Mother’s Day Redux

Reading Time: 4 minutes

“I think you need a brooder box for your birthday,” says brother Neil.

I don’t want to raise anything else, I think to myself. “No”. I say to Neil.

Seven turkeys are running around the farm yard, mostly underfoot and clucking and clicking and gobbling, now that they have escaped the confines of their pen. The two males are puffed up and strutting. The two males are ALWAYS puffed up and strutting. They are a vision in testosterone. The females are busy taking their dust spa.

Raising turkeys is a condensed, distilled snapshot of male/female interaction at its social worst.

“You could sell the poults” Brother Neil says, trying still to convince me. “You know you have enjoyed raising these turkeys”.

I have, I say to myself, but I don’t want to raise any more, and especially not from dadblasted eggs. One day old was trying enough. (For those of you unfamiliar with the early saga, go here.)

“What in the world is wrong with the world if these hens can’t lay on their own eggs and hatch them themselves.” I say exasperated, a few treble decibles higher in pitch and volum