tweet flew freely around our house talking and spreading joy to all of us.
Dinner time
Tweet even ate dinner with us every night. We kids would spread a little pile of bird seed in front of us and watch as Tweet hopped around eating from each pile. She was so comfortable at the table that one night, she ate hushpuppies off Dad’s head.
Soon she became part of the family and ate dinner with us every night. The bird seemed to have an endless vocabulary, some of which got us into a lot of trouble. It seems Tweet would repeat both good words and bad words, but bad words more often.
The last meal
Every year for Thanksgiving Mom’s parents stayed with us for a few days, and her mom, Grandma Watson, helped with cooking the big meal. The year I turned seven was no exception.
With Mom and Grandma bustling around the kitchen all day, Tweet didn’t come out of her cage once, even though her door was left open. At five that afternoon, Dad started to give thanks over the meal, but never finished.
The Thankless Thanksgiving
Holding hands, we bowed our heads as Dad announced, “Let us pray.” And that’s when Tweet decided to fly out of her cage and around the kitchen before landing on top of…Grandma’s head! I’d never seen a seventy-five-year-old lady move so fast in my life as I did that day. And I’d never heard so many bad words spoken by an adult either.
Grandma Watson ran around the kitchen table yelling and swatting at our dear little Tweet who was entangled in her nest of gray hair. Finally dislodged, Tweet did what she had always done at dinner time for the last three years…she flew around the kitchen. That gave Grandma time to run to the corner and grab a broom. (See, I told you this was gonna be a sad story.)
The grand slam
With one swat, the life of our beloved Tweet was extinguished. The incident left a deep impact on me. That night I made a promise never to hurt any bird, animal, or even an insect and, instead, to see the beauty in their uniqueness and try to understand why they are in the world.
That promise made so many years ago has led me on an amazing journey that’s lasted over sixty years — a journey I now share with my granddaughters. They too respect nature, and all the many creatures therein.
Never forgotten
Grandma Watson was eventually forgiven (at least by our parents) for the death of our beloved Tweet, but she was never invited back for Thanksgiving dinner again.
Some of you may want to know if Tweet spoke any last word just before being swatted down by that broom. Indeed, she did, and I remember what it was. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you. This is a family column after all.
[Rick Ryckeley has been writing stories weekly in The Citizen since 2001.]
