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This is not a heartwarming story, and may upset people with very sensitive dispositions, so please don't read any further if this describes you.

I grew up in Corrales, New Mexico. Today Corrales is like the Beverly Hills of Central New Mexico, but during the sixties, Corrales was a village. We had small farms nestled between Von Davidson Quarter Horses and Jaspar Koontz's cattle ranch. Apples, pears, green chili, pumpkins, and red chili were the crop harvests in greatest abundance. Because we had animals of all sizes and types, I was a nut for all animals. When I was about six my mother placed six newly hatched turkeys in my care. I worried and fussed over my baby turkeys as if they were all little children ... forgetting that I was still a little child myself. I named them, fed them, watered them, exercised them, talked to them, and taught them to follow me about our small farm. Turkeys are quite intelligent, and rapidly learned which window in our house belonged to my bedroom. Early every morning, when they decided I'd had enough sleep, they'd jump up and rap on the glass with their beaks. I'd rush outside and sprinkle their feed, refresh their water, and visit with them. Every afternoon when my school bus deposited me at the end of our dirt road, my turkeys were waiting for me. We'd all run home together. They, with assistance from wings, could get airborne while running, which gave them a speed advantage. I thought they were the most splendid creatures. I trained them to ride, one at a time, in my wagon. I'd pull them around the farm while I fed my horse and the other farm animals. They chattered a mile a minute, and I absolutely delighted in conversation with them.
In early November, my mother gave me a list of neighbors. Six neighbors each wanted one of my turkeys. I was so pleased. I loaded them up in the wagon and took each one to its new home. I instructed the neighbors with particulars for each turkey: name, favorite grain, favorite play games, favorite bread treats. When all six turkeys had new homes, I cried myself to sleep for many nights because I missed my little buddies. But, I was pleased they had new homes.
After Thanksgiving, our neighbors sent notes to thank me for raising such big fat holiday turkeys. I had no idea all my little friends had been killed and eaten. I actually passed out from the shock of learning this. I'm sure my mother had no idea how personally attached a six year old will get to half a dozen baby turkeys, and I know both my parents were deeply sorry at how it turned out. My brother took me aside and talked to me afterward. He said the neighbors were not to blame, although I hated them for killing my pets. He was thoroughly angry and upset with my parents for allowing me the job of raising farm turkeys. I'm not sure if such a task could have been pain free for anyone. But I've never enjoyed Thanksgiving turkey. I prefer the cornbread stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the cranberries, the dinner rolls, the fruit salad, and the pumpkin pie. The ordeal of discovery was traumatic and horrific for a six year old who absolutely loved and doted on her class of turkeys. I will always remember them. They were special. The lesson for me was multidimensional, but primarily what I took away from that was a sincere appreciation for life and all animals. Perhaps compassion grew in me more than it might have, otherwise. But I don't believe animals are less than people. I believe we simply have advantages.
I love Thanksgiving, but it was never intended as a time to kill turkeys. Especially my turkeys.

Lost my dad two years ago this month. I'll always miss his great advice, his hearty laughter and his cheerful smile. A mechanic for military trucks and planes while in the USAF, he was also an excellent car mechanic. If it belonged inside a vehicle, Dad knew what it was, and if it broke, he could fix it. He loved cars, especially race cars. Something I never knew about Dad was the extent of his experience actually driving race cars. During the Winter of his life he talked a lot about the things he'd always wanted to do during his life, the things he either didn't get around to doing, or the things he'd hoped and dreamed of doing, but didn't for whatever reason. As a youth, he did some racing for money. He knew when to accelerate, when to brake, when to coast, when to push it toward the red line, and when to let the car fly itself across a finish line. A few months before he died, he told me about racing with the Unser brothers, drivers who made their fame at the Indy 500. They wanted Dad to drive on their team. Dad said he was torn, and when he discussed it with my mother, she said no. He abandoned his dream of professional driving and resigned to being the mechanic who kept cars on the road for other people. He never lost his great admiration for truly fast automobiles. I was very young, but I well remember the day the Unser's showed up at our house in Corrales, New Mexico, and talked Dad into one more race. The three of them, and my brother, disappeared in the Unser's race car. That evening during dinner all my brother could talk about was how well Dad drove the Unser's car. My brother followed in Dad's footsteps. He raced on tracks in several states, and he was good. But he died young, and I don't know if he'd have ever made a name for himself as a professional team driver. I do believe Dad would have made a name for himself in car racing, and I believe he would have been remembered for both his skill as a driver, and his knowledge of his cars.
I think of my dad this Father's Day. I miss him enormously. I am proud of all the things he did do during his life, and I'm a bit sad for those dreams he never did complete.

I grew up in the village of Corrales, New Mexico. My friend Megan's mother owned the Molino Rouge, a popular restaurant across the street from our elementary school. I spent at least one weekend a month at Megan's house, and we often helped out at the Molino in the afternoon. That's where I met Vincent Price. He was having lunch with his son (who lived in New Mexico). Megan's mother, Jean, told us to ask Mr. Price if he would like tea or coffee. Megan had acquired a fit of giggles in the kitchen. I put on an apron and marched my ten year old self out to his table, and asked in my greatest attempt at maturity, "Would you like coffee, or tea?" He flashed the most alarming smile, and all I could think of was the Edgar Allan Poe piece about the raven. My mind kept repeating "never more, never more, sayeth the raven." By the time I got to the kitchen, Jean asked me what Mr. Price wanted, I had forgotten. I pretended he wanted a nice pitcher of ice water. I carried the ice water to him and he smiled again. He asked what grade I was in. I told him, still thinking about the raven. While pouring ice water into his glass, I spilled ice on his place setting. He laughed again. And then he reminded me that he would also enjoy some ice tea.
Tomorrow I am going to share some raven stories. I think they are remarkable intelligent birds. And by the way, Vincent Price was a remarkably nice person who was not perturbed by a child who poured ice water on him at a restaurant by the Rio Grande.