Short Story of Hunt:

Twofer One Newt, "The Closer"

Got to say, even though my 2006 turkey season has been one of my best, it was lackin' some of the joy I always look forward to and that was some time in the woods with my boy, Will. Ya see he took up the sport of paintballin' right before the season and was head over heels with it. Made a website for his team, had a sponsor, whole nine yards. Even was makin' a little dough, buyin' and sellin' paintball equipment. That, with baseball season made for little time in the woods. Just between you and me, I believe, for Will it takes a bit of mind manipulation to get in the mood to go trampsin' through the woods with ol' Dad. He knows he'll get his legs plum walked off and ah huntin' we will do. He won't admit it but I'd bet he don't enjoy those long walks as much as I.

I haven't really pressured him into going although I did give him a bit of a hard time for skatin' out on one planned four day hunt in mid-season. I think it may be good that he not get addicted like his ol' man, at least not at the young age of 14. Heck, if he gets auge fit fever like me, he's likely to never get anything accomplished. Yet, when he announced paintballin' was too expensive and that he wanted to hunt the last four days of the season, I was thrilled. Didn't hold out much hope for turkey action, as I hadn't heard a gobbler in a couple weeks and those I heard were right before the shotgun blast of another hunter.

Not to worry though, it was a full moon weekend and the bream should be beddin', had some good ponds to fish and fishin' has always been our game ever since he hooked a nice 3 pounder at the age of 3. Even though it got off at the boat, I can still remember his excitement and his immediate words, "I gotta tell Mama 'bout that". After all, we are the BOOYA Boys, phishin' buddies for eber and eber, another sayin' we always have said since way back when he couldn't even talk clearly.

So off we left on Thursday for a 3 day, maybe 4, father and son adventure at Redbeard's Roost. I think he was lookin' forward to seein' the new shower I'd fashioned and all the other improvements, such as a genuine fire pit and the new "totem" pole.

We get there early enough to scout and even though it'd rained, we couldn't find a turkey track anywhere. Friday morn proved that again with nothing but silence. Took him to another nearby club and no luck there either. Nothin' happened that morning 'cept a good nap in the woods. He woke up from a sure enough good 'un and marveled at the trees and immediately said, "Man, I love sleepin' in the woods". Like Father, like son.

Afternoon came around and we stopped by a friends home and asked permission to fish which was easily granted, even could work a bird if we lucked up on seein' one in his tree orchards. So fishin' was the order of the day for the remaining four hours of daylight and I was eager to win the golden dollar.

See, ever since they came out with that golden dollar with the Indian maiden that helped Lewis and Clark discover the Northwest, we've always said the first catch or kill of the day gets the golden dollar. I tell ya, I got a leather sack full of them dollars earmarked for Will when I pass from this world. I hope he can just hold that bag, feel it's weight and recall all the grand days afield we've had together.

Sure enough, spinner baits were the order of the day for bass and I hooked the first of those fighters. HA! I gloated that I was a little richer now and smiled at Will. He said, "What?". I said, "I just got the golden dollar", with a chit eatin' grin. He said, "Dangit", smiled and sorta sulked a bit. That is until he remembered he'd shot the armadillo's that mornin'. I laughed and said, "Yeah but I handed ya the .410 and then you shot it". He laughed and smiled bigtime sayin' "Don't matter none, I killed the first 'diller." Well, he had me. Even stevens for the day.

We wrapped up the day with a quarter basket of bass and bream. I anguished over the best of a 5 pounder that got away at the boat, as we left the kissed two pounder's off for freedom at the boat trailer. You know you gotta kiss a bass you let go iffn you ever wanna catch him again, don't ya? We sacked up the remainin' bream for fish fry later.

Twas a good Friday, indeed, as we closed out the evening over a nice small fire on a usually cool evening. The moon was beautiful that clear sky night and Will told me all about the Harvest moon, whilst the whippoorwills serenaded us with their never ceasin' calls o' de night.

Saturday rise and shine came a short four or five hours later and Will sleepily laced up my old Russell boots he grew into this year, abandoning those ol' clodhopper ground thumpin' Rocky boots he used to say were so much better than Russell's. Just a side note that's crossed my mind a time or two and I think I'll use the above as a lead in tip for any aspirin' turkey hunters readin' this; Go buy you a pair of footwear that allows you to feel the ground as you walk and I guarantee ya, you will become a better turkey hunter.

I've hunted with a far too many men that wear their deer huntin' boots or those so-called Rocky turkey hunters and Ah'll swar by hook that ever turkey in the woodz can hear them comin'. Plus, when ye get as old and poor of hearin' as me, you'll see that your feet need to get quiet in order to hear those turkey birds.

