Author Information
Footnote: Thanksgiving Morning, 1966 Or 1967
Thanksgiving Morning,
Grandma's meadow: my father's
shotgun fires. I dare
not show tears for the slain, or
the turkey killed days ago.
Kyakuchuu
Thanksgiving Morning,
Grandma's meadow: my father's
shotgun fires. I dare
not show tears for the slain, or
the turkey killed days ago.
Kyakuchuu
This is so compassionate,
This is so compassionate, honest and compelling. We are so disconnected from the death and suffering of animals that it's easy to become desensitized, and it's wonderful to know some people, even as children, know instinctively that something is wrong about killing, at least unnecessarily, any sentient life form.
That said, I respect a carnivore's right to their own diet, but I never pass up an opportunity to comment on the rights of the defenseless, and you opened a wide door here with this very moving, perfectly presented memory.
Thank you. I never enjoyed
Thank you. I never enjoyed these annual "hunting trips" with my father; although I have distinct memories of the autumn dawns, the autumnal beauty of my Grandparents' wildflower meadow, and the crisp scents of the cold air. But I dared not remark about beauty, in his presence, or show any grief for the victims of his hunt.
As an adolescent, I used to get physically ill when my mother prepared for Sunday dinner a rabbit caught and killed by my father. This became so extreme that my mother began to prepare chicken legs for me, as an alternative to nausea during Sunday dinner.
Starward