As Thanksgiving nears and the weather turns sullen, we return to the saga of Diana and the quail. This was in 1975, shortly after Diana had moved to the small "farm" that wasn't really a farm, just an assortment of buildings near the creek, where the Franklin family kept a few chickens and grew their own vegetables, but calling it farm made it seem romantic and earthy and oh so right for the 70's.
Diana rented the stand alone building on the creekbank, one large room and a loft. She wanted to do something different for Thanksgiving and besides that with three children and no job and a deadbeat ex-husband, she couldn't afford a turkey and all the fixin's. Oh, she could always go down to the Community Center, which in those days always had a big communal dinner and not just for poor people. About a hundred or so would gather for the pot luck, turkeys donated by the Community Center and drinks and side dishes brought by the community members.
When we left Diana, she had just been outsmarted yet again by the quail in a rain squall, and had dragged back inside to scheme some more. Her kids had been watching from the window, and now the oldest, the boy, said, "Mom," in that not quite squeaky voice teenage boys use when about to impart some adolescent wisdom.
The girls kept their distance, trying not to giggle at their Mom's dripping hair and soaked clothes. Diana gave them the "look" and made it even sterner to the boy.
"Let's just go to the Community Center. You already fed the pumpkin pie and the cranberries to the quail, and," he went on sensibly, "there won't be enough for all of us to eat, anyway."
She could have gone to the Community Center, with her kids and all of us who had made it our Thanksgiving tradition. Larry even brought Irish whiskey for his table, and there was always more than enough to eat and still send home to those who were under the weather, or infirm or just too anti-social to dine in public.
Diana was none of the above, but she was stubborn. She was determined to get that quail. Never mind that it wouldn't even feed one mouth, let alone four. It was defying her, and she would not be defied. She would not be bested by a small bird.
Or a whole bevy of them, for hundreds seemed to have gathered in the coyote bush to taunt her as they waited for the nightly feast she put under the stick and box trap. She could hear them squabbling over the bread crumbs and molasses and pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce she was tempting them with.
"You go to the Community Center," she said. "You can take the girls and ride your bikes there. I am staying here to eat my quail." She didn't raise her voice; she just made her statement and disappeared into the bathroom, where they soon heard the shower running.
Two days left until Thanksgiving.
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