By Wanda Haynes
While growing up the Thanksgiving Day festivities were special. Family came from several states for a big meal with all the trimmings including three turkeys.
This tradition of three turkeys came long before I was born, and no one seems to know why. They were each prepared with a different recipe, one turkey deep fried in peanut oil, another roasted with fresh herbs, and the third turkey braised with white wine.
Uncle Mickey really enjoyed Thanksgiving and oversaw acquiring the three turkeys. My fondest memory of him is of the two of us cruising along in his red Mustang with white leather seats. This is where he picked up the nick name “Mustang Mickey”. He was sweet and hard working with a sense of purpose and style. He loved his family and felt an obligation to each one of us.
In fact, he rescued me twice: The first time I was 5 years old and excited to hear the ice cream truck coming. While running to get a frozen treat I fell down a flight of stairs and he rushed me to the hospital. I had bruised ribs and a loving uncle by my side.
The second time came years later. I was a teen riding my bike and the brakes locked. I went flying over the handle bars and broke my right ankle.
He carried me all the way home and came to the hospital with me and mother.
After a failed marriage and self-isolation my level-headed uncle changed and took on a childlike personification. It didn’t matter to our family because we all loved him dearly.
One of his new hobbies was bringing home animals from the forest.
On a camping trip with friends, he decided to save three baby turkeys after their mother perished. He brought them home for me and my sister to play with, and the three of us named them Renee, Roscoe, and Ralph. We raised them and in no time, they were all grown up.
A few days before Thanksgiving Day a cousin came that didn’t approve of eating meat. My cousin took it upon himself to release the turkeys back into the woods.
Uncle Mickey whom didn’t always think as clearly as one might hope. He went into the woods calling for the turkeys and hoping that he would recognize them among the other turkeys in the woods.
He couldn’t find the birds and he returned home hours later with three big turkeys from the grocery store. He exclaimed that they would taste like wild turkey and Thanksgiving Day was going to be fine!
Then asked if we would like to see the rabbits that he found while looking for Renee, Roscoe, and Ralph?
We named the rabbits Rusty and Dusty for all the fun they would bring to everyone. My uncle was happy to tell us with all certainty the rabbits would lay Easter eggs in time for Easter Sunday.
We knew better and loved him for believing. His legacy is that of love and kindness toward family. His frivolity was one of many traits that made him special. It has been decades since the three turkeys went missing. Yet, I always remember Uncle Mickey on Thanksgiving Day and those wild turkeys. ISI
