Most of the turkeys in the continental US are sitting in a special brine right now. Probably inside an orange Home Depot bucket. There are seasonings, juices, and concoctions of various flavors with a family history that dates back to the War Between the States.

“The brine is what makes the turkey,” is what the matriarch of the family will say. “My great, great grandmother brought this recipe with her from Virginia, and it’s been handed down to every generation since.”

The men will ooh, awe, and salivate. The younger women will try to discern the ingredients that give the turkey its tender, moist, and most delectable flavors. They will ask grandma, and she will politely avoid the questions.

The family recipe belongs to the oldest woman in the kitchen. She is bound by sacred honor to protect, preserve and guard the secret with her life. And only when she decides that the time is right will she consider passing it along to others whom she deems worthy of receiving her knowledge.

The younger women have searched through grandma’s cookbook before. There’s a card file or a three-ring binder filled with a teaspoon of this and a cup of that. Blend for five minutes and let chill overnight. There are handwritten notes on every page that describe in great detail the secrets to making the best cakes, pies, casseroles, soufflés, and congealed salads.

There’s even a card for the turkey. But this is not the real recipe. This is a fake turkey recipe meant for prying eyes who take matters into their own hands.

Once in a while, after thinking she has found the secret, one of the daughters will offer to cook the turkey. She prepares the brine. She makes the dressing. Loved ones gather in great anticipation around the table. Much food is consumed.

“I don’t know,” the daughter will say. “The turkey was good, but it wasn’t as good as yours, Grandma.”

“Oh honey, you did fine,” she says.

Grandma offers a pleasant smile. She knows the secret is safe. She is the only one who knows that the real recipe is locked in a fireproof box hidden in her underwear drawer and that the one in the card file is a decoy. She feels a little ashamed, but she is duty bound to hold out a little longer.

I’ll be honest with you. I don’t really like turkey all that much. I eat it because that what we do at Thanksgiving. We always have, and we always will. I don’t turn my nose up at it. I’m respectful. It’s just that turkey is not a personal favorite of mine.

My worst turkey day happened when I was about twelve years old. Mama decided that she wanted a live turkey for Thanksgiving. The idea of a fresh bird appealed to her for some reason. My folks had grown up chopping off heads and plucking feathers, so it was no big deal to relive that time in their lives.

Dad drove down to the other side of Griffin to his buddy Wayman’s house. Mr. Wayman was old school. He spent most of his waking hours trying to figure out how to feed his family of fourteen. He raised hogs, shot deer out of season, and did about anything he could to keep food in the freezer, including raising turkeys.

I was there. Dad picked out one he liked. Mr. Wayman walked into a pen of frantic turkeys and grabbed up the chosen one. We stuffed him into an old burlap feed sack, tied the mouth of the sack closed with a piece of baling wire, and tossed our Thanksgiving bird into the back of the truck.

When we got home, Dad backed the truck into the back yard where the deed would be done. We butchered a cow every fall, so I thought, how hard could it be to butcher a turkey. I was not prepared for what was about to unfold.

Dad rolled out the butt piece of a log from the firewood pile and stood it upright not far from the tailgate of the truck. He got his axe from inside the old smokehouse.

“Get the turkey and untie the sack,” he said.

I obliged.

“Hold him between your legs and reach down inside and grab his head. Keep your hand over his eyes.”

The strategy is simple. If the turkey doesn’t see what’s coming, he won’t flinch.

Now, it should be noted that at twelve years old I was not an experienced holder of turkeys. I was nervous about the role I was about to play in this gruesome ordeal.

Dad slid the sack off. I’m squatted down next to the stump with the turkey between my legs, his head in one hand, the other hand clutching the bird. I stretched his neck out across the stump and leaned back out of the way best I could.

Dad assured me. “He’s gonna flutter a little bit, but you just hold on to him. I’m not gonna hit you.”

I closed my eyes and waited. WHACK!

I know it was my fault. I was not fully braced for the reaction that followed a well-timed swing of the axe. I assumed that the bird would fall limp to the ground. I was told to expect a small flutter. What I got was a bird explosion.

A headless 20 lb. turkey is a force to be reckoned with. I know this now. He didn’t just flutter, he panicked like a wild beast. When he clawed me on the forearm, I lost my grip and fell backwards on my hind quarters. And to my amazement, our bird took off like a racehorse across the back yard.

He ran into the trunk of the pecan tree, rolled over, got upright again and seemed to gather more steam as he headed for the dog pen. He grazed the corner post on the pen and ricocheted to the left toward the swing set.

Mama was standing by the back porch. She had a pot of hot water with her so she could start plucking feathers as soon as we were done. “Get him, Paul,” she shouted.

Everything happened so fast. I was a little bit dazed by it all. But her shout got me to my feet, and I took off after our headless bird.

The saving grace was the hog wire fence behind the swing set that separated our yard from the garden. It slowed the bird down enough that I was able to pin him to the ground until he stopped moving.

Dad was laughing when he grabbed the bird by his feet. Mama got me to help her pluck the feathers, which is a lot tougher than a dove or quail.

The scar on my left forearm is long gone. But I reckon one of the reasons that I’m not particularly fond of turkey may have something to do with the scar that remains on my soul.

I’ll eat a turkey. But there’s not enough brine in this world to make me forget that fateful November day.

And I sure don’t want the leftovers.

Happy Turkey Day.