Thanksgiving Freebies

I rolled into Munfordville, Kentucky, drawn not by any particular beacon or happenstance of note, but rather by its miniscule place on the map. It’s barely a blip, this town of less than 1,000, where every face is a familiar story etched by time and toil. You could easily mistake the town for Mayberry, RFD, home of the beloved TV show of yesteryear, the Andy Griffth Show.

It was here that I chose to deviate from “the mission,” that being to seek out unsung community heroes and breathe life into their untold stories. But this is an adventure of my own doing; I owe nothing to a board or committee at large. So this day I chose to pencil whip the mission statement and make the Tour itself the beacon rather than any single person, at least for a single day. 

My plan was simple in conception but grand in spirit. I intended to walk into the local grocery store of this unassuming town, purchase every frozen turkey they had, and then give them away freely to the townsfolk. A gesture of pure goodwill, timed perfectly for the approaching Thanksgiving holiday.

The sun had just bent past the noon hour when I pulled into the small employee-owned IGA store. The facade was humble—faded paint and a hand-painted sign that had weathered many a season. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of fresh bread, ground coffee, and the indefinable aroma of everyday life.

I asked for the manager and waited, my fingers tapping a silent rhythm against my leg. When she finally appeared—having left me standing there for 15 minutes cooling my jets—her gaze was sharp, tinged with a skepticism that seemed out of place in such a tranquil setting.

"Good afternoon," I began, extending a hand. "My name is Brock Meeks, I’m a journalist from South Carolina and I have a project that I think you can help me with.” The manager’s demeanor stiffened noticeably; if I didn’t defuse whatever her unspoken concerns were, this conversation would be over before it began.

“I'm not here to sell you anything, and I don't want any money from you," I said quickly.

She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Alright. So what is it you want?"

I took a breath and dove right in. "I have a thousand dollars to spend, and I'd like to buy every single frozen turkey you have—and any others you can get hold of,” I said. “Then, I'd like to give them away to your customers, right here in the store."

For a moment, silence settled between us, thick as the dust that gathered in the corners of the ceiling. Her expression didn't soften. "I'll have to call headquarters," she finally said.

I blinked, surprise flickering across my face. "You need permission to sell me a thousand dollars' worth of turkeys? Isn't that what you’re in business to do? Sell to anyone that can pay?”

She shifted her weight, glancing away. "It's not that simple,” she said, and I could hear her shifting through the gears turning in her head. “We have to make sure we have enough stock for everyone, especially with Thanksgiving coming up."

I chuckled softly, though there was an edge to it; I wondered silently how much longer she was going to ride this hobby horse. "That's exactly the point,” I said. “By giving turkeys away now, we're ensuring people have them for the holiday."

She took my card, promising to get back to me the next day. But as I left the store, the sinking feeling in my gut told me I'd hit a wall. Sure enough, the next day crawled by, half gone without so much as a whisper from her. Frustration mounting, I dialed the number she had scrawled onto the back of one of my own cards. I half expected the call to go nowhere…

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said; her tone was hollow and unapologetic. "We won't be able to fulfill your request."

I sighed, a mixture of disappointment and resignation washing over me. “Well, that’s unfortunate; perhaps I’ll just come over now and buy every single turkey you do have in the store and just be content to give those away.” And I disconnected the call before she could mount a verbal counterdefense.

By now  I was married to the idea of a turkey giveaway and my mind churned through any and all possible options. I had identified another grocery store on the outskirts of town—a Save-a-Lot, not quite your charming, family-owned local market, but not quite in the same league with WalMart either.

The building was unremarkable, but hope often hides in the most unassuming places. I decided to stroll around the place and check out their stock of frozen turkeys. Much to my delight, they had about three times the turkeys out in a freezer case as the IGA store had. And I felt the logjam on this idea begin to break up.

I tracked down Steve, the manager, a man whose weary eyes hinted at long hours and hard decisions. When hearing my unusual request, he paused for half a beat, as if double-checking his hearing. Most important, he didn't dismiss the idea. Instead, he called over Dalton—the meat guy.

Dalton’s eyes were bright with a kind of earnestness seldom found—the kind of guy that sought out solutions, not problems. "So, you want all our turkeys?" he asked, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"That's right," I said. "Every last one. I'd like to buy them and give them away to your customers."

Dalton nodded slowly. "Well, let's see what we've got." He led the way back to the freezer in the store, and he started counting. Dalton and Steve together counted about 30 turkeys. Dalton said he had more in the big freezer in back and that he’d go count those. In all, there were a total of about 60 turkeys. We hauled them all up front, and Steve began to scan each one, and the total began to rise. The numbers added up neatly; the cost fit just under my thousand-dollar budget.

I handed Steve the cash, and he handed the change, and we were in business. Soon, a makeshift station was set up near the checkout stands, turkeys piled high. As shoppers moved through the checkout line and paid for their food, I snagged them before they left the store.

Curiosity sparked in their eyes. I began handing out turkeys, my smile met with expressions ranging from astonishment to sheer joy. And soon the store began to buzz with the news that free turkeys were being given out up front.

One rugged man, his face etched by sun and hardship, grasped my hand firmly. "Bless you, sir," he said, voice thick with emotion. Then, pulling me into a bear hug, he repeated, "Bless you. Bless you."

A woman clutching a worn purse approached hesitantly. As I offered her a turkey, tears welled in her eyes. "I thought we'd be eating out of a can for Thanksgiving," she whispered. "But not now!" Her face lit up, the afternoon sun streaming through the plate-glass windows, casting what looked like a halo around her.

Children peered from behind their mothers, eyes wide with wonder. Elderly couples nodded gratefully. "You're doing a good thing here," one man said, his weathered hand squeezing my shoulder. "Keep it up."

Not everyone was entirely pleased, of course. One woman recoiled slightly as I handed her a turkey. "Can I get a bigger one?" she asked, her tone edged with dissatisfaction.

I chuckled softly. "Sure, no problem. Will this 15-pounder do?” And she snagged it and left. 

Soon people came into the store, their eyes searching, their heads on a swivel. They were looking for a free turkey. Seems the word got out and neighbors were telling neighbors what was happening. 

As the last turkey found a home, I stood for a moment, absorbing the flurry of gratitude and the palpable lift in the store's atmosphere. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky with strokes of crimson and gold. I felt a deep sense of contentment—a fulfillment that went beyond the simple act of giving.

Driving away, I reflected on the day's events. Things hadn't gone as I'd initially planned. Obstacles had risen where I least expected them, and yet, perhaps that was just the way of things. 

The road stretched out before me, a ribbon winding through the darkening landscape. I didn't know where Josie and I would land next, but for now, I was content to have kindled a spark of hope in this small corner of the world. And that, I thought, was worth every twist and turn along the way.