Week 13, Day 1 (Ever felt like a turkey?)

My old man was a bit of a ratbag.

He could charm the Bedouin into buying sand castles, and such was the full blast of his charisma, that every single day I thank the powers that be that Televangelism hadn't caught on while he was in his prime. Forget that noddy in Auckland - he's small potatoes next to the blind ambition and million megawatt manipulation that the old boy oozed. Like most of those self-appointed 'favourites of God', he had no actual religious belief, and worshipped the God of Money and Self.

(And here I will shock you by pointing out that this is closer to Satanism than Hollyweird's version... most true Satanists don't bow down to any supposed dark lord, the whole point is that individually they are 'the whole of the law'. Trust me on this - I had to do some research on a lot of alternative paths when I first went searching into Wicca et al, and part of the course work involved researching and interviewing all sorts of other belief systems, such as Buddhism, Christianity, Wicca, Druidism and (gasp!) Satanism, plus many more. Each group is usually made up of quite normal people, but let's be very clear - Pagans and Satanists have absolutely nothing in common, and neither group likes being linked to the other. Okay, over-information over, let's get back to the funny story, shall we?)

To call the old boy an opportunist would be a criminal understatement. He wouldn't just seize an opportunity, he would invent one, and at the same time also invent reasons why the rules of polite society did not apply to him. Often these actions went horribly wrong, and resulted in us having to move on yet again before the locals started sharpening their switchblades and stroking their nooses. Each time Dad would be utterly convinced he was persecuted unfairly, and nothing was ever his fault.

But sometimes he also saw the funny side, and if the guy had one redeeming quality, it was his amazing sense of humour. Okay two redeeming features - he was very artistic. Oh all right... three! Somehow (largely due to the mothers), he sired amazing kids.

This particular story is set in the back blocks of Mangonui county, where we were renting a farm house and where we somehow stayed put long enough for me to get through School Certificate exams before moving on again.

Money, as ever, was tight. Dad was a hard worker but he was often between jobs when the new locality didn't have much in the way of situations' vacant, and this was doubly true this time. There was a sizeable flock of wild turkeys that roamed the district, and Dad decided to fill the freezers with this freely available food. He found out where they roosted at night, and borrowed a gun from somewhere, then announced with great relish that a turkey shoot was the order of the day. Or night, as it were...

I was mortified to discover that the trees where the flock roosted were well back from the road, and on the farm of some very private and religious people (who happened to have an incredibly good looking son my age, whom I privately lusted after from afar). This was NOT the way I wanted to come to this boy's attention, thank you very much!

But you couldn't dissuade the old boy once he set his sights on something - his will was a force of nature where the sensitivities (or the small matters of trespass and theft) were not allowed to intrude. The plan was hatched, the old army gear was dug out of a suitcase, and off we set on the first night of a full moon.

We crept up the road (Dad and I) in our rusty old Holden, and it seemed to me every clatter and rumble was a dozen times louder than normal. I'm not sure of the exact time, but it was well after every farmer's bedtime, and all the lights in the district were firmly out. We hid the car off the road, and armed ourselves with sacks to carry our haul back in. Dad was in fine form - camo gear, shot gun, and face-black, he was back in WW2 going under cover on a wonderful mission, and his enthusiasm and role-playing was in top gear.

We crept down the farm (with me nervously glancing at the now too-close farmhouse) and located the trees. A quick reccy with the torch showed the trees were dripping with snoring turkeys, and that's not all that was dripping from the trees. The ground below was a quagmire of turkey guano, which should have been a tiny alarm bell, had we been paying attention.

I stood well back, armed with the sacks, ready to race out and gather up the fallen birds, and Dad positioned himself under the trees, loaded then raised the gun, and let rip with both barrels at once.

Several things happened at once - the noise was deafening in that silent valley, every light in the valley suddenly sprang to life, and a couple of dozen turkeys woke up all at once, and did what came naturally.

They shat themselves.

(well you would, wouldn't you...)

In that heartbeat, Dad went from Super Stalking Camo Man to something resembling the Incredible Hulk (if the Hulk was manufactured from guano, that is). There wasn't a single part of him or the gun that failed to get a thorough coating of smelly green and white goo. As he was looking upwards when the gun went off, his face and glasses were among the worst hit.

The sound of dogs barking and the likelihood of imminent discovery meant we couldn't stop to collect even one turkey, but to run hell for leather back to the car and make a getaway.

Back at the house (after a bit of a wild drive to throw off any imagined pursuers), Dad stood in the carport while my giggling mother hosed him off. You've got to give the old reprobate his due - he found the experience as funny as I did, but naturally, it wasn't a story he was as keen to recite to any new-found friends as some of his other wild tales.

I never knew if the cute boy realised who the culprits were, and after that I was too embarrassed to even glance his way. Parents can really stuff up your social life at times ;-)