(C) Daily Kos This story was originally published by Daily Kos and is unaltered. . . . . . . . . . . Free Bird! With apologizes to Lynyrd Skynyrd [1] ['This Content Is Not Subject To Review Daily Kos Staff Prior To Publication.'] Date: 2023-11-22 My sister got a free-range turkey, which obviously hadn’t been pardoned by a governor or president. I asked her about the un-pardoned bird, what was the provenance of said bird and so on. She had nothing to add, except a friend of hers had vetted the farm as being on the up and up with regard to being free range. Other than that the cold un-pardoned bird’s toe tag only gave the weight and price. “Its only crime apparently was being big enough to feed all you morons,” she said. I did a low volume shout out, “Free Bird!” “What?” she said. “Free Bird,” I exclaimed again. It was a little louder this time. “What the hell are you talking about?” I told her that as a free range turkey it was suitable for shouting out “Free Bird,” like one of the audience members did in a recorded concert by the rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd. “Yeah, you’re an idiot. Just be here on time Thursday. In law, criminal activity comes, as I understand, in two forms, mala in se, which means wrong in and of itself, essentially morally wrong, and mala prohibita, which is a crime that was legislated as being wrong, and could vary by jurisdiction. This turkey apparently fell afowl of some local infraction that included some serious penalties, and incarceration was off the table and the bird on it. Now on Thanksgiving I’ve taken on the mantle as the crazy uncle, a role I relish. Mind you, the role is not as easy as some might imagine. First, I’m a lefty, so my politics aren’t convenient to the role. Second, my family is, well, fairly liberal, with the except of a couple of the group being more middle of the road, but staying to the left of the center line. So, inciting the crowd takes some work. I start by riling up my two adult kids, my nephews and nieces and the older grandnephews and grandnieces by making a comment, within earshot, about the senior members of the family. Usually it’s something along the lines of, “Aunt Denise isn’t going to vote next year. She says she’s too old and it’s just too cold in November to out for something that’s only going to take a few minutes to do. Says the car won’t even be warmed up for the return trip home. Of course, upon saying it, I’ve created a pending double response. My sister Denise will take a moment to digest what I’ve just said before having a chance to reply. The response from my kids and the nephews and nieces, both standard and grand, is also a moment of silent disbelief. Then simultaneously both sides will erupt with furious outcries and voiced indignation. There are instant potatoes and instant outrage. The latter is even quicker to make, and if done right, so much more delicious and filling. The other senior adults will start to chime in until there are twenty-five babbling people, who are then joined by the little kids and toddlers shouting and bellowing, because for them this is what a party in our family looks like. Every so often, I’ll raise my voice above the din to add in another choice piece of feint outrage I’ve attributed to another family member just to keep the fire stoked. I then loudly proclaim that my work is finished there and I must leave, but I stay. It’s Thanksgiving, and the warmth and food and family brouhaha are well worth the loud, raucous noise those damn fools are making Every year I ask for mash potatoes made the way my grandmother, who passed many a year ago, used to making them, with lumps that made them more like Rocky Road ice cream than mash potatoes. While I can’t say I was fond of those gravelly spuds, eating them over time did take on a sense of home, of family. It was said in family lore of my grandmother, first generation Irish, that she mashed them by bashing the contents of the bowl only a dozen or so times with a shillelagh, hence the lumps. I always thought it might have been best if we fastened the bowl to my grandfather’s head, he being a much more frequent target of really vigorous applications of my grandmother’s shillelagh law. If we had done that those potatoes would have come out so creamy they’d have slid down your throat like they were your fifth Jameson. Several times throughout the day I will have my thoughts. They are always the same. Usually I’ll have my first one on the ride to the festivities. It goes like this: there are those out there that won’t have what I’m able to enjoy today. People who are sick, injured, poor, alone, childless, single parents, homeless, persecuted, the unloved, the unwanted and others that have seen afflictions heap upon them for no reason. No matter what I tried to do to contribute to those in need throughout the year, they still won’t have this. I encourage the sting it gives me, it ensures that I know what I have to do in the coming year to lessen pain that isn’t mine. It’s a melancholy feeling, home and hearth mixed with a hard cider of reality just beyond the door. The feeling will never go away, so accepting it is acceptable. We will eat the meal, the table loaded with that turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, dressing, gravy, dinner rolls, cranberry sauce and more. So much more. And we will talk and talk and talk. Every few seconds there will be a guffaw and laughter. Someone will spill something. If it’s a child, many hands will reach out to upright whatever toppled. If it’s an adult, well, you’ll have to fend for yourself as you’re lanced with some fun-pointed grief. The small kids will do some mischief making. Probably encouraged by one of the uncles. The day will wind down, I will have stopped feeding the fires of the family’s raucous bantering a bit earlier. The family will stew nicely in the juices of love and life for the rest of the day, until slowly people will pack up, say good-bye and thirty minutes later actually leave. The cold November air will snap at the face. By this time I will be leaving, too. On the way home I will think fondly of the day, and then have another bite of the melancholy apple, autumn-gray thoughts on a dark November night. Thanksgiving is so special. For a lot of different reasons. 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