Surviving a Red-necked Nightmare

It was the summer of 1984, and I was ten years old. We’d recently moved to Springtown, a rural town at the time outside of Fort Worth. We were city kids who knew barely anything of country life. Soon, each of us would have a crash course to introduce us to the community

There was a freedom we could sense in the air around us. Excitedly, each of us eight kids branched out, exploring our separate ways. We found new friends and learned where everything was.

Jr and Donald found the pool hall and made sure to tell us all where it was located. Checker’s was a dimly lit place located on the square. We all spent many an hour in there, playing or watching pool games and eating calzones.

Edward and Raymond met some guys who gladly took them out for their first hunt. They went out late one night to find the hard-to-find “snipe”. Of course, no one told them what it looked like or that it wasn’t a local bird to the region. Just gave them bags, sticks, and sent them out into a field. Then left them there. The boys came in the next morning, scared to death because they’d been left in a bull field and ended up running for their lives.

Clifford, of course, took his bike to town and met some “townies.” They seemed to accept him as they rode around, performing their little stunts. He’s always been the naive one, though. Too trusting of others. Another kid asked if he could try out his bike and took off around the block with it. When the town kid came back, Clifford’s bike was gone and never seen again.

Vicki had already dragged Sherrie and me all over the place, losing me quite frequently. Of course, I could be found anywhere there was a book, so that’s how we all ended up at the library and bookstore. The donut bakery was a favorite place of mine to visit, also, especially if I could talk my mom out of a dollar or so. The three of us girls went a lot of places together that summer, until Vicki found a group of boys her age. Suddenly, she didn’t have the time to entertain us as she had before.

The wonder of our surroundings hadn’t worn off yet, or else Sherrie and I may have taken offense at being abandoned by our older sister that summer. Instead, we continued our exploration, constantly finding new things and meeting new people. Then one day, we met a girl our age who wanted us to go home with her and play at her house.

We played at this girl’s house every day for several weeks. Her mother was very nice to us and always made us feel welcome. Her dad and uncles did the usual man thing, sitting outside in lawn chairs, drinking their beers. There was no way of knowing that their little farm held a nightmare that would haunt me for the rest of my life.

Then, one day, we were there and I remember thinking that her dad and uncles were laughing too much. I would nervously glance over towards where they were standing, and wonder how much they’d drunk that day. (Raised with an alcoholic mom, I’d learned early to be wary.) When we noticed her dad calling us over, we went to him.

The men were standing beside an old, run-down turkey pen in serious need of repairs, which was holding about eight full-grown tom turkeys, and we never suspected what was about to happen, as our friend’s dad talked to us, asking if we’d ever seen how life on the farm really was. Our innocent city ways never prepared us for the cruelty that followed. To this day, I still have nightmares about it, and birds make me nervous if they get too close. I’d already learned in my young life never to trust an adult, and here was another group of grown-ups enforcing that lesson.

Sherrie and I watched as each man reached in, pulled a turkey out of the pen, completely unaware of what was about to happen. Wide-eyed, unable to take our eyes off the men, we watched as each of them lifted a hatchet or machete and chopped off the turkeys' heads, then they dropped the birds they held in their hands. Before the dead carcass hit the ground, the men had the remaining ones in their hands, chopping their heads off too. Eight slaughtered turkeys, and the men didn’t even tie them down. They just killed each one like it was nothing. Then those drunkards stood there and watched the show, laughing at it all. All to indoctrinate my sister and me fully into country life.

I don’t know if you are aware of what a turkey or chicken does after its head is chopped off. My sister and I sure weren’t that day. It’s a lesson I won’t soon forget, though.

As each turkey hit the ground, it stood back up. Headless, each one ran at us and began chasing us. Dogs went everywhere, running into the electric fence, screaming and howling. My sister disappeared faster than a bolt of lightning. I wasn’t so lucky.

Everywhere I turned, there was a turkey. I’d run one way, and there was a turkey. I’d go another; there was a gobbler. I swear those birds still knew what they were doing, and they were chasing me, trying to kill me.

My poor childmind couldn’t wrap around why those birds were still moving. I was scared to death. I thought demons had come to claim my soul.

After what seemed like forever, but had to have been no more than thirty minutes, the turkeys all fell over and stopped running, allowing the dogs and me to escape. The dogs went running in all directions, and I headed down the driveway as fast as I could to the road and a quarter of a mile to our trailer house. I could still hear myself whimpering, even though I knew in my heart that I was safe from the killer birds and would soon be home in my room.

Arriving back at my home, I realized I had to change my clothes. I don’t think any of you will hold it against me when I tell you I peed my pants that day. I soaked myself completely. I even took an unaccustomed midday shower to make sure I was clean.

Sherrie was already home, of course. We were the only two in the house right then. Neither of us ever mentioned what we had seen that afternoon again. We did sleep cuddled up together with a nightlight for many nights, and when she went to her bio-mom’s house, I’d sleep on the floor by my mother’s bed, too scared to sleep alone.

To this day, birds make me nervous if they fly too close. I love to watch birds, but don’t like to get near or touch them. I kept chickens to help with this phobia, and those I got to where I would mess around with, taking care of them. As for turkeys, I’ll never trust a turkey near me any more than I’d trust a drunken redneck wanting to show me something cool.