Mom and Dad sent a text around last week, reminding us that we need to be at the farm at 6:30 this morning to load the turkeys.  Dad wanted to meet in person on Sunday morning to go over winter changes and, again, to discuss loading the turkeys. He reiterated that he wants everyone at the farm at 6:30 on Thursday.  He called me on Monday to remind me that we all need to be there at 6:30 am to load the turkeys.  He called again last night.  

On the same day that we have to load the turkeys, Bob has to drive to Schenectady for more hormone suppression injections.  I have to appear before the Grand Jury regarding last spring’s shooting. In between, I have to schedule turkey pick-ups and prep the cafe for the weekend.

They don’t really need Bob & me to be there.  We could really do with one less thing on the schedule.

But Dad insists. 

Bob and the girls join me to get up before sunrise this morning.  We all dress to go to the farm, then sit by the wood stove sipping coffee, one eye on the clock while we joke quietly about how hard it is to drag Ula out of bed.  The girls aren’t sure why we need every single member of the farm team on hand to load those birds, either.  It’s not a big job.  But it has always been this way.

We are all down at the farm by 6:30am.  

The sun is just starting to peak over the eastern hill.  The turkeys, believe it or not, are gobbling and prancing with joy.  This is something new for them.  Something exciting.

But this is an annual rite for us.  And the tone matters.  We are filled with soft smiles and quiet reverence.  This marks the end of the growing season.  We can keep the process peaceful for the turkeys if we can keep ourselves peaceful.

And as the sun starts to rise, I am reminded why Dad wants us all there. 

Yes, it helps to have many hands available should a bird take flight or dart away along the path to the the trailer, or get caught in the fencing. 

But this is a walk for all of us.  Together.

I think of so much as we follow the path behind these birds.  I think of how we’ve been there for each other this year, sitting together and weeping in confusion over the violence in our community, hugging each other through the fears with Bob’s cancer, playing music together to forget our sorrows and remember our joys, supporting each other through our losses, celebrating our gains, and always always always  feasting together around Bob’s and my kitchen table.

The feasting around the kitchen table has come to a temporary stop.  Jenn helps me find words for why I don’t cook Sunday dinner or invite staff meetings or host music nights right now.  “It’s energy conservation,” she tells me.  “You’re saving it all for what you’re facing.”

And she’s right.  For the coming weeks, we are not as together as we usually are.  We’re spread far and wide as Bob goes through radiation.

But we are still a family, still a team.  And in this moment, we take this walk together.  

I savor each step, gazing at my family and crew, gazing at these beautiful creatures who will nourish so many other families and spirits in the coming weeks.

All we have is this moment.  And I take it into my heart, thankful that Dad was so insistent we make it happen.