Arkie John
Active member
Daddy always took meticulous care of his guns. He usually had six or eight long guns, but never a handgun for whatever reason. Those guns were off limits, standing there upright, all oiled up, behind that glass door of his gun cabinet. That gun cabinet and those guns were a constant sight in our modest home all the years we were growing up. I still remember the smell of 3-in-1 oil coming from the cabinet. Anytime he touched one of the guns, it was immediately wiped clean of fingerprints.
As we got old enough, Daddy would buy us each a 410. (Linda got a 410/22 over/under because she was 'special.') We also, on occasion, got to use his Winchester 22 (Model 74 LR) that he bought the year I was born. I still have that pretty little rifle, complete with its beautiful solid walnut stock. Later as I got older, I got to lustin' after Daddy's other guns; the 257 Roberts, the 243 model 700, the Belgium-made, vent ribbed, gold trigger Browning 12 gauge magnum that would knock a turkey's dick in the dirt at 50 yards or better...and on and on.
When I got home from the Navy, I began turkey hunting in earnest with Daddy. I first used a double-barreled Stevens 16 gauge. That lasted about a year when I missed two nice birds. It just wouldn't get out there, you know? But one December out of the clear blue, when I was over at his house one day, Daddy went to the bedroom and came back with a beautiful Belgium-made 32 inch full choke 12 gauge magnum Browning shotgun. He smiled and just handed it over to me. "Been wantin' to get you one of these and I was down at Blakley's hardware and saw this beauty setting over there." I was in seventh-heaven that Christmas! I don't remember when I came down, but I was on cloud 9 for a long, long time. I remember he paid a whoppin' $150.00 bucks for it in 1972.
I have many stories featuring that gun, but one that Ludy reminded me of is this one: So, get your camos on and let's go.
After a couple of years of turkey hunting, before the spring season about 1974, I decided to take a pair of old camo britches I had and I made me a sho-nuff camo sock that was form-fitting around that walnut stock. It even had a little pocket on the side where I could keep my diaphragm calls. It fit perfectly, but I didn't stop there. I went on to make a separate sock that fit ever-so tightly around that long, shiney barrel all the way up to near the ejection port, and down to the end of the barrel. It fit pretty tight and I liked it. Mother thought I did an excellent sewing job too, by the way.
This was all before the days of camouflaged guns coming from the factory with their neat Real Tree images etc., but I had to have a way to be hid so the birds, with their 9-power vision, wouldn't spot the sunlight refracting off the gun as they approached. I was all set.
So we went up to Winona WMA, set up camp in the usual way and were set for a great experience. That first evening,we were lucky enough to hear some birds roost as we stopped periodically to listen. That set the tone for the next couple of days.
Now the first morning, because of the roosting, I decided to hunt way west of where we normally did. I found myself in the shadow of Flatside Pinnacle on opening day. I set up in the usual way. The birds were very vocal and responded very well to my calls. I repositioned ,myself a couple of times and got in front of them because although they were vocal, they were following the REAL hens around. Hmmm. I knew they usually followed creeks so I set up ahead of them and called every so often. They'd gobble and I could keep up with them. They got closer and closer. "This dang thang just might work out," I thought. They got THUNDEROUSLY close, but I couldn't see them.
Finally a head popped up from behind a clay root, not ten feet from me heading RIGHT FOR ME. The small talk had convinced one of the old boys to come up and investigate. I was ready. My back was against a 3-foot-wide Georgia Pine, my knees pulled up as a bi pod, my trusty Browning's 32" barrel resting between my knees, was directly lined up with this most unfortunate gobbler. This is going to be too easy. "How could I be so lucky. I'll really put it on Papa early," I thought.
I looked down that long barrel and he drummed and fanned--puttin' on a heck of a show for me. He had no CLUE I was within a quarter mile. I put the bead right on his ole red-white-blue head and pulled the trigger. KAWHAAAAAOAOOMMM!!!!!! All hell broke loose. MY GAAAWWWDUHH!!!! It was on FAUR!!! The turkey took off like a rocket, never to be seen again but I had more pressin' thangs to worry about. My gun was ablaze and smoke was so thick I thought I was shooting a damn muzzle loader!!! In total SHOCK, I looked at the browning and saw that the fine sock I'd made for the barrel was obviously just a bit too close to the muzzle of the barrel when I fired. When I shot, it actually split the sock in three pieces back four or five INCHES from the end of the barrel, and politely IGNITED it in the process!!! My GAAAAWWDDDO'MIDY! I immediately took my hat and beat the fire out with unceremonious vigor!
Looking back, I bet that was a sight to behold! It smoldered rather indignantly for the longest time. I reckon, in my mornin' chasin's, it musta worked itself a tad too close, methinks. I cussed under my breath as I headed back up to the top of the ridge, pizzed off BIG time.
