GHOST OF TURKEY PAST

X and I had our first "adult" Thanksgiving in the Town to the Left.
It was in our curious little first house...
one on the edge of a huge orchard made from
not at all attractive cinder block.
It kind of looked like a bunker.

But we were young and I thought it had a pretty view.
I couldn't wait to have my parents come for Thanksgiving diner
so I could be the hostess for the first time.
I spent days decorating,
trying to make the place look festive.

The turkey was in the oven,
all the goodies were waiting on the sideboard
and our side dishes rested in their pots
on top of the stove until it was time to put them

in the French glassware bowls.

My folks showed up, hugs all around.
My mom made appropriate sounds about my efforts.
We were in great spirits.
My dad wanted to peek at the turkey.

He was the turkey wrapper in the house I grew up in.

He'd spend an hour or more doing foil oragami

 until it was perfect.
No doubt he wanted to check what I'd done...
and sniff the aroma.
We all followed him into the kitchen.

After he'd closed the oven door,
we had to shuffle around to make room for him to back out.
It was a very small kitchen.
X stepped to one side, 

then slid butt first across the long oven door handle.
My dad leaned up against the counter
as mom and I poured everyone drinks.

Standing there chatting,
mom looks toward the stove.
She said "Oh!"
My dad and I immediately began to look for trouble.
My mom had a way of saying "Oh." that meant
bad things were happening.
Things like fire, or killing the garbage disposal by
dropping her diamond ring down in there and turning it on.
(No, not on purpose.)

It was a very tiny "Oh." with a powerful meaning.
We must have looked pretty worried
because X turned around and started looking
for whatever we were looking at.
That's when I saw it.

"How did that get turned on?"
My dad rushed to the oven and brushed X aside.
He began to pull on the oven cleaning knob frantically.

It was X's turn to say "OH!" in a not at all tiny way.
We could see the turkey through the window.
We could hear the oven ticking as it began to super heat.
"George!  Get it out of there!" 

my mom said helpfully.
He paused to look at her like she'd lost her mind,
then went back to frantically pulling at the knob.

"Your butt did it." 

I accused X.
"Get the manual!" shouted my dad.
X and I both began to paw through the kitchen drawers.
It had to be there somewhere.
My mom began to giggle.

I was seeing a vision of a platter of ash in the middle
of my beautifully decorated table.
My dad began to giggle too.
It was ridiculous.
Who manages to self-clean their Thanksgiving turkey?

The X took two steps forward,
leaned down and pulled the oven plug.
We listened to it tick for a few minutes
then the locking mechanism made a loud click
and released our bird.
We all released our breath.

As it turned out, no harm was done.
We plugged the oven back in and moved
into the living room where we could avoid repeating that mistake.
The next day when they left,
my mom told me that it was a wonderful meal...
I had done a good job.
We all looked at each other and cracked up.

Somehow that story comes up every Thanksgiving.