When Turkeys Fall

Field Note: And Faith Holds

I miss Thanksgiving.

Growing up in the States, it never crossed my mind that this day was a bit of a cultural oddity. A Thursday where the world stops so families can gather, eat too much, and say thanks. Our Canadian friends have their own version, but here in Australia the US holiday passes without fanfare.

Every year, I notice its absence.

And every year, without fail, I think of turkeys. Not the ones on the table. The ones falling out of the sky.

If you ever watched the old sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati, you might remember its most famous episode, “Turkeys Away.” The well-meaning station manager, Arthur Carlson, tries to run the biggest Thanksgiving promotion known to radio. His plan is simple: drop live turkeys from a helicopter over a busy shopping centre.

He did not know that domestic turkeys cannot fly.

The results were as ridiculous as you might imagine. Reporter Les Nessman narrated the chaos as the birds fell like sacks of wet cement. The crowd panicked. The stunt failed. And Carlson, dazed and covered in feathers, offered a line that lives on in TV history:

“As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.”

It is slapstick. It is absurd. And tucked inside the mess is a small truth about the way we live.

Most of us have a bit of Arthur Carlson in us. We attempt things that outstrip our strength. We push through our limits. We imagine we can make something soar by sheer effort, only to watch it drop hard and fast. We regret the things we said yes to. We lie awake thinking about work, kids, money, or relationships. We try to carry more than we were ever built to lift.

There is a world of difference between a turkey hurled out of a helicopter and a turkey wandering through the bush, plump and unhurried, taking what it needs each day.

I once read a writer who noticed this while watching a group of wild turkeys on the edge of a field. These birds were not anxious. They were not planning five years ahead. They simply lived within the quiet provision woven through their world. They were fed.

That contrast stays with me.

The turkey that is fed is a picture of life when we loosen our grip. It does not remove responsibility. It removes panic. It helps us remember that much of what carries us was never ours to manufacture in the first place.

Most of the time, the trouble is not that we lack ability. It is that we forget we are secure. And often, the simple act of recognising that security helps tired people catch their breath again. Thanksgiving, at its best, does the same. It slows us long enough to notice the quiet, sustaining mercies threaded through our days.

So if this week finds us tired, stretched, or feeling like we are falling faster than we would like, let’s take a moment. Step back. Let the day remind us of a simple truth at the heart of most good stories and all good faith.

Stop trying to fly when we are meant to be fed.

Our lives are not held together by frantic effort. They are held together by thankfulness, curiosity, community, and solitude. These small, steady forces keep us aloft and give us the margin we crave.