A Second Chance

Dear Nana,

Just a quick note to let you know, that, while I never did get a chance to touch those chicks, as I wrote in my letter to you last week, I had the opportunity this week to redeem myself with yet another feathered friend.

In the spirit of Thanksgiving, we had an assembly at school. Our very own Pilgrim friend came dressed in buckled hat and white tights. He offered the children a selection of gourds and Indian corn to touch and grind and shake, as well as old-fashioned tools used in Colonial Times to explore. But our Pilgrim did not come alone. No. Our Pilgrim brought a friend that was to be the main attraction. A live turkey.

The turkey was named, unoriginally, Tom. It was a large, awkward animal that was quite unattractive. I suppose most turkeys are. This member of the fowl family is perhaps the least handsome. Poor Tom, with his bright red gobble and taloned toes did not hold a candle to the adorableness of the sweet yellow chicks, but, he would have to do. When it came time to pet the turkey, the kids once again clambered, although not with quite the fervor they had shown with the chicks. And as I stood near our Pilgrim and called students up one by one to pet the turkey, it occurred to me that this was my chance. It wasn't quite the same as the chick encounter since, well, Tom was not only the opposite of puffy and cute, but was, in fact, rather scary looking as he rested in the Pilgrims arms, paralyzed with fear of the small hands that kept touching him. But he was the only fowl with which I'd come in contact since the day I'd neglected to pet the chicks. And because I regretted that day and because I vowed to never let my adult-ness get in the way of my child-inside wonder again, I decided to join my students in line and await my turn to pet Tom.

Tom seemed to be glaring at me as if to say, "You too?" but I reached out anyway and ran my hand across his white head which was surprisingly soft. He was, dare I say it, almost cuddly with his downy feathers. Then I stroked the back of his neck where his pimpled skin was rubbery and smooth, like a hundred tiny pencil erasers. I smiled, thrilled with the strangeness of that sensation on my hand and happy that it felt not at all like I thought it would. And then, it was over. I pumped a bit of hand sanitizer onto my hands, rubbed them together, and headed, with my 2nd graders back to the classroom. I was delighted.

And there you have it. I haven't quite made up for missing the chicks. But I'm on my way. One member of the fowl family at a time. I wonder if I'll feel strange about eating my Thanksgiving turkey this year. . .

Love, Katie