Wednesday, November 23, 2016 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
The Bunkhouse
Chronicle
Craig Rullman
Columnist
In honor of
the late Ted
For the past couple of
years we have raised our own
turkey for Thanksgiving.
We do this for several
reasons, not least of which is
that we keep making genu-
ine efforts to raise or harvest
our own food. Anyone who
does this realizes that it is an
uphill fight, and we are grate-
ful we don’t need to rely on
it. The cold fact is that we
would likely be dead, or in
a near-death spiral, without
Melvin’s or Ray’s. But we
do try conscientiously, and
for some reason we think it
might be important.
The immediate benefit of
raising one’s own food is that
it tastes better. Much better.
Secondly, we know what
it was fed or, more impor-
tantly, what it wasn’t. That’s
true even of our vegetables,
though I managed to sabo-
tage a large portion of our
garden this year in a moment
of pure stupidity, a gargan-
tuan lapse in judgment that
cost us many pounds of veg-
etables. Lesson learned.
The third reason is likely
spiritual, though some might
call it fanciful: We find tre-
mendous satisfaction in
trying to feed ourselves. A
dinner consisting entirely of
one’s own efforts is a treat
indeed.
It’s also a decidedly anti-
establishment move, and
allows us to indulge the
occasional illusion that we
are bucking the system.
The first two turkeys we
raised were bronze turkeys
named Chad and Dave,
after two of my former law-
enforcement partners. Like
their human namesakes, the
turkeys were outgoing and
convivial, tremendously
intelligent, and capable of
masterminding an occasional
prank.
Turkeys are, for some
reason that remains a mys-
tery to me, notoriously dif-
ficult to sex as chicks, and so
one takes a leap in questions
of gender. Chad and Dave,
turns out, were hens. They
made enormous eggs, which
helpfully eliminated any lin-
gering questions. The real
Chad and Dave remained
interested in the welfare of
their namesakes right up
until the end, demanding
occasional proof-of-life pho-
tos, which were obligingly
sent. But the end did come,
inevitably.
I take care of the sad
end of that business myself.
That is a necessary part of
the equation and the learn-
ing curve and I won’t say
I enjoy it. I don’t. There is
a lot of wisdom in the old
cavalry saying: never name
something you might have to
eat. But it is the responsible
man’s move, and something
I learned at a young age,
when one of my chores was
helping to dispatch the occa-
sional broiler.
We christened this year’s
turkey, also a bronze, Ted.
We did this because, like
the Texas Senator who was
much in the news at that
time, our Ted was decidedly
lacking in a sense of humor
and also bore a strange
resemblance to Count von
Count, of Sesame Street. It
seems impossible, but life is
full of strange truths. So Ted
it was, and Ted it remained,
even after we learned that
Ted, too, was a hen.
I can admit that I’m not
as fond of Ted as I was of
Chad and Dave. Ted lacks
— though as you are read-
ing this it should be under-
stood in the past tense —
any sense of humor at all.
For two months this summer
Ted rose early and raised a
racket more annoying than
a barnfull of roosters. Ted
is — was — quite full of
herself, harassing the chick-
ens, hissing like a goose at
strangers, and puffing up like
a common thug every time I
stepped into the pen. Ted
wore out her welcome.
At least this is what I tell
myself.
The first Thanksgiving,
though it wasn’t called that,
lasted three days, and con-
sisted of goose, venison, and
lobster. This was a harvest
festival, marking the vic-
tory of mere survival after
half of the colonists died in
the winter of 1620. Its suc-
cess was, of course, largely
the genius of Squanto and
his Wampanoag buddies,
who shared their skills.
That was an act of generos-
ity that no doubt came as a
big relief to the Pilgrims
who, as spring arrived, were
starving, freezing, and suf-
fering from scurvy. If the
historians can be trusted, the
Mayflower bunch — basi-
cally Deadheads in a sea-
going van — were running
out of sugar, and didn’t even
have an oven, so the first big
party was lacking for pies.
Hard times, indeed.
Fortunately, almost 400
years after Squanto saved the
day, we won’t have scurvy,
and we will have pies. Early
Thursday morning Ted will
be in the smoker, and come
dinner-time will grace our
table.
And so once again
it comes full circle. Ill-
mannered and humorless —
quite frankly she was a very
rude bird — Ted still man-
aged to enrich our lives each
day, and by her passing to
teach us lessons in sacrifice,
grace, and humility. It’s pos-
sible those have always been
the best reasons to gather
with family and friends to
celebrate a harvest, to pray
for continuing bounty, and
to heap praise where it is
deserved.
So for that alone we
should be — and we most
certainly are — especially
grateful for Ted.
21
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