As far as the bird is concerned, well, I didn't displace a SINGLE FEATHER. You see, at SIX feet, and having a 32" full choke barrel, the No. 4 turkey load had no chance to expand at ALL as it left the barrel. It was like shooting a rifle. He might be deaf, but he was certainly not injured and rocketed to the top of those 80-foot pines in a HEART-BEAT.
There I was with my new gun, my new camo sock in shreds, my ego deflated, and all of those chickens I had been counting before they hatched--completely vaporized. I can hear it now from the ole' man: "You mean to tell me you missed a big ole' gobbler at SIX feet with a 12-GAUGE MAGNUM SHOTGUN????" I felt sick already but I was gettin' ready for the razzin'.
At the dreaded camp that evening, I told Daddy this very story, complete with all the painful details and he just grinned and shook his head. Being careful not to make me feel too bad, after a long pause and watching and listening to the hickory and oak fire burning and poppin', he just said "Well son, you'll leave a lot more of 'em in the woods than you'll ever take home with you. That's turkey huntin'." He came over and just hugged me. "We'll get 'em tomorrow," he said as he readied his covers in the back of the ole' GMC. In the firelight, I took my knife and cut back the barrel sock about six inches and got rid of the ragged, ridiculous-looking mess and regrouped slowly. We soon went to bed with the pines whispering in our ears. Our conversations waned and visions of majestic toms parading before us come morning took over.
That gun went on to kill some 37 wild turkeys by my hand--most of which, well after Daddy had died in November of 1976. I would oil it just the way he did, after each hunt and put it away. It was my prize from Daddy. He knew that by buying me that Browning it would be the source of many fine memories...and it surely is. Five or six years ago I gave that gun to Tom, knowing he would forever appreciate it and take care of it and admire it. At that time, I decided to hunt strictly with a bow with the time I have left. I miss those gun-totin' days with Daddy, oh, how I miss 'em. Nevertheless, I'm havin' a ball making my own trails through the forest of Central Arkansas, having taken 14 birds with the ole' Matthews since then.
I am a blessed, blessed man folks, not to brag for sure...and I am so thankful for those memories of years past with Daddy in the woods and on the water. But I'm also thankful for those visions of "majestic toms parading before us come morning." Number 15 is right around the corner donchaknow.
I just wanted to tell you about a special Christmas and the most special old Belgium-made Browning. Thanks for comin' along. <><
aj
As we got old enough, Daddy would buy us each a 410. (Linda got a 410/22 over/under because she was 'special.') We also, on occasion, got to use his Winchester 22 (Model 74 LR) that he bought the year I was born. I still have that pretty little rifle, complete with its beautiful solid walnut stock. Later as I got older, I got to lustin' after Daddy's other guns; the 257 Roberts, the 243 model 700, the Belgium-made, vent ribbed, gold trigger Browning 12 gauge magnum that would knock a turkey's dick in the dirt at 50 yards or better...and on and on.
When I got home from the Navy, I began turkey hunting in earnest with Daddy. I first used a double-barreled Stevens 16 gauge. That lasted about a year when I missed two nice birds. It just wouldn't get out there, you know? But one December out of the clear blue, when I was over at his house one day, Daddy went to the bedroom and came back with a beautiful Belgium-made 32 inch full choke 12 gauge magnum Browning shotgun. He smiled and just handed it over to me. "Been wantin' to get you one of these and I was down at Blakley's hardware and saw this beauty setting over there." I was in seventh-heaven that Christmas! I don't remember when I came down, but I was on cloud 9 for a long, long time. I remember he paid a whoppin' $150.00 bucks for it in 1972.
I have many stories featuring that gun, but one that Ludy reminded me of is this one: So, get your camos on and let's go.
After a couple of years of turkey hunting, before the spring season about 1974, I decided to take a pair of old camo britches I had and I made me a sho-nuff camo sock that was form-fitting around that walnut stock. It even had a little pocket on the side where I could keep my diaphragm calls. It fit perfectly, but I didn't stop there. I went on to make a separate sock that fit ever-so tightly around that long, shiney barrel all the way up to near the ejection port, and down to the end of the barrel. It fit pretty tight and I liked it. Mother thought I did an excellent sewing job too, by the way.
This was all before the days of camouflaged guns coming from the factory with their neat Real Tree images etc., but I had to have a way to be hid so the birds, with their 9-power vision, wouldn't spot the sunlight refracting off the gun as they approached. I was all set.
So we went up to Winona WMA, set up camp in the usual way and were set for a great experience. That first evening,we were lucky enough to hear some birds roost as we stopped periodically to listen. That set the tone for the next couple of days.
