Small Town Chronicles: The Great Turkey Chase

Some family stories are so wild, they make you wonder if your brain is playing tricks on you. As someone who’s both a historian and not completely bonkers, I’ve spent way too much time asking myself: did the infamous Great Turkey Chase in Imlay City actually happen, or am I just mixing up an episode of WKRP in Cincinnati with real life? Maybe my Thanksgiving food coma scrambled a few memories. Every year, the Nolin family retells this legendary story, so I’ve tried to get the scoop from local experts like the late John Lengemann, Earl Gass, and the Upleger brothers, Phil and Gary-but none of them even recalled hearing about a runaway turkey stampede. Well, maybe stampede is a bit of an exaggeration but nevertheless, each year I persist in asking old timers if they remember this event?

My brothers Jim, Gary and Dallas loved telling me the tale (and let’s be honest, messing with their little sister), and even my parents joined in with similar yarns. Still, outside my family, nobody else in Imlay seems aware of this feathered fiasco. Nevertheless, I questioned whether I was simply being naive and if the entire matter was merely fictional.

Bright City Lights

Let’s go back to early December 1959, Nelson Flansburgh and his fellow Department of Public Works comrades bravely wrestled with holiday lights across downtown, likely earning a lifetime supply of tangled cords and singed fingertips. The garland, with its chubby glass bulbs in loud reds, blues, greens, and yellows, glowed steadily – none of that fancy twinkling, just pure old-school radiance with an attitude: one rebel bulb goes out, the whole crew follows suit. Those painted bulbs and beefy rubber cords could handle anything except, perhaps, a curious squirrel or a distracted city worker (and they got hot enough to fry an egg!). At the heart of each setup, a classic blow-mold of a Santa face, a Star or a Bell stood watch, alternating like parade marshals overhead as locals circled Third Street and Almont Avenue for elusive parking spots. The Christmas lights stretched triumphantly from the Town Hall to Brisk Foundry on Almont Avenue, and from the gas station to Almont Manufacturing Foundry on Third Street, floating above the chaos and proving once again that nothing says “festive” like a traffic jam under glowing Santa faces.

A few days later, the entire town gathers to witness the grand finale: the final lighting of the Community Christmas Tree – this year proudly displayed (or at least propped up) at the corner of Almont Avenue and E. Third Street, right outside the Homestead Restaurant. Back then, it wasn’t exactly a “living” tree; instead, it was the sort that bravely stood up to winter on our behalf. It looked like it had been freshly cut from a local farm and probably was, never being carefully trimmed into the ideal shape. Still, everyone marveled over it and took fierce pride in the Tree. Over time, our tree truly toured Imlay, appearing in front of the Post Office, Town Hall, and Library, settling in wherever it could. No wonder people in Imlay remember the tree in different spots – our Christmas Tree made the rounds more than most holiday sweaters.

That year, the Department of Public Works pulled a stunt worthy of small-town legend: they wired the Christmas tree lights straight into the traffic signals. Suddenly, with every red, yellow, and green, the tree outside the Homestead Restaurant blinked and twinkled like it was auditioning for a spot on American Bandstand. It was pure 1959 – kids squealed, the librarians panicked, and old-timers swore they’d never seen such a spectacle since a herd of cows escaped from being loaded into a freight train some years back. If you wandered downtown that December, you might’ve thought you’d stumbled into a festive UFO landing. Holy blinking lights.

All the stores were opened every night until 9 p.m. from December 14 to Christmas. Shoppers bundled up like marshmallows waddled from store to store, faces glowing with anticipation (and maybe mild frostbite), their breath mingling with the scent of cinnamon wafting out from the bakery. While kids practically glued their noses to windows, hypnotized by mechanical reindeer prancing and elves wrapping imaginary gifts, Santa figurines winking from every angle. Every evening felt like a tiny celebration, Christmas carols crackling from the old speaker at Calvin’s Radio and TV Shop.

It wasn’t just in the decorations, the true magic was in the gleeful chaos, the impromptu reunions, and the unmistakable sound of someone dragging a new sled home, ready to conquer the next snowbank (or at least the nearest ditch). In Imlay City, merriment didn’t just sparkle in the lights; it ricocheted between storefronts like a runaway turkey on Thanksgiving morning. Which brings us to another new and great idea Imlay’s leaders had.

