Every year I order a fresh turkey from the turkey farm nearby, and go early on Wednesday morning and stand in a looooooong line with just about everybody in town and wait my turn to pick it up. We stand there in our fleece sweat pants and our flannel shirts and boots, stamping in the cold and blowing on our hands, and telling each other who’s coming for dinner at our various houses, what kind of pies we’re making, and who’s bringing what side dish. Somebody in line always has a recipe for cranberry relish memorized and is willing to share it.

It’s become one of the Small New England Town Rituals I love about this place–along with the singing of carols on the Green in December, and the Showing Off of the Prom Dresses on the Green in June, and then, of course, high school graduation (also on the Green) when all the bells in town hall and in the churches peal when the last graduate receives a diploma.

This year, I forgot to order my turkey in advance, and when I called today to beg for one, the guy laughed and said I’d have to take my chances on–get this–Wednesday afternoon, after all the turkeys have been claimed.

“There are always some unclaimed ones,” he said. “You’ll probably get one if you just come by at four.”

At four? And what if there is no unclaimed turkey this year? What if I get there and the guy says it’s the most amazing thing in the world, but not one turkey has been left behind. Stranger things have happened, you know.

The weird thing is, I was driving home late yesterday afternoon in the gathering dusk. It was just about time to turn the headlights on when I realized all the cars ahead of me were stopped for something. That something turned out to be a family of wild turkeys, making its way across the street, waddling hurriedly along, all gobbling away like they were encouraging each other to make it snappy.

Some people got out of their cars to watch them go. One man said, “These birds are sure either brave or stupid to go wandering around this time of year!” And we all chuckled.

But then something even more amazing happened. The turkeys got across the street finally and went up into somebody’s yard, just as though they’d planned this trek, been planning it all year. As we sat there watching, the lead turkey went right up to the front door and started pecking at the storm door, and soon the others came and started hitting it, too.

“Can you imagine,” a woman said, “what you’d think if you opened your door to find your Thanksgiving dinner just asking to come in?”

See, that is kind of what I might need to happen this year. I could use a traveling wild turkey,especially if he was willing to bring along the sweet potatoes, the apple pie–and to stop off at the turkey farm and see who in line has the recipe for the cranberry relish this year.