Every fall for the past thirty-some years I’ve watched Walzie get all gobbler-eyed and strut around all excited about hunting season. He begins by going on starling patrol around the backyard. Only problem with those little feathered buggers is, shoot one and three more take its place. Next in line are the squirrels. I had to put a stop to that. I feed those little bushy-tailed critters. I don’t care if he pings a squirrel that I don’t know; just let my pet ones alone. Never mind the fact that after they empty their own feeder, they raid the birdfeeders. I even have signs that read, “Squirrels Only” and “Birds Only” – now what don’t they understand?
Anyhow, after he gets good at shooting starlings and squirrels – it’s time for the big birds. His passion: turkey hunting. Only time of the year that he can roll out of bed at 5 a.m. without groaning, slide into his camo coveralls, gently sling his Tika shotgun/rifle over his shoulder like it was a fragile baby, and off he goes into the deep forest like Elmer Fudd.
After spending all morning hunkered under a hemlock, patiently waiting for Thanksgiving Tom, he heard the leaves shuffle. His heart pounded. Two of them, with very visible beards, were strutting right towards him. Walzie aimed, held a deep breath, put the bead on the biggest bird, and WHAM! Feathers exploded. He saw only one bird glide away. Very pleased with himself, he picked his way to where he had shot. He discovered lots of feathers – but no bird. He scoured the area, kicking up leaves and tunneling through the brush. Nothing. After several hours of searching, now he was not so smug.
The disgruntled hunter decided to head for home via Dry Hollow Road in Warriors Mark. Now, Walzie has this bad habit of gawking for critters in the woods instead of watching the road; suddenly, he heard a thump. Feathers flew like confetti, and turkeys scattered in all directions.
He jumped from the truck to inspect his broken grill, and there on the ground was the biggest gobbler he’d ever seen. All right, he thought, meat on the table. So he grabbed the gobbler by the legs, tossed it on the floor of the truck, and continued down Dry Hollow Road.
As he reached the stop sign, without warning that turkey came to and flopped its way onto the seat. Walzie jumped from the truck. With a wingspan that covered the whole windshield, it flapped up onto the dash. Now, Walzie is standing outside the truck, scratching his head, thinking, “Can’t drive with a turkey bobble-head perched on my dash, what the heck am I gonna do?”
Suddenly, his light bulb lit! He stripped out of his coveralls, whipped open the door, and wrestled that turkey. He tied it up tightly inside the coveralls, and then headed for home.
Instead of parking in the garage, I heard Walzie pull his truck out back, (which is a sure sign that he’s got something).
“Hey, Hun, come on out here. Look what I got,” he shouted.
So there stands ol’ Walzie holding a live turkey, wrapped in coveralls, under his arm like he’s got a new pet. I can see the poor frightened turkey’s tongue panting through its open beak, and it blinks its eyes at me as a cry for help.
“We’ve gotta cut its feathers on one wing so it can’t fly away. I’ll hold him while you trim him.” Walzie informed me. “We’ll feed him until Thanksgiving, then wack ‘em.”
Now – I’ve got this severe bird phobia. Oh yeah, snakes, rats, spiders – no problem. But put something with feathers and a beak in front of me and I panic. (They’ll peck out your eyes, you know.) So I refused to even get near this huge, feathered peckster!
Walzie grabbed the scissors from me, carefully unwrapped the turkey and suddenly, the bird went ballistic. My husband and this big Tom turkey thrashed around the backyard like two seagulls on a French fry. All at once, the turkey flopped loose; got airborne, and soared away into the woods like an eagle.
Walzie glared at me, “Are you happy now?”
I laughed so hard my sides ached.
Guess it’ll be a BiLo Butterball this year. It’s so much easier that way.
True story!
