That Time Of Year Again — Turklets

 
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…



Zzzzzz…. Ah, corn, cookies, mashed potatoes…



Harumph…. Huh? Who’s there? Wait, where am I?



Wha? I was just dreaming…creamed corn…



Oh my, what a big eye you have…



Are you my mom???




Postscript: Six poults hatch from among the couple of dozen eggs the mama turkey lays on. Turkeys are big and clumsy, and the mama squashes her babies by accident, killing four.

Jim and the girls snap into action. There are only two poults left, one injured, the other tangled in the octagon of a chickenwire fence. Jim cuts out the trapped baby.

Both are just a few days old but already they eat and drink. Like most babies they sleep a lot. An old photography light/heat lamp simulates (as much as possible) the warmth of Mama’s downy feathers.

Jim says we’re nurturing the next generation of turkeys. Every day until all the eggs hatch he’ll be out there watching for the next set of poults.





Turkeys on red Ravine

• Word Of The Day: Turklet
• Good Mother, Bad Mother
• Wild Turkeys Of Rioteague Island
• The Great Wild Turkey Experiment Is Failing
• Introducing (Drumroll) The Amazing Turkeys Wallenda
• Just Like A Warm, Fuzzy Lick (Almost)
• Happy Turkeys Day
• Turkeys Are Exhibitionists (And Other Things I’ve Learned From My Feathered Friends)
• Reflections On The Other National Bird
• Giving Thanks

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An I.P. Freely & Seymour Butts Reunion

Two old author friends, beloved by generations of readers and pranksters alike, came together for a brief reunion on red Ravine to talk about the challenges of publishing and staying relevant in today’s world.

I.P. Freely: It’s been ages, Seymour, ol’ boy. What have you been doing??

Seymour Butts: Likewise, I.P. What a pleasure to see you! Well, I never got married—just a perennial bachelor, I suppose. I live with my brother Harry and write books. Pretty sedentary life. Oh, although I just published a new book, inspired by the current financial crisis and the sudden rise of “Joe the Plumber.” It’s called Under the Sink, and it’s the first bestseller I’ve had since Under the Bleachers.

Freely: You don’t say?! Congratulations! Don’t tell me you’ve not been writing for that many years, though. Under the Bleachers must have been at its pinnacle back in the late 1970s.

Butts: You’re right, I.P. I wrote a lot of other books since then but none took off. I had a whole series—In the Locker Room, Women’s Sauna, Memoir of a Proctologist—but for whatever reason, they never made it out of manuscript. It was a bum deal, and I was pretty sore for a long time. How about you?

Freely: Well, Yellow River was great while it lasted, but it set off a host of copycats, notably A River Runs Through It. I was disappointed, of course, that Brad Pitt passed over our film script—in fact, that was a real pisser, but such is life. I had some blockage after that, but things finally got moving. I met a great woman, Toots, and we’ve been married for 15 years.

Butts: Hey, I noticed that red Ravine used your name for a title on a post about bathroom habits and stress incontinence. That might generate a stream of opportunities for you.

Freely: Doubtful, although I was pleased to see ‘em pick it up. Hey, I heard through the grapevine that “Seymour Butts” was the other title they were toying with. That would have been a nice plug for you.

Butts: Oh, indeed. It would have worked, too. Oh well, win some and lose some, or, as I say, see some and see none. It’s been grand talking to you, I.P. One last thing, do you see Mister Completely any more?

Freely: Nah, he got really depressed after his sole book, Hole in the Mattress, was such a downer. He and the Missus got a divorce.

Butts: Ah, that always a risk. Writing—it’s a hard life.

Freely: That it is, Seymour, that it is.

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A Tale Of Visionary Pragmatism

What should we name the store?

Yeah, I’ve been thinking about this. How about …  “VALLEY SUPERMARKET”?

SUPERmarket?? It’s not a supermarket. Smith’s in Taos is a supermarket. Albertsons in Santa Fe is a supermarket.

No, no, no, wait a second. This is big, man, this is huge. Our store is gonna be the biggest one this town has seen. It’s a supermarket, man.

Dude, truth in advertising. We can’t call it something it’s not!

Oh, and what do you think it is…  a mini-mart??

Exactly! “Valley Mini-Mart.”

Give me a break! We’re gonna stock, what?, six brands of bread! Circle K doesn’t stock six brands of bread…7/11 probably carries two.

Well, I’m not gonna call it a supermarket. Just ain’t gonna happen.

Well, it ain’t no mini-mart, that’s for sure.

OK, wait, we can make this work. Come on, we’ve gotten this far, haven’t we? Surely we can come up with something that satisfies both of us.

Yeah, you’re right. We’ll figure it out. We always do. Come on, man, I’ll buy you a Coke at the Gas-A-Mat and we can think about it some more.

            
Super-ettes and other Oxymorons, grocery store sign in Española, NM, photos © 2008 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.

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What If Merv Were Chicano?

Merv García, pen and ink and pencil on graph paper, doodle © 2007 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.



Merv Griffin: OK, my little pajaritos, do we have any requests?

Someone in audience: Y volver, volver, volver…

Someone else in audience: …a mis brazos otra vez…

MG: Coños, babies, come on, I’m not Al Hurricane…let me play you una cancioncita about my lovely bunch of coco-nuts…

Someone in audience: Al Hurricane? I thought you were Tony Bennett, oyé!

Someone else in audience: ¿Qué cosa Tony Bennett? ¡Oralé, he’s Engulburk Humperdink!





-Related to posts What If The Southwest Guy Were Chicano? and What If Madge Were Chicana?

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