Carol’s Column

And the turkey came too

SEVENTY years is a milestone in any person's life.

Which is why we started planning for my father's 70th birthday a year ago.

"I want this to be an occasion to remember, something really special," I remarked to my family.

Now every special occasion demands a turkey so I shot off to the local supermarket and surveyed the trussed turkeys lying in the deep-freeze section.

What a motley lot they were.

Scrawny, skinny, with muscular legs and undernourished looking bellies.

My father deserved better than this.

Being a do-it-yourself family, I hit upon the ideal solution.

"We'll grow our own turkey," I said to my family, rather fancying the idea of a rural, farmyard scene in lower Parkwood.

And so, one bright, sunny Sunday morning, we climbed into the Kombi and set off to find a turkey.

Make no mistake, turkeys are not easy to come by in the southern Transvaal.

We visited farm after farm only to be plied with chickens, geese, ducks and even piglets and lambs. But no turkey.

And then, as time and tempers were running short, we came upon a turkey.

Barely a week old, he looked pathetic. A small, dirty-pink creature with a wobbly neck and a squint.

Tiny and feeble, he barely looked strong enough to last the journey home.

But beggars can't be choosers. And this was the only turkey we could find.

We took him.

I was strict with the children from the beginning.

"This is not a pet," I said to them. "This is your grandfather's 70th birthday dinner. You must not give him a name, become friendly with him or make him feel at home.

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"And above all else, remember, he's your grandfather's dinner."

The kids listened to every word.

Within 10 minutes he (for we had discovered he was a he) was named Grandfather's Dinner.

I put my foot down and refused to let Grandfather's Dinner into the house.

"You will build him a turkey run at the bottom of the garden," I stated categorically.

The children were horrified.

"But, Ma, he'll freeze to death," they said. "He's only little."

What could I do? No mother likes being regarded as a murderer by her offspring.

"OK," I said reluctantly. "He can come into the house until he's grown his feathers."

Jamie, my 10-year-old son with a passion for any creature less fortunate than himself, built the tiny turkey a soft bed in the corner of his wardrobe.

Lined with Jamie's fleecy winter pyjamas and one of my mohair jerseys, the little turkey was as snug as the proverbial bug in the rug.

Grandfather's Dinner matured slowly. Whereas other turkeys grow large and fat with relative ease, Grandfather's Dinner was a slow starter.

At two months, the age when most respectable turkeys have most of their feathers — Grandfather's Dinner resembled a balding politician.

Which meant he was still permanently entrenched in Jamie's wardrobe.

I must admit, he was beginning to grow on the family.

Handsome, except for his squint, he had an engaging personality.

He'd wake us in the morning by hopping from bed to bed and gobbling gently in our ears.

My visions of rural life (I'd seen myself barefooted in the garden, throwing turkey meal over the garden) were quickly dispelled.

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At breakfast, Grandfather's Dinner perched at the end of the table, pecking away at his own orange bowl of sugar-flavoured rice crispies. He refused any food that was specifically designed for him, such as seed, meal or grain.

He immediately established himself with the dogs, nipping them sharply on their tails if they dared to intrude on his territory.

Slowly, as the weeks passed, Grandfather's Dinner, took a more active part in household affairs.

Acquiring a voracious appetite, he demolished the flowers and much of the lace on my mother-in-law's hat.

He also developed a fondness for rubber and, at the break of day, could be seen nibbling away at the tyres of the cars.

Eventually his feathers grew and covered his extremely large, rotund body.

He became the talk of Parkwood.

Passing gardeners' eyes would light up when they caught sight of Grandfather's Dinner as they imagined what an excellent addition he'd make to any kraal.

Indeed, his life was threatened on several occasions and twice he was stolen — and each time retrieved by the local police.

Thoughtfully, we placed a collar and disc around his neck, which meant he could be returned home if found.

And then, last week, Wednesday, August 19, the day of my father's 70th birthday, dawned.

It was a gloomy breakfast as we sat there — all six of us and Grandfather's Dinner.

I tried to brighten up the atmosphere with a little levity.

"Tonight's the night," I remarked gaily.

My young daughter took one look at Grandfather's Dinner, burst into tears and fled from the table.

It wasn't easy to imagine Grandfather's Dinner, his squint eyes dulled for ever — stuffed, plucked and roasted to a turn, nestling on a silver platter.

Steeling myself, I grasped a huge knife and called Grandfather's Dinner, who came to me immediately.

Jumping into my arms, he gobbled silently in my ear, running his little beak lovingly up and down my cheek.

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He gazed at me adoringly with his beady, squint eyes.

There are some things in life that are untenable.

Eating a good friend is one of them.

Which is why that night — when we sat down to a magnificent dinner of glazed turkey, Grandfather's Dinner was also present at the table, as a guest.

It would be far-fetched to say that Grandfather's Dinner proposed the toast to my father on this auspicious occasion.

However, when his supermarket brethren, done to a turn and decorated with apricots and cherries, duly arrived on his silver platter — it will suffice to say that Grandfather's Dinner looked distinctly cocky.

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