I love to eat turkey. I know that the logic of the thought is faulty, but it seems to me the more turkey I eat, the fewer turkeys there are in the world.

It was 1968. I was freshly married and in college. The employment I found to go with the college and the new family left me working Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays and attending college Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. My employer had a fair amount of farm land as well as a small feedlot and too many turkeys.

Overheard from a fellow who was married to a beautician, “It’s like being married to a chameleon, I never know what I’m going to come home to.” He went on to talk about asking questions only his wife would know the answer to before patting on the fanny the redhead who had been a blonde ten hours earlier.

Years back, Leo and I would occasionally hear the drone of what we assumed to be someone flying the night mail. I suggested to Leo, one time, that as discouraging as things were at the moment, it might be in order to sell the hay trucks, buy a twin Beach airplane and fly the night mail. Leo pondered it for some time, and then replied that in all the years he’d been involved in things powered by motors, he had yet to find one that would not eventually need to have a mechanic called to it.