#1 - The First Gobble

In the Year of the Great Migration, when the wind smelled of salt and penitence, a battered vessel named “The Mayfeather” hobbled onto the cold, craggy shores of the New Coop. Aboard were a gaggle of shivering, self-important geese, who had fled the Old Coop across the sea in pursuit of religious freedom, or at least the freedom to tell other birds what to believe, without being contradicted. ¹

These geese, known as the Pluckitans, had been run out of the Old Coop for insisting that the Great Goose Spirit only listened to hymns sung in a minor key, while facing northeast, on Tuesdays. Naturally, they were persecuted, feather-shamed, and fined heavily. So they left.

The voyage had been long and full of squabbling. Half the geese blamed the other half for the storms, and one particularly loud honker claimed the wind was punishment for not building the coop according to ancient scrolls. By the time they landed, they were out of grain, out of patience, and nearly out of feathers.

The land was bleak. Frozen stalks, bitter air, and no sign of the promised abundance. Several geese collapsed immediately upon landing, overcome by the realization that liberty was cold and full of wolves. ²

And yet, salvation came in the form of unexpected neighbors. Wise Owls of the Eastern Forest, who had lived in these lands since time forgotten, watched from the trees. One owl, known only as Whosits, descended from a birch with great dignity and no small amount of pity.

"You appear lost," he said.

The geese nodded solemnly.

"And unprepared."

More nodding.

"Very well. Come. I will teach you to grow corn, dig clams, and not die."

Thus began the uneasy alliance. The Owls taught them how to dig in the dirt without pecking their own feet, how to fish without drowning, and how to cook maize without setting the forest on fire. In return, the geese held long, pompous meetings about how best to thank the Owls without implying legal obligation.

They settled on a feast. They called it the First Honk.

It was a curious affair. The geese arranged the leaves just so, imported a table from a sunken ship, and served dishes with names like “Pilgrim Pie” and “Gratitude Gizzards.” The Owls, dignified and slightly confused, brought roasted squash.

Speeches were made. One goose gave a stirring address about divine providence. Another offered a prayer to the Great Goose, who had presumably guided them here through starvation and disease because he worked in mysterious, often inefficient ways.

But behind the feast, something stirred. A young goose named Ambition was seen scratching lines into the dirt with a twig, marking trees, rivers, and eventually the Owl village itself.

"Just for planning purposes," he muttered.

And though the First Honk First Gobble would be remembered as a celebration of survival and unity, what really happened was still stranger. For it was on that day, that the geese, once imperial, stiff, and honking, began to change. Their feathers darkened. Their bellies widened. Their strut became less dignified, more swaggering. And most notably, they no longer honked.

They gobbled.

They called it evolution. Destiny. Freedom of bird.

By the time they rebelled against the Mother Goose and declared themselves an independent species, they had fully convinced themselves they had always been turkeys. The Mayfeather, once captained by geese, was repainted in murals with wattled pilgrims and tricorn hats with tail fans. And the First Honk had long ago been renamed to the First Gobble.

The Owls, of course, remembered the truth. But nobody listens to Owls anymore.

Thus ended the First Gobble: a celebration of survival, revision, and the polite prelude to centuries of aggressive hospitality and bickering over everything.

Up Next: Episode Two - The Constitutional Coop

Freedom, it turned out, was noisier than tyranny. Thirteen colonies of opinionated turkeys discovered that overthrowing a distant despot was simple compared to agreeing on lunch. As the new nation's founders gathered to draft their blueprint for governance, one question loomed: How do you build a coop for birds who refuse to be caged—especially when they can't stop pecking each other?

1    It is worth noting that while fleeing persecution, the Pluckitans had, only weeks prior, attempted to enforce mandatory beak-waxing on dissenters within their own flock, citing "spiritual hygiene."

2  From the personal journal of Elder Honker McCaw, entry dated "The First Cold Snap, Post-Arrival": "A truly invigorating morning! The crisp air fills one with purpose, and the vast, untamed wilderness before us promises boundless opportunities for spiritual reflection and the establishment of a truly righteous dominion. A few minor discomforts, perhaps, but nothing a good hymn and a stern talking-to couldn't fix. The Great Goose has surely blessed this fertile, wolf-free land." This entry notably contradicts eyewitness accounts and archaeological evidence of widespread hypothermia and several wolf-related incidents within the first week.”

3  The concept of the Great Goose's "mysterious, often inefficient ways" was later formalized by the influential Gobbler theologian, Reverend Dr. Quilliam Strut, into what became known as "The Divine Drift." This doctrine posited that the Great Goose's seemingly circuitous guidance was, in fact, a divinely ordained strategy for the Gobblers to expand their territory and influence, often at the expense of less "divinely drifted" species. This theological shift would culminate in the Great Schism of the Giblet in the 18th century, a bitter conflict over whether the Great Goose preferred maize or millet offerings, which conveniently coincided with disputes over prime nesting grounds.