Several weeks ago I saw a turkey up close in Harvard Square. (No, I don’t mean a high-falutin person such as one can sometimes run  into there.)

This was a real bird. To the delight of passers-by, he or she was strutting along at the corner of Mt. Auburn and Dunster Streets. This turkey seemed proud to be there and to be enjoying the attention of its audience.

Where this turkey came from, where it lives, I have no idea.  It could have built a nest among the crannies of nearby buildings for all I know.

This encounter was not my only turkey sighting this autumn.  Driving along in my neighborhood a few days earlier, I could have collided with another one who crossed right in front of my car, ignoring wise pedestrian practice. Whether it was related to my friend in the Square, I cannot say.

Nonetheless, both these birds may have long lives before them. It is their cousins who will soon come to adorn our Thanksgiving tables. They will undoubtedly taste delicious but few of them will have lived as adventurously as our neighborhood creatures.

Some families, disapproving of bird sacrifice, will have vegetarian meals at Thanksgiving.  I cannot help admiring their consistency, but persist in thinking that certain birds were made for our gustatory delight.

Other people—not, fortunately, in Harvard Square—will go out to hunt wild turkeys for themselves. This option is not for me either, but it appears to be gaining ground. Recent books like Lily McCaulou’s Call of the Mild argue that, for meat-eaters, the do-it-yourself approach is both thoughtful and environmentally sound.

As to wild-turkey dinners, I no longer harbor a mythic view of the Massachusetts tribes sitting down in perfect harmony with the Puritan settlers in Plymouth. Rather, I believe the historians who tell us how much struggle was involved in bringing the two groups together.

A friend, old both in years and in my feelings for him, has told me about the way his family comes together at Thanksgiving. Thirty-five members gather days beforehand, and linger after the holiday to celebrate their family ties. Though not all share the same politics, they all celebrate being on speaking terms with one another.

In most of the families I know, Thanksgiving offers ample opportunity for affection to bridge deep differences of thought and style. It’s worth the effort.

Though I expect not to discuss politics at our gathering, I must confess continued elation at the recent election results.  Yes, I feel regret at the bitter splits among Americans across the country. But I also believe that this year’s outcome was the best for us all.

At this year’s celebration I like to think we will talk about my nephew Stephen, who died recently after a long and heroic struggle with colon cancer.  Our family had much affection for him, as did many others. An estimated eight hundred people came to his wake in Dennis.

We will also focus on Henry, our grandnephew, who is almost two. Undoubtedly we will admire the progress he has made since we last saw him a year ago. For those of us grown old, contact with the youngest family members is a tonic and a joy.

This column set out to talk turkey.  (What a weird expression these two words make!) In our focus on Thanksgiving and its meaning for families, I like to think we have done so.

The phrase means honest straightforward language. That’s what I like to find in the newspapers, magazines, and, yes, online writing. Clearly, another thing to be thankful for this Thanksgiving is the persistence of fine journalism.