In my being reared by my grandmother and her father, at an early age it feel to me to help put meat on the table. While I nevef saw a hungry day; there were plenty of times when either the fish weren't biting or the game was scarce.
Having received my first .22 rifle at five years old, by the time I was 12, I was a pretty fair hunter. But the one thing I never hunted
was "turk.".
My grandfather would sit on the porch and talk about how he loved the taste of "wild turk.: He'd mention that it took a "real hunter" to bag one and he always ended the subject by saying "There ain't no turk left around here. They were hunted out years ago." This, of course inspired me to find and murder the last remaining turkey in the area.
This last remaining passage into the realm of being a Great Hunter, went from want to need to obsession. I just HAD to commit homicide on a turk. I read every book, listened to every yarn and even studied the turk calls at the local Western Auto store. ( Though now, I'm undecided what information I was to glean by staring at a piece of wood, through a glass counter top.
Then one summer afternoon, it happened. I was sitting on the porch whittlin and spittin, when from down in the valley I heard a turkey warble.
I told poppa what I'd heard, but he again advised me that there were no turk left and he wasn't sure if I was "hunter enough" to bag obe, even if they were some around. However, he'd sure be mighty pleased to find a fresh turk on the table come supper time. I grabbed my shotgun and ran out of the yard.
Crossing the highway, I went to ground and crawled on my belly under the barbed wire fence. The grass was tall and full of bugs and the afternoon sun cooked me in my clothes. I crossed an open field in such manner, pausing often to listen for the warble. It seemed that the turk was moving away from me, by the sound and I picked up my speed. Ignoring the sand burs, thorns and red ants that feasted on my flesh and after making a wide detour around a sleeping snake, I entered the woods. From the sound, the turk had stopped and I figured it had found some tasty seeds or something. Making like an Injun, I moved as quietly as I could through the trees and brush; until I came to a big blackberry patch. In my mind, I alrwady had Mr. Turk on the table and was hearing my grandfather bragging me up as a mighty hunter. My quickly develpoed plan was to crawl into the middle of those blackberries, then spring up with the final surprise for Mr. Turk.
So into that bush I went. The thorns ripped me, the bees stung me and the berry juice stained me. Once in the middle , I sprang to my feet, but the vines had trapped my gun and it fell to the ground.
Imagine my surprise to find our neighbor, Old Man Allen, sitting on a stump on the other side of that bush.
"Whatcha doin in that berry bush, boy," he asked.
"Thought I'd heard a turk," I answered.
"Did it sound like this?" He asked as he put the wooden call to his lips and blew into it.
"yeah."
"Shoot, boy. Ever one knows there ain't no turk left around here. They was shot out years ago."
On my way back to the house, I shot a rabbit for dinner. Poppa allowed that it was mighty fine, but it would never be turk.
Having received my first .22 rifle at five years old, by the time I was 12, I was a pretty fair hunter. But the one thing I never hunted
was "turk.".
My grandfather would sit on the porch and talk about how he loved the taste of "wild turk.: He'd mention that it took a "real hunter" to bag one and he always ended the subject by saying "There ain't no turk left around here. They were hunted out years ago." This, of course inspired me to find and murder the last remaining turkey in the area.
This last remaining passage into the realm of being a Great Hunter, went from want to need to obsession. I just HAD to commit homicide on a turk. I read every book, listened to every yarn and even studied the turk calls at the local Western Auto store. ( Though now, I'm undecided what information I was to glean by staring at a piece of wood, through a glass counter top.
Then one summer afternoon, it happened. I was sitting on the porch whittlin and spittin, when from down in the valley I heard a turkey warble.
I told poppa what I'd heard, but he again advised me that there were no turk left and he wasn't sure if I was "hunter enough" to bag obe, even if they were some around. However, he'd sure be mighty pleased to find a fresh turk on the table come supper time. I grabbed my shotgun and ran out of the yard.
Crossing the highway, I went to ground and crawled on my belly under the barbed wire fence. The grass was tall and full of bugs and the afternoon sun cooked me in my clothes. I crossed an open field in such manner, pausing often to listen for the warble. It seemed that the turk was moving away from me, by the sound and I picked up my speed. Ignoring the sand burs, thorns and red ants that feasted on my flesh and after making a wide detour around a sleeping snake, I entered the woods. From the sound, the turk had stopped and I figured it had found some tasty seeds or something. Making like an Injun, I moved as quietly as I could through the trees and brush; until I came to a big blackberry patch. In my mind, I alrwady had Mr. Turk on the table and was hearing my grandfather bragging me up as a mighty hunter. My quickly develpoed plan was to crawl into the middle of those blackberries, then spring up with the final surprise for Mr. Turk.
So into that bush I went. The thorns ripped me, the bees stung me and the berry juice stained me. Once in the middle , I sprang to my feet, but the vines had trapped my gun and it fell to the ground.
Imagine my surprise to find our neighbor, Old Man Allen, sitting on a stump on the other side of that bush.
"Whatcha doin in that berry bush, boy," he asked.
"Thought I'd heard a turk," I answered.
"Did it sound like this?" He asked as he put the wooden call to his lips and blew into it.
"yeah."
"Shoot, boy. Ever one knows there ain't no turk left around here. They was shot out years ago."
On my way back to the house, I shot a rabbit for dinner. Poppa allowed that it was mighty fine, but it would never be turk.
