A Thanksgiving Poem

Yeah, it's a little late. So sue me, or take away my poetic license. Or you can complain to Anonymous. It's his fault, after all. He instigated this little childhood conspiracy. I was too innocent to dream up such an evil plot. Honest.



The First Thanksgiving


In 1972 we made my dad eat turkey for the first time.
Ever.

From 1960-1971 we ate lasagna and sausage for
Thanksgiving.

In late 1970 my brother and I began to plot the holiday dinner menu—
with no success.

At six months old, my mother said I ate ravioli instead of
baby food.

In 1938 my great-grandmother chopped the heads off live chickens.
My father was six years old.

Man landed on the moon in 1969, I stayed up late to watch.
Anything was possible.

From 1965-1973 I was only vaguely aware there was a war.
Mom didn't let me watch the news.

From first to fifth grade I drank tea after school with my grandmother
at least once a week.

In sixth grade I was an Indian for the Thanksgiving play
because I had black hair.

Nobody in our family had a birthday in November.
Mine was 15 days before Christmas.

My other grandmother always fixed turkey/mashed potatoes/pumpkin pie.
It was our second dinner of the day.

In early November of that year my brother and I discovered
guilt trips.

In 1972 we made my dad eat turkey for the first time.
Ever.

Mutations

If this doesn't inspire me to write Science Fiction, nothing will. Courtesy of my brother, who took up mushroom growing. Why couldn't he just stick to microbrewing? (Thanks for the pics, Carl. I'll be having nightmares for... minutes.)

Shitake Mushroom starter with snowmen. I think the plate adds just the right surreal touch, also.

Then there is this. Pearl Oyster Mushroom wannabes. If that doesn't scream SciFi Channel Movie of the Week, nothing does.

So where do you find your story inspirations? (And no, I did not find my last short story plot in a bowl of alphabet soup.)