To begin - 2009, by Vi:

It always starts out small and inconspicuous . . . then appears the magic.

Chester, a wild Rio Grande turkey, was hatched in our yard the spring of 2005.  During the next several years, he made himself known, becoming a familiar, friendly face wandering about the yard.  He was only one in a modest sized group of turkeys, but he stood out.  Of the group, he was the least afraid of us, always curiously watching when we emerged from the house.  We cemented our relationship the day we discovered him talking to his reflection in the bumper on our van - we tried to explain that the turkey on the other side wasn't another turkey . . . and why it wouldn't talk back to him.  This was Chester's first year as a fully fledged Tom.  The following mating season, though he wasn't the biggest tom, he established himself as the dominant male.  At this point, however, we hadn't yet named him; we just called him an odd tom turkey.

Chester received his name in 2009.  He and three other males were courting a dozen ladies in front of our house.  They all had gathered around the song bird feeding area under the cherry tree, just across the driveway from the deck.  One of the males was injured.  It was the odd tom.  He had a deep slice across his left shin - it looked like it was cut down to the bone.  His left foot was severely swollen and bent under at the ankle.  It looked broken.  Mostly he hopped on one foot and only extended the bunged-up foot briefly for balance, touching it lightly to the ground.

In the wild, an animal with an injured foot is unlikely to survive long.  Since we are not objective biologists determined to let nature do what it will, but individuals who like to help those in need, especially when they wear feathers or fur, we decided to do what we could.  To start, we named him Chester, after the '50s television character on Gunsmoke, the one with the limp.

Prior to Chester's injury, we scattered a smattering of seeds daily for the local song birds.  To assist Chester with his daily needs, we added a pile of seeds for him, also making sure the water bowl was full and clean.  We even added more water bowls around the yard for his convenience.  To encourage him to stick around, we began feeding him bits of bread, sometimes home baked.  He's also fond of homemade biscuits.  All the while Chester stayed true to his mission, courting the ladies, even in his injured condition.  Eventually, the other males wandered off, leaving Chester to complete the task.  The lady turkeys were patient with his lopsided attempts to woo them.  In spite of his injury, Chester was successful.

As summer wore on, Chester went from only using the injured foot for balance, to hobbling on that foot with the ankle and toes bent under.  Gradually, he was able to straighten his foot some and walk using the bottom of his foot, his toes skewed to the side.  At present he walks with a limp.  His foot and ankle are still enlarged, but not nearly as badly.

Each day we make sure he has enough seeds and cracked corn.  Each day we feed him bits of bread.  When I step out onto the front deck and call, "Chester.... Hello, Chester," if he's in the vicinity, he eagerly hobbles over, sweetness brimming in his eyes.  If he's not in the vicinity but still within ear-shot, he always gobbles his presence, letting me know where he is.  As I feed him, he makes cute little chortling sounds, his way of saying thanks.  At times, I join him at ground level to scatter the bread, one bit at a time.  Sometimes he comes alone to the feeder.  Sometimes the lady turkeys accompany him.  He even seems to have figured out which part of the house we sleep in, and many mornings he positions himself under our bedroom window at sunrise and chortles softly, trying to wake us and let us know he wouldn't mind a feeding.  I'd peer out the window each morning and see him looking up, his sweet face beaming with eager delight.  For a while, I actually got up and fed him, then I'd go back to bed and try to finish my sleep.  Unfortunately, I've always had trouble sleeping, and I couldn't keep it up.  He was very understanding  At night he now sleeps in the fir tree just down from the house.  We wonder how he manages to balance himself in a tree without the full use of his toes.  But sure enough, he does.

Meeting Chester has been an educational experience for me.  I've learned a number of things about this person of the turkey persuasion.  For one, he's afraid of red.  When I wear red clothes he runs from me.  Otherwise, he allows me to get within a few feet of him.  While I'm hoping to get him to eat from my hand, I'm not pushing it.  I don't want him to lose his fear of humans in general.  Everyone is not in love with him, like we are.  We've had people ask to hunt turkeys on our property.  We say no.  Today, as I took my walk around the driveway in the rain, I learned he is also afraid of umbrellas.  Of course, it is partly red.  Even though red is my favorite color, I'm rethinking my wardrobe, for him.  He's worth it.

I've watched the way he spreads his wings, seen the iridescence of his feathers and how many different colors they display, depending on the light.  I love their varying, unique patterns.  I know how quickly his feathers regrow after the molt.

Over the summer Phil took myriad photos of Chester.  From them, I painted Chester's portrait, the one displayed here.  With this painting, it is my hope to unveil the beauty of his soul, his purity, his sentience.  He has no artificial agenda.  He is Chester, our Zen turkey, living in the moment, learning and doing what a turkey needs to know and do to survive.  Living with Chester has provided moments of enlightenment - for me.  From him, I have gained so much, including comfort.  His chortles heal my soul.  I hope you, too, can find something special in this painting of Chester and his higher self.  For this painting is not about Chester seeing God.  It is about Chester looking up to find his higher self, looking back at him.

No wonder Benjamin Franklin wanted to make the wild turkey our national bird.

CONTINUED . . .