turkey run

Sunday morning after
one of many parties,
my parents hung-over
from boozing too hardy,
spoiling plans of mother's
to take us on a hike;
she, spiting my father,
fried chicken through the night. 

Crisp the day in autumn
and paths where turkeys run
were golden as Dad marched
ahead silent, sullen,
in bitterness as parched
as clefts scoured by wind drawn
over shale strafed raw from
past recrimination.                                                                

But all I remembered
for years was hiking
in blissful, childlike freedom,
sublimely inspiring,
devoid of the venom
of sarcasm and rancor;
though not sweetly tendered,
a gift I still savor.

Liz McFadzean

This poem is autobiographical, inspired by a real event in my upbringing.  It’s a story that my mother told with relish as something “funny” that happened in my parents’ long and contentious relationship.  As we used to ask in my home, “Funny haha, or funny strange?”

But the poem is about more to me.  It’s about the way we as children experience life resiliently, oblivious to some of the undercurrents of what is going on in the adult world around us.  My parents’ relationship certainly affected me, and as an adult looking back, I know that there was much pain in our household.  But through all of it, I still found beauty and joy, and I still feel grateful. 

The gifts we give to the world will always be a mixed bag….we are, none of us perfect parents, perfect siblings, perfect friends.  We may try to give fish, and a serpent may unintentionally be caught in the net we deliver as well.    My mother was motivated by competing agendas:  blessing her children, and putting my father in his place.  I can give her grace for that, because I know that my motivations can be just as complicated, tainting my generosity with self-preservation.  Jesus said, “If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!”  When he says we are evil, he is saying that we are broken, flawed, beset by mixed motivations, and unable to do all the good we intend because of those flaws. 

I always said that as a parent, I was grateful that I knew a God who could redeem even my worst mistakes.   He is the giver of good gifts and can bring something lovely out of even bitter events, if we let him.

Oh, may it be so, in your life and in mine!

Here is an early version of the poem.  Perhaps you’ll enjoy reading the genesis and seeing how much it has changed:

There was a Sunday morning when
my parents, having partied too hardy
the night before, woke hung-over,
with plans to take us on a hike.
And my mother, as a form of 
punishment for my father,
fried chicken for the picnic and 
declared that we would go.

Crisp the day, autumn, and the paths
where turkeys run were golden.
Dad marched up ahead and the
bitterness of their silence with
each other was like slippery shale
in canyons cut by slow and steady
running waters of recrimination.                 

And all that I remembered for years
was the childlike freedom of the hike,
the beauty, awe and wonder...
which is what they sought to give me...
all wrapped up in a syrupy icing
dripping of venomous bitterness
and sarcasm, the gift still sweet
despite the price they paid.

"Real life is messy.  We all have limitations.  We all make mistakes, which means, hey, glass half-full, we all have a lot in common; and the more we try to understand one another, the more exceptional each of us will be.  But we have to try."
                                                  Officer Judy Hopps, "Zootopia"