If I Were a Turkey

“If I were a turkey, I would hide. I would run. I would be colorful. I would not want to be eaten.” - Evangeline Vickery

One project I’ve started tackling during the pandemic is sorting through boxes from my past that my parents dropped in my lap years ago. At the time, I didn’t have room for any of it—physically, emotionally, or mentally. Andrew and I were living in a three-room apartment then so the tower of plastic Rubbermaid bins got dismantled and stuffed into oddly shaped storage spots. One was a closet in the corner of our kitchen. It was a good use of space as it was under the staircase that led up to the second-floor apartment, the ceiling steadily sloping down to the back of it. I’d have to crouch lower and lower the further I went inside. Strong Narnia vibes, for sure. Another spot was a storage cubby under my clothes closet which was a converted built-in china cabinet from this Victorian house’s more glamorous days. Our bedroom was originally the dining room back when it was a single-family home and before the greater Boston area housing demand exploded creating many functional but oddly shaped quirky apartments. The rest of the bins were moved into the old, cold basement. I could have sworn they were full of rocks, a cruel joke by my parents, as I lugged them down the creaky wooden basement stairs, but I needed the bins to be out of sight and out of mind. I had just finished grad school where I spent two years writing about the difficult relationships and moments of my youth. I felt emotionally spent in the “revisiting my past” department, and the boxes taunted me, reminded me that there was indeed more to unearth, possibly able to spark memories I didn’t even know I had. I wasn’t ready for that then. And we had just gotten married too. My focus was on the future, not so much the past. Ultimately, those bins moved from that apartment into a storage unit, from that storage unit into a different apartment, and from that apartment into our current house, never opened, but their heaviness felt every step of the way. And now, seven years later, I’ve finally started opening them.

I’ve currently made it through three boxes. Some of it has been easy to take in, digest, and quickly throw away. Old, crusty, indiscernible paintings from first grade: trash. Hand puppets made out of paper lunch sacks with only one sad googly eye remaining and disintegrating hair: trash. Birthday cards addressed to three-year-old me from my parent’s friends that I don’t even remember: trash. Only a few things have made my heart twinge and my eyes squint so far. Some of these things were new to me, seeing them for the very first time, and others were responses to calls I didn’t even remember making many years ago. These things have been neatly stacked in a pile to be dealt with later. But the majority of things were fun to revisit, things I had completely forgotten about and would have never remembered had I not seen them again with my own eyes. Fun things, lighthearted things, things that reminded me of the joy of growing and learning and simply being a kid. Stories I’d written, pictures I’d drawn, memories I’d lost. I completely forgot how much I wanted to be an artist when I was young, back before I knew I had to play the violin and music became my world. Not being the most sentimental person, and a minimalist at heart, I took pictures of things I thought were worth remembering but then tossed the originals. I refuse to let these damn boxes weigh me down anymore, and I’m sure as hell not moving them again.

This leads us to the above photo. While I could die happy never seeing this odd half-penis, half-baseball glove depiction of a turkey again, the words are gems I wanted to remember. As much as I love writing, spelling has NEVER been my strong suit. I even found all of my Iowa Test scores in one of the boxes to prove it. So Andrew and I have been getting a real kick out of some of my spelling “logic” from my younger days. And with Thanksgiving coming up later this week, this gem felt appropriate to share.

The more I think about it though, the sentiment somehow feels appropriate for 2020 in an odd way. Much like the turkey, who wants to run and hide from an almost certain death of hungry holiday crazed Americans, most of us are similarly trying to escape the seemingly inevitable fate of a COVID-19 infection. Personally, I do not want to be “eaten” by this asshole virus. And I know I’m not alone in feeling like it has been difficult to be my normal “colorful” self during this time. I would be colorful, but grayscale seems more appropriate and attainable on most days. I can’t wait until we’re all feeling like our beautiful, colorful selves again.

Even though this Thanksgiving won’t be like any other we’ve seen in our lifetime, find some joy, give some thanks, practice some gratitude. We could all use a little more joy, thanks, and gratitude this year, that’s for sure. Be safe, be happy, and stay healthy.