Thanksgiving. The word conjures up images of family gatherings, bountiful feasts, and perhaps, a carol or two. While Christmas carols dominate the holiday songbook, Thanksgiving tunes are a rarer breed. In fact, when it comes to Thanksgiving carols, my mind draws a blank, save for one persistent, slightly absurd ditty. And for that, anyone within earshot during the holiday season might just be thankful – or perhaps yearning for a different kind of turkey song.
Because the only Thanksgiving carol that reliably pops into my head is the unforgettable, if slightly morbid, “Gobble Gobble Song.” It bounces around in my brain with the same tenacious energy as a rogue kernel of popcorn stuck in your teeth. It goes something like this:
“A turkey sat on the backyard fence / and he sang a sad sad tune.
“Thanksgiving Day is coming / gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble / and I know I’ll be eaten soooon.
“Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble
“I don’t like Thanksgiving Daaaaaaay.
“Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble
“I think I’ll run awaaaaaaaay.”
This little gem wasn’t some obscure folk tune unearthed from a dusty archive. No, this was a staple of elementary school music class. Picture a classroom of 36 bright-eyed (and possibly slightly tone-deaf) children, enthusiastically belting out this bouncy, slightly tragic tune about a turkey’s impending doom.
Humorous columnist Burton Cole reminisces about the 'Gobble Gobble Song' and Thanksgiving memories.
Looking back, the morbid humor was probably lost on us as kids. We were, after all, farm kids. The circle of life wasn’t some abstract concept; it was Tuesday. Whatever creature had squawked, snuffled, or snorted in our pastures last year was likely destined for our freezers and, ultimately, our Thanksgiving dining room tables.
But the “Gobble Gobble Song” wasn’t just a song; it was an experience. The real fun began when our music teacher announced it was craft time. Out came the snub-nosed safety scissors, jugs of paste that smelled faintly of almonds, and stacks of construction paper in autumnal hues – brown, red, blue, yellow, orange, and purple. We’d transform into miniature artisans, crafting elaborate turkey feather headbands. Some of the more ambitious students even fashioned construction paper beaks, transforming themselves into full-fledged, if slightly clumsy, turkeys.
Then, adorned in our handcrafted turkey finery, we’d proudly march onto the gymnasium stage. Imagine the scene: a gaggle of elementary school kids, sporting construction paper turkey hats and beaks, serenading their parents with the “Gobble Gobble Song,” a tune about their impending culinary fate. To our youthful minds, it was pure entertainment. Perhaps only my classmate Hansel and Gretel, with their fairytale sensibilities, found the whole spectacle slightly unsettling.
While the construction paper turkey hats have long been retired, the “Gobble Gobble Song” remains stubbornly lodged in my memory. Every year, as Thanksgiving approaches, the lyrics resurface, unbidden. I find myself humming “Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble” in the most inappropriate of settings – the hushed aisles of the mall, during a serious business meeting, or even, heaven forbid, in the middle of a church service.
The reactions, as you might imagine, are varied. A few bemused smiles, some puzzled frowns, and the occasional look of outright alarm. “It’s okay,” I usually reassure them, “I’m not going to run away. I’m not really a turkey.” The responses to that statement, however, are sometimes even more unnerving, suggesting that perhaps a few more servings of sweet potato casserole might be in order to improve general holiday cheer.
Thanksgiving at Grandma and Grandpa Cole’s house was legendary. My dad was one of 15 children, resulting in a truly massive extended family. When we all descended upon their home for Thanksgiving, the “gobble, gobble, gobbling” sounds weren’t coming from the turkey – they were emanating from the sheer volume of Cole cousins, particularly the boys.
The Coles are a family that loves to laugh, and they certainly love to eat – not necessarily in that order of priority. Coming from generations of farm stock, the women in our family are culinary wizards. And the men? Well, they hold their own in the kitchen too, like cousin Brian with his legendary smoked turkey and brother Tim, the pie-making maestro. Let’s just say, you don’t achieve the robust physiques some of us sport without knowing your way around a saucepan and a spice rack.
These days, Thanksgiving gatherings are held at my Aunt Arlene’s house, but the tradition remains. We, the ever-growing flock of Coles, still descend upon her home on the fourth Thursday of November, hoping she’s remembered we’re all coming. I sometimes imagine a future Thanksgiving where the entire clan arrives to find the door locked, and poor Aunt Arlene hiding under the bed, whimpering, “If I have to hear that ‘gobble, gobble, gobble’ song one more time…”
But this year? This year, I’m just going to focus on the essentials. I’ll eat. I’ll be grateful for family, for food, and maybe even for the enduringly silly “Gobble Gobble Song” that somehow, year after year, manages to make its way back into my head. Happy Thanksgiving!
