Backstory: Not wild about the turkeys

Across Dover, on Old Farm Road, another McMansion mother not on speaking terms with her turkey-loving neighbor started videotaping aggressive birds after she unloaded groceries from her car one day and returned to find a tom - caruncles and snood ablaze in red - gobbling at the open door where her baby was strapped in. (Note: While moms just don't believe it, national turkey experts and local police generally pooh pooh such "attacks," saying turkeys aren't after babies; they're after the reflection of themselves in car windows, and are easily scared off if a human takes an assertive stand.)

Since Big Daddy's demise, a tentative turkey truce has materialized on Centre Street, agree the mom and McKenzie, who report less aggressive behavior and fewer calls to police. And the turkeys continue to roost there - like specters of Thanksgiving dinners past - in huge pine trees. They use busy Centre Street as the long runway they need to lift off on five-foot wingspans to glide into trees and fold themselves up for the night.

* * *

Americans who hadn't seen wild turkeys in generations now increasingly encounter them. The New York Times reported in 2003 a turkey on an upper West Side balcony, and the Kansas City Star last spring told of a gobbler flying into a suburban living room. Disputes aside, America is unusually sentimental about a bird it slaughters and devours more than 40 million of each Thanksgiving.

"There's an element of absurdity that keeps [turkeys] out of the adorable deer and bunny category," says Hannah Holmes, author of "Suburban Safari: A Year on the Lawn." "But it's a very totemic animal for North America because for so long they were so rare. It's still a little awe inspiring to see."

Reverie over what Ben Franklin wanted to be the national bird is, in fact, common. James Earl Kennamer, of the National Wild Turkey Federation, says: "A turkey at his magnificent self" - in full iridescent strut and drumming (an explosively loud release of air) - is so surprisingly splendid that even veteran big game hunters are rendered "literally unable to shoot." The birds are also remarkably fast: To capture them with net guns, for example, authorities have to use Howitzer rocket powder rather than gunpowder, which allows them to launch the nets at 450 feet per second.

In Endwell, N.Y., retired biology teacher Jay Decatur was so grieved by the disappearance of the neighborhood wild turkey, Tomás, on Thanksgiving eve (coincidence?) two falls ago, that his wife commissioned an oil portrait of the bird (from a photo). It captures Tomás' contradictions - "so ugly and so beautiful" - says Mr. Decatur of the bird that waited for him each morning on his porch, roosted on car tops, and chased the mail carrier.

And not a mile from the Dover wars, in Needham, Mass., there's what could only be called a form of turkey Kumbaya. School bus driver Nat Reisner has a daily ritual with a flock along Charles River Road. "[The turkeys] are Mother Nature at her best. When we see them, it's a sure sign we're going to have a great day," says the driver of bus No. 15, which daily resounds with a chorus of grade-schoolers singing, "If you love Mr. Turkey, clap your hands...."

Perhaps appropriately, turkey totemism is intense this time of year. "Thanksgiving brings everything this country is about into one place at one time," says Al Stewart, a Michigan wildlife specialist, "and turkeys are an extension of that."

Page: 1 | 2