The Turkey Chase

Jim and Gary were rummaging through the garage and old shed, looking for a sturdy rope. The week before, they had read an announcement in the newspaper that the Chamber of Commerce would be releasing a dozen turkeys, and whoever caught one could keep it. Six would be released on the day of the tree lighting and another six on December 19, the last Saturday before Christmas. Excited by the prospect of bringing home a turkey for Christmas, Jim and Gary started planning their strategy. Just like Dad, they never gave up on a challenge, and like Mom, they always believed they’d succeed – even if the odds were against them. Whenever they faced an obstacle, whether it was climbing the tallest tree in our yard or figuring out how to fix a broken bicycle, they tackled it with Dad’s persistence and Mom’s unwavering optimism, convinced that their luck and effort would see them through.

Jim and Gary burst through the door after their hunt for rope, eyes bright with anticipation. They stood before our parents and proudly declared that they would be responsible for Christmas dinner this year. Jim, the eldest at twelve, was slender and thoughtful; younger brother Gary, who had just turned eleven, was already known for his assertive streak – especially when it came to friendly competition.

Our mother quickly assessed the situation, offering some practical advice. “If you’re serious about this,” she said with a knowing smile, “make sure you get downtown early to claim a good spot.” Dad, who worked nights, had just woken up and joined in on the fun, pretending to encourage them. “And don’t forget,” he teased, “go for the plumpest turkey you see!” Both parents understood the odds; with so many teenagers and adults likely to show up for the Turkey Chase, it was unlikely Jim and Gary would reach the front of the crowd. But that didn’t dampen the boys’ spirits one bit.

Jim and Gary bundled up and rushed downtown, their hearts racing with excitement. They secured a spot outside Snyder’s Mart, a cozy shop whose windows were misted over. Beside it stood the pool hall, its glass hazy not from fog but from cigar and cigarette smoke – a haven for local men to gather. The boys squeezed past parked cars and pressed forward, grinning and nudging each other, energized by the biting December cold and the sense of adventure. As more people arrived, Jim and Gary’s anticipation grew. Meanwhile, across the street in front of Neil Blank’s office, Evelyn Blank Ryckman stood with her daughters, Patricia and Jeanette. Having just finished her work and locking up, she joined the swelling crowd lining Almont Avenue. Evelyn and her girls settled into their prized spot as the gathering continued to grow.

The scene was pure small-town holiday magic; half the town squeezed together, breath fogging the winter air, kids wired with sugar, and the air tingling with the promise of airborne turkeys.

The local police halted traffic, and an excited murmur swept through the crowd as a pickup truck approached from the south, crossing the railroad tracks and passing the illuminated Christmas tree. As the vehicle moved along, a man started opening crates and hurling live turkeys into the street. The crowd surged forward together – burly farmers snatched with strong arms, housewives waved aprons like nets, and high school football players dove in to tackle.

Jim, Gary, and Evelyn lined up on the curb like Olympic hopefuls, eyes glued to the approaching truck. As each turkey was launched skyward – flapping, squawking, feathers and dignity both in freefall – the crowd’s excitement hit a fever pitch. Suddenly, the boys found themselves swept up in a tidal wave of elbows, boots, and holiday ambition. One moment Gary was doing his best impression of a nimble reindeer, the next, Jim was airborne, arms flailing, before making a spectacular touchdown – directly on top of the roundest, most surprised turkey of the flock. Meanwhile, Evelyn, juggling her daughters and her sense of decorum, found herself in a slapstick ballet: one hand grabbing a turkey, the other trying to keep her daughters from being carried away with the crowd. The whole scene looked less like a Christmas tradition and more like a dress rehearsal for “The Nutty Nutcracker.” In the end, against all odds and the laws of physics, both Jim and Evelyn emerged victorious, each clutching a prize turkey and wearing expressions that said they survived the Great Turkey Chase.

For years afterward, whenever the first snow dusted the sidewalks and the scent of pine drifted down street, Jim and Gary’s triumphant turkey tale would be dusted off over hot cocoa and laughter, passed down like an heirloom. Their legendary dash became a symbol of the quirky heart that defined Imlay City – a place where ordinary kids could become holiday heroes, and where every gathering, from tree lightings to wild poultry pursuits, was a chance to create memories that sparkled even brighter than the Christmas lights above Almont Avenue.

And so goes the legend of the Great Turkey Chase.

A three-paragraph article in the December 16, 1959, Flint Journal confirmed Imlay City truly did host a Turkey Chase. Jim was indeed pushed and landed on his prized bird, and Evelyn really did wrangle both kids and turkeys and it turns out I wasn’t misled by a tall tale.

Contact Lynn at tct@pageone-inc.com