Oh dear, and a cranky one too. For now he has rolled over, turned his back on me and dismissed our daughters to their room.
Bet asked why he was upset. And he said rather flatly, “Because, your mother is going to turn this into a blog and call me a turkey.”
“Oh, good night then,” with a giggle in her voice and off both girls went to bed.
So what prompted this exchange?
It was a very busy day today, or not, but at least a day that everyone in the family was separated.
Grandson Kai had spent the night and he and the girls were over to Terry’s by 8 a.m. to grandpa sit until Kai’s mom, Stephanie, arrived to take me over to stay with Terry’s dad and pick them up, so that Bet and Anna could help her cook dinner for Eric’s youth group. (Eric is Stephanie’s husband and father of Kai and Aksel). We barely had time to say good morning to one another. Dirt had dashed off as soon as Steph arrived so he could get into the feed and hardware store when it opened.
The night before we had gotten home after dark and when Bet had gone out to put her turkeys away, one of the young blue ones was missing. Dirt had asked me later this afternoon, when we were waiting for Terry and her family to get home, if Bet had found her turkey this morning. I thought it was funny that he was asking me because: one, I didn’t know a turkey was missing until just then; two, he probably saw more of her than I did that morning,
So as the girls and I were brushing our teeth tonight before bed I asked Bet if her young blue turkey had showed up.
“Yes, he was ‘balurp, balurping right outside the door of the turkey pen this morning. he seemed very nervous and worried that he had spent the night out.”
“Oh that’s so cute, I love it when they ‘balurp, balurp‘.”
“Not me,” she says. “I think it is sad.”
“Really? You think ‘balurp, balurp‘ is sad? I love their ‘balurp, balurps.’ But you really think it is sad?” I ask, looking for an explanation.
“Ya, they only ‘balurp, balurp‘ when they are hungry or looking for someone. When they are lonely. That’s sad. They’re either lonely or hungry. Sad.”
“Oh” I say quietly, noting to myself to change my opinion of turkey’s balurp.
The conversation had moved to my room while I stayed in the bathroom brushing my teeth. My husband was asking something about the group of littlest turkeys (the missing one came from an older group).
“Oh, they were all at their box,” she tells him.
“Their brooder box? They had gone back to their brooder box?” Dirt asks as I am coming into the room.
“Ya, they always go to their brooder box when they get out and are nervous.”
“Really!” I say.
“Oh, ya,” says Bet. “Didn’t you know that? Turkeys hate change.”
At which I began to howl, and Dirt began to turn over and excuse the girls.
Dirt, he hates change.