Now the first morning, because of the roosting, I decided to hunt way west of where we normally did. I found myself in the shadow of Flatside Pinnacle on opening day. I set up in the usual way. The birds were very vocal and responded very well to my calls. I repositioned ,myself a couple of times and got in front of them because although they were vocal, they were following the REAL hens around. Hmmm. I knew they usually followed creeks so I set up ahead of them and called every so often. They'd gobble and I could keep up with them. They got closer and closer. "This dang thang just might work out," I thought. They got THUNDEROUSLY close, but I couldn't see them.
Finally a head popped up from behind a clay root, not ten feet from me heading RIGHT FOR ME. The small talk had convinced one of the old boys to come up and investigate. I was ready. My back was against a 3-foot-wide Georgia Pine, my knees pulled up as a bi pod, my trusty Browning's 32" barrel resting between my knees, was directly lined up with this most unfortunate gobbler. This is going to be too easy. "How could I be so lucky. I'll really put it on Papa early," I thought.
I looked down that long barrel and he drummed and fanned--puttin' on a heck of a show for me. He had no CLUE I was within a quarter mile. I put the bead right on his ole red-white-blue head and pulled the trigger. KAWHAAAAAOAOOMMM!!!!!! All hell broke loose. MY GAAAWWWDUHH!!!! It was on FAUR!!! The turkey took off like a rocket, never to be seen again but I had more pressin' thangs to worry about. My gun was ablaze and smoke was so thick I thought I was shooting a damn muzzle loader!!! In total SHOCK, I looked at the browning and saw that the fine sock I'd made for the barrel was obviously just a bit too close to the muzzle of the barrel when I fired. When I shot, it actually split the sock in three pieces back four or five INCHES from the end of the barrel, and politely IGNITED it in the process!!! My GAAAAWWDDDO'MIDY! I immediately took my hat and beat the fire out with unceremonious vigor!
Looking back, I bet that was a sight to behold! It smoldered rather indignantly for the longest time. I reckon, in my mornin' chasin's, it musta worked itself a tad too close, methinks. I cussed under my breath as I headed back up to the top of the ridge, pizzed off BIG time.
As far as the bird is concerned, well, I didn't displace a SINGLE FEATHER. You see, at SIX feet, and having a 32" full choke barrel, the No. 4 turkey load had no chance to expand at ALL as it left the barrel. It was like shooting a rifle. He might be deaf, but he was certainly not injured and rocketed to the top of those 80-foot pines in a HEART-BEAT.
There I was with my new gun, my new camo sock in shreds, my ego deflated, and all of those chickens I had been counting before they hatched--completely vaporized. I can hear it now from the ole' man: "You mean to tell me you missed a big ole' gobbler at SIX feet with a 12-GAUGE MAGNUM SHOTGUN????" I felt sick already but I was gettin' ready for the razzin'.
At the dreaded camp that evening, I told Daddy this very story, complete with all the painful details and he just grinned and shook his head. Being careful not to make me feel too bad, after a long pause and watching and listening to the hickory and oak fire burning and poppin', he just said "Well son, you'll leave a lot more of 'em in the woods than you'll ever take home with you. That's turkey huntin'." He came over and just hugged me. "We'll get 'em tomorrow," he said as he readied his covers in the back of the ole' GMC. In the firelight, I took my knife and cut back the barrel sock about six inches and got rid of the ragged, ridiculous-looking mess and regrouped slowly. We soon went to bed with the pines whispering in our ears. Our conversations waned and visions of majestic toms parading before us come morning took over.
That gun went on to kill some 37 wild turkeys by my hand--most of which, well after Daddy had died in November of 1976. I would oil it just the way he did, after each hunt and put it away. It was my prize from Daddy. He knew that by buying me that Browning it would be the source of many fine memories...and it surely is. Five or six years ago I gave that gun to Tom, knowing he would forever appreciate it and take care of it and admire it. At that time, I decided to hunt strictly with a bow with the time I have left. I miss those gun-totin' days with Daddy, oh, how I miss 'em. Nevertheless, I'm havin' a ball making my own trails through the forest of Central Arkansas, having taken 14 birds with the ole' Matthews since then.
I am a blessed, blessed man folks, not to brag for sure...and I am so thankful for those memories of years past with Daddy in the woods and on the water. But I'm also thankful for those visions of "majestic toms parading before us come morning." Number 15 is right around the corner donchaknow.
I just wanted to tell you about a special Christmas and the most special old Belgium-made Browning. Thanks for comin' along. <><
aj
Great story, thanks for sharing. Please have a great Christmas! Kelley (Texas) 
It ensured that his Sweet 16 stayed 'sweet' and out of the hands of kids.
