As a farm that not only produces but also processes, markets, and distributes its bounty, we have some iconic phrases that aren't common among farmers.

             Yesterday we processed our last turkey.  Two weeks ago we did our last broiler of the season.  We do not take turkeys all the way to Thanksgiving because years ago, when we did, we had several years in a row of terrible weather up to and including late November. 

             One year I had to disconnect all the hoses in the processing shed and bring them into the house so they could thaw out.  Another year we hastily hung plastic down from the shed eaves to block the Arctic wind blasting through.  We even rented one of those kerosene heaters to keep us from freezing.  Sub-zero temperatures, wind, and cold water do not happy people make.

             When we learned that the industry does a soft freeze (29 degrees) for months and can still sell the turkeys as fresh, we realized that the whole notion of fresh turkeys was largely semantics.  For the sake of our own sanity and the health of the turkeys, many years ago we quit trying to take them all the way to Thanksgiving and now finish them while the weather is still amenable.

             We start processing the first broilers around May 10.  That starts the sprint through the season, moving, feeding, processing, starting the new batches.  As summer wanes, we finally empty the brooder for the last time.  That's a big day. 

             Then we begin emptying field shelters for the last time.  That reduces chores and as we stow the shelters along the field edges for winter, it makes the fields look empty.  Each time we process, the first step in the phase is of course killing the bird.  Then we scald it to loosen the feathers, then we put it in the picker to get the feathers off, then we eviscerate and finally the oven-ready bird gets put into ice water to be either bagged or further parted out.

             Throughout the season, the whole goal of processing is to get to that last bird.  The kill station initiates everything and is also the first station finished.  Everyone on the disassembly line looks forward, with great anticipation, to the announcement from the killing station:  "Last bird dead."  With great gusto and excitement everyone answers with a cheer.

             Sometimes everything runs smoothly and no station through the process gets backed up.  Other times a glitch somewhere forces a backup, which creates emotional depression.  When the Quality Control (QC) folks are fighting a poor pick, for example, it takes a lot more time to make sure the birds are clean of pin feathers and yellow filament under their wings.  Watching birds pile up ahead of your station is really debilitating. 

             But when "last bird dead!" is announced, you know there's light at the end of the tunnel.  Only so many more birds will pile up and you feel emotional encouragement to finish up that backlog.  The bottom line is that each processing day all of us live for that announcement from the front end "last bird dead!"

             Once a year this phrase takes on new meaning:  the last time.  So yesterday, when the last turkey of the last processing day met his end, "LAST BIRD DEAD!!" elicited a more robust affirming cheer response than normal.  It's a signal that the sprint is over.  That winter's rest and recuperation are here.  That the harvest is in the freezers, hopefully to last until spring's new cycle replenishes the larder.

             It'll be a new crew who will learn the cheer and joy that comes with "last bird dead!"  But for now, we revel in a season well done, with deep gratitude for nature's bounty, and appreciation to touch thousands of tables through our faithful patrons.  All of that is captured in the high emotion and blessing of "last bird dead!"

             What signals the changeover from summer sprint to winter rest for you?