Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Just before Christmas, a terrible smell appeared in our house. I was sure a rat had gotten in somehow and died between the walls, or a whole plethora of lemmings or a woodchuck. We wandered around the house, day after day, sniffing here and there, searching for the source of the smell, finding nothing. It seemed to worst in the bedroom, next worst in the hall outside the bedroom. I even wondered if my fibromyalgia was making my body smell that horrible and the smell was soaking into the sheets. I washed all the bedding, but the smell remained.

    Finally, I found it.
  • We had come home from a Thanksgiving dinner a month earlier with a bag of leftovers, including bones, giblets and a turkey neck for making soup. But unexpected company arrived and I ran the stuff upstairs out of sight to put away later. After the company left, I carried the fridge stuff downstairs and put it away, leaving the bag in the bedroom with other items to deal with later, as it was past midnight and we were tired.

    The smell seemed to be emanating from that bag. I took everything out and put it away, but found nothing that would indicate so powerful a source of death and destruction. I carried the empty bag downstairs. It had been a doubled paper grocery bag whose handles had broken, so it had been slipped into another doubled bag, because it had heavy items in it. When I took the bags apart to fold them up, I found the turkey neck that had never made it into the soup pot. It had accidentally, unbeknownst to either of us, slid down out of sight between the two sets of doubled bags.

    Needless to say, it was not to be made into soup.
  • Since that time, several years ago, we have had a series of turkey-neck incidents. Perhaps it is galloping Alzheimer’s or perhaps a sign of a too-busy life or of insufficient meditation and awareness. But the incident repeats itself in surprising new ways with increasing frequency.
  • The latest one occurred over the past few days and while not as stinky, was maybe more worrisome. Because we’ve been living at the studio, due to the power outage at home, I bought my tablet to the studio. My husband put the tablet in the studio, which we used as a bedroom. Instead, I thought I’d move it downstairs in case I couldn’t sleep (I have frequent insomnia), so I could maybe check my email, because we’d been so busy dealing with no power and weather issues and a downed tree, etc, I hadn’t had time to. I must have carried it down in a paper bag, one I;d used to haul stuff to the studio from home. The next day, I couldn’t find it. Three or four more days went by and I still couldn’t find it, even after frantic searching.

    I am at the studio now, because we have company coming and I’m trying to get the guest room ready. I was gathering up all our stuff to make space for the company, and lo and behold, what do I find by the dining-room table, but an apparently empty paper bag that is unusually heavy. The missing tablet is hidden between layers of Kraft paper. Slipped away out of sight like a turkey neck.
  • Image by me, anteaters at the Detroit zoo, taken when Frankie was visiting (my grandson). It kind of represents the long nose of sniffing for bad smells.

    Today, our daughter Sarah and her husband Steve are arriving for a visit.


    (Sometimes, when I am exploring my husband's body and find something interesting, he says, "Oh no, a lost turkey neck!" And we both laugh!)
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.