One of my most unforgettable childhood memories from the chicken ranch wasn’t about chickens at all—it was about a turkey. And not just any turkey. This one had a personal vendetta against me.
At three years old, I had a favorite pastime: throwing rocks at the turkey that wandered into our yard. Not to hurt it, of course—I just liked watching it run. But one day, I got curious. I noticed it always ran in the same direction, toward what looked like an old, sealed well. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but in this case, it nearly got me killed by a turkey.
I went over to investigate, practically doing a chin-up to peek inside. And just as I was leaning in, BAM! That turkey came flying out like a demon unleashed. Before I could even think about running, it tackled me to the ground and started beating the living daylights out of me—flapping, clawing, pecking, and putting me in what I can only describe as a feathery chokehold.
I screamed like I was being murdered. Mom came running out, likely expecting a wild animal attack, which—technically—it was. She chased that devil bird off me, saving my life (or at least my dignity).
When Dad got home and heard about it, he simply said, “I’ll take care of it.”
The next evening at supper, I was just happy Mom was cooking—whatever it was, her food was always good. I never saw that turkey again.
Would you love to hear more of these childhood misadventures?
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