Talking turkey

For all the times we’ve seen wild turkeys around the place, and the few times we’ve heard toms gobbling, this morning is the first time I can remember hearing a hen yelping. I was busy loading the tractor onto the trailer so we could take it off to the dealer for service, and amidst my hearing the tie-down straps ratchet tight, were the hen’s calls. Was she calling poults to stay away from me, the Jeep, and the trailer? Was she just trying to gather a family together? Could she  have been responding to the ratchet noise? I’ll never know, but it was fun to hear a real version of what I’ve been trying, off and on, to imitate during years of (unsuccessful) spring turkey hunting.

either sex is legal quarry in fall season

Photo by J. Harrington

Since Minnesota has a fall turkey season, this may be a year to get a license and spend some mornings sipping coffee on the deck and seeing if anyone wanders through the yard. Maybe I’ll even try playing with some of my turkey calls, although I’ll need to practice to minimize the likelihood of scaring the quarry away rather than drawing it in close. All of this presume that the smoke from Canadian wildfires has ceased and none is being generated by Minnesota burns. The past week or so has been smokey enough that I’ve even held off on burning some of the downed dead branches in the burn pit. It also depends on the disappearance of most all of the mosquitoes by the end of September. Think we’ll have had our first hard frost by then?

It feels odd thinking about turkey hunting in midsummer, since it’s usually an early spring affair, but then this has been one of those decades, hasn’t it? One where the unusual is becoming more common and most of US are struggling to figure out what, if anything, to do about it.

Wild Turkey

Heid E. Erdrich

Not the bottle
Not the burn on the lips
lit throat glow
Not even wild     really
but a small-town bird
whose burgundy throat
shimmers like nothing ever
A huge bird    impressive
who lurches and stalks me
window to window in this
desert retreat
What does he want?
Clearly he is lonely
pecks his reflection
and speaks to it in a low gubble
(not gobble) gubbles so tenderly
Soon as I think of him     his eye hits on me
We have watched each other for days
His shifting colors fascinate me  his territorial strut
But it is his bald and blue-red head
his old man habits and gait that move me
If I even think of him        I taste whiskey
Drunk on solitude    I’d talk to anybody
I try his language on my lips
His keen response burns     like shame

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Please be kind to each other while you can.

Time to head upstream!!

I’ve been struggling about what to post today. Cloudy weather, noxious headlines almost everywhere, disinformation and misinformation battling for market share, you get the picture. There are some folks offering helpful perspectives but I wonder if there are enough of them/US. I mean, I never would have imagined that I’d live in a world where I agreed with Liz Cheney about anything.

• Liz Cheney Urges Voters to Stop 'Electing Idiots'

 Her advice preceded the following announcements and articles:

• The case for a second look at Mike Pence
• White House condemns Robert Kennedy Jr’s Covid claims as ‘vile’
• Author of spoof story shared by Greg Abbott calls him one of ‘dumbest people in the country’
• Manchin stokes Democratic speculation for 2024 with No Labels event

where are these river babies coming from?

Photo by J. Harrington

Clearly, not enough of US are familiar with the parable of the River Babies:

“Once upon a time, there was a small village on the edge of a river. Life in the village was busy. There were people growing food and people teaching the children to make blankets and people cooking meals.

One day as a villager took a break from harvesting, he noticed a baby floating down the river toward the village. She couldn’t believe her eyes! Almost immediately, she heard more crying in the distance. She looked further downstream to see that two babies had already floated by the village. She looked around at the other villagers working nearby.

“Does anyone else see this baby?” she asked.

One villager heard the woman, but continued working. “Yes!” yelled a man who had been making soup. “Oh, this is terrible!” A woman who had been building a campfire shouted, “Look, there are even more upstream!” Indeed, there were three more babies coming around the river bend.

“How long have these babies been floating by?” asked a villager. No one knew for sure, but some people thought they might have seen something in the river earlier. They were busy at the time and did not have time to investigate.

They quickly organized themselves to rescue the babies. Watchtowers were built on both sides of the shore and swimmers were coordinated to maintain shifts of rescue teams that maintained 24-hour surveillance of the river. Ziplines with baskets attached were stretched across the river to get even more babies to safety quickly.

The number of babies floating down the river only seemed to increase. The villagers built orphanages. They had their children make more blankets. They increased the amount of food they grew to keep the babies housed, warm and fed. Life in the village carried on.

One day, a villager continued to walk by, despite observing the rescue efforts going on. Those who had been working in the system to rescue the babies called to that villager and asked him to join their ranks. He declined.

One of the rescuers yelled, “Where are you going? There are so many people that need help here.” To which the man replied, “I’m going upstream to find out why so many babies are falling into the river.”

Bless Their Hearts

By Richard Newman

At Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add

“Bless their hearts” after their names, you can say

whatever you want about them and it’s OK.

My son, bless his heart, is an idiot, 

she said. He rents storage space for his kids’

toys—they’re only one and three years old! 

I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned

into a sentimental old fool. He gets

weepy when he hears my daughter’s greeting

on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came

someone else blessed her office mate’s heart,

then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts

of the entire anthropology department.

We bestowed blessings on many a heart

that day. I even blessed my ex-wife’s heart.

Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting

much tip, for which, no doubt, he’d bless our hearts.

In a week it would be Thanksgiving,

and we would each sit with our respective

families, counting our blessings and blessing

the hearts of family members as only family

does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please

bless us and bless our crummy little hearts. 

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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.