Greetings from the House on Wild Turkey Hill
It seems there is some fool - either crazy and old, or from the City - feeding turkey and deer from their lawn just down the hill from our house. The deer I don't mind as much, they make sense and travel in compact family groups. See the mother, wait for the fawns. But the turkeys are another matter, hiding in the cornfields in flocks 50 strong, waiting with twitching muscles to make their frenzied dash in front of the truck when it is directly upon whatever fool they've elected Leader of the Suicide this week. And they can be mean. I was nearly forced, as a child, to fist fight a turkey that appeared from a row of corn to interrupt a pleasant morning of pond fishing on the farm. Establish the jab, work the body. Watch for the snood.
I'll give them until Spring - when the birds get Chimp Shit Crazy - to cease this stupid practice. If I see corn feed on the ground when the Robin flies, I plan to conduct my own belated living memorial to HST - on their front lawn. Implements to be chosen at a later date.
Of course, whatever rotten effect the turkeys have upon our easy passage back into civilization is mitigated by the literary benefits of being able to run this widely renowned and popular baseball league from a place called the House on Wild Turkey Hill. This place, leaning and drafty as it is, will serve as draft headquarters Sunday for the Old South Hill Association. The draft begins at 3:30 p.m. EST, and Yahoo! advises you be At the Terminal 15 minutes before go time. I'd also advise you to test your system sometime in advance of Sunday; and make damn sure your dog is tied up when the draft begins.
That's all for now. I'll be posting with some regularity as the season progresses. And, the invitation remains open for anyone who wants to post - just send me an email.