The Lower Frequencies

One mid-November day, on Farmer Magrill’s farm, Tom Turkey stood by himself behind the barn, nervous.  Thanksgiving Day was close, Tom knew, and he also knew that around Thanksgiving Day, everyone likes a turkey (though not in a way that was particularly pleasing to Tom Turkey). Tom was, if you’ll excuse the expression, hatching a plan to make sure he was around for Christmas (when the Magrills seemed to like goose, but that was Gully Goose’s problem).

“I’ve got to figure out a way to avoid being recognized!” said Tom to no one in particular, as all the other animals figured Tom needed his space around this time of year. But what could he do?  He was, after all, a turkey, and a dashing one at that (if he did think so himself), and it was a bit too late to go on a diet.

“Confound Farmer Magrill’s extra portions he gave me this past month!” Tom thought ruefully.  “I have no willpower!”

Just at that moment, inspiration struck like an axe to the neck (if you’ll excuse the expression).

“Power! That’s it!”, and Tom Turkey ran, as well as turkeys can run, to Mrs. Magrill’s clothesline across the yard. There, he pulled down with his beak a pair of little Johnny’s overalls and a red bonnet that Mrs. Magrill kept there for particularly sunny afternoons.  Tom Turkey dragged the items back to his spot behind the barn and began pecking and biting and scratching furiously at them.

“Tom Turkey, what are you doing?” called Henny Hen from across the yard. Not much escaped Henny Hen’s notice.

“Never you mind,” replied Tom Turkey, as he turned his attention, and his beak, to the bonnet. “Merely exercising!”

“Should have thought about that three weeks ago,” muttered Rory Rooster, as he ambled by, barely taking notice of Tom Turkey.  Rory Rooster knew no one liked rooster as much as they did turkey, or goose.

Tom Turkey ignored Rory, and, soon stepped back to admire his work.

There before him, albeit in rather rough condition, lay his plan to avoid recognition. Little Johnny’s overalls had been scratched into a body suit suitable for a broad-bodied turkey (as Tom preferred to refer to himself) with a large “H” scratched into the chest.  The bonnet, or at least what was left of it, now took the shape of a mask that would cover Tom’s head with small holes for his very small eyes.

“There!” thought Tom. “No one will recognize me in this costume, as my identity will be hidden by the mask, and the “H” will serve to announce me as a HERO, and everyone loves a hero!”

Tom Turkey crawled under the barn with his outfit in his beak, away from prying eyes. There he dressed himself in his hero outfit, tying the mask around his skinny neck (never you mind how!) and emerging to the world a new turkey: Major Tom!

Major Tom did indeed cut a dashing, if slightly portly, figure in his new getup. Of course, all the other animals recognized him immediately (he was the only turkey on the farm), and stared as he strutted across the yard.

“Good farm-folk!” Major Tom called out. “I am Major Tom, here to protect and serve you! I am your new hero!”

“I think you’ll be the one being served, shortly,” replied Rory Rooster.  Some of the meaner animals laughed.

Major Tom tried to ignore them, but sweat started running down the red wattle underneath his mask. His voice cracked a bit as he said, “Never fear, fellow-fowl! I—“

Major Tom was interrupted by a cackling commotion among the hens. Tom looked to where they had been – I say ‘had been’ because now the hens were rushing back to their coop in a flurry of feathers and dust—only to see a lean red fox attempting to chase down Henny Hen (who was rather plump and, resultantly, slower) along the fence.  Rory Rooster was atop the coop, cowering in roosterly fear.

Tom’s first instinct was to run. Foxes have sharp teeth and claws and don’t have to wait until Thanksgiving to eat a turkey, you see.  He turned and looked at his own coop, but something stopped him. Maybe it was the outfit, or maybe it was the Henny’s panicked cries, but from somewhere deep inside his gullet, courage came.

Tom turned back and ran with the speed of a very fast turkey toward the vile fox, puffing his chest out and spreading his wings to make himself appear very large, indeed. The fox, about to sink those very sharp teeth into the back of the unfortunate hen, turned at the sound of Major Tom’s “GOBBLE-GOBBLE-GOBBLE!” and yelped. Major Tom jumped at the vicious vulpine, the sharp spurs of his leathery feet aimed right at the fox’s snout.  The fox jumped away and, confused by a bird wearing human clothing, sprinted away over the fence and back into the nearby woods, never to be seen again.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” The barnyard exploded in cheers (in all their various forms) for Major Tom. The horses stamped their hooves in approval, and the pigs oinked noisily.  The goats in the pen bleated and jumped, while the sheep ran around their paddock baa-baaing until they winded themselves (sheep have no stamina). The hens gathered around him, clucking in admiration. Henny placed her head upon Tom’s full chest and sighed, making Tom a bit uncomfortable.

He gazed around the yard, taking in the scene. He WAS a hero. Everyone loved him. “Let Thanksgiving come,” Tom thought. ”A well-loved hero has nothing to fear.”

Three days after Thanksgiving, Farmer Magrill came in from the field and sat down for lunch. Mrs. Magrill had prepared sandwiches with all the fixings.

As Farmer Magrill took a slice of the tender white meat from the plate in front of him, placing it on the roll and piling on lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and cheese, he smiled as he thought to himself, “I surely do love a hero.”

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

This entry was posted on November 21, 2012 at 5:01 pm and is filed under Entertainment. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.