Always told the boy that woodsmanship should come first in his skills, the rest will follow. And I must say, after 6 years of trampsin' the woods he's a pretty good Indian.

Once in the woods we set out for this beautiful abandoned pecan grove whilst offerin' crow calls, cuttin', etc. to try and get a gobble. Nothin', not a peep. Will was more than disappointed that the birds weren't talkin' and he fully realized that he shoulda come earlier in the season. We found lots of fresh scratchin' in the oaks surroundin' the meadows and vowed to be back there Sunday morn. We'd just have to get up earlier to make the 2 mile walk. Will mentioned the walk back would suck after I'd said, "Now, that walk wasn't so bad, was it?" I replied, 'Hell, we're huntin' ain't we? What's so dang hard about puttin' one foot in front of the other?". Makes no sense to me at all, hear it all the time, "Dang, you walked a long ways or How'd you get back here?"

I showed Will a turkey track and asked him, "Now how in the world woulda we seen this if we'd been in the truck?" He nodded agreement and only mentioned he wished they'd talk back to us. Yeah buddie, me too, I thought.

We moseyed back the 2 miles to the truck and about two hundred yards from the truck I hear a four wheeler comin'. That always gets under my skin, here I've walked a country mile and some yahoo's comin' down the woods road on a dang ol' four wheeler. I told Will to follow me and we stepped inside the wood line and let him pass. I don't even wanna talk to 'em. It was Todd, a deer hunter down to bait deer with salt blocks and the like. He passes and we get to the truck and agree on a bacon and dirty egg breakfast back at camp.

Will fried up some tasty Boar's Head bacon and I whipped up some fine scrambled eggs and we cleaned house. Short nappin' followed until we hooked up the Skiff again for another evenin' of fishin'.

We had two choices of ponds, either go back to Alan's or try the Land Of Promise pond behind camp. It's a nice old lake from probably pre-civil war days.

An old white columned mansion sits above it that was once the Yankee's hospital. I hear those Culloden soldiers were a tough outfit. Musta hurt up some of those Yanks when they were trekkin' to Macon. Anyhoo, it's now a retreat for recoverin' drug addicted poor ol' souls of the Negro race.

Mostly city fellas that have taken the Lord as their savior and come to this small farm to repent, learn how to survive via hard work and such. They grow their own food, slop their own pigs, butcher their own beef. Just become good ol' country folk, hopefully.

The place has got it all right there for them. Even has a prayin' wall just behind our property line. A concrete brick wall with a marbled cross. You can hear them sometimes just ah wailin' away at the wall, clear down the line three miles to camp. They also have a place my friend Cornbread say's ain't right, says it must be haint'd 'er somethin' fishy 'bout it since it's way back hidden by pines on all sides.

What it is, is the shape of the cross Jesus died on in a short pine forest. It's got three old wooden crosses in the middle with many many little white crosses at the ends. My friend George was the first to notice the grassy parts amongst the pines was shaped also like a cross. After that, it made sense.

Brings to mind a good hearty laugh I had at Cornbread's comment when we saw a fellow turkey huntin' just off the side of the main cross. He said as we passed, "There's a fella sittin' against a pine out there". That's all he said. Struck me as odd, so I backed up and sure enough, Earl Mickel was sittin' agin a pine in the wide open, all camoed up and turkey huntin'.

Twern't really Earl but Bread said he sure looked like Earl looks when he's huntin'. I told Bread, "You didn't say he was camoed, I wouldn't backed up", as he promptly got up once he knew he'd been spied. I busted a gut, when Bread exclaimed, "Heck, if he hadn't been in camo, I'd be outta hyar. Dang spooky is what this is, way back hidden in the woods". I fear Bread's seen too many Klan movies and such.

Never had seen anyone turkey huntin' that land and never had even seen any turkeys on it either, not in 13 years of huntin' this land. Bread said it was good reason too, turkey gobblers were scart of the place. Figured they'd be sacrificed 'er something.

To close out this little sidebar tale of the Promise Land, last weekend I was headin' out to the main dirt road via the gas line road, which twists and turns throughout the cross.

I see this truck coming from the Promise Land and this ol' colored feller stops and nicely asks me if it was me that's been drivin' back through here. I told him yes, that I turkey hunted the property on the other side and since the timber company sold the land, the other clubs had dropped our lock off the chain earlier in the season. I told him I liked to come to Culloden via the back way from time to time and until I could get the lock back on, the gas line was the only way. He was quite understandin' and I got to askin' 'bout fishin' the pond next weekend with my boy. Asked if they still let folks fish. He said yes and for me to just let 'em know Charlie gave me permission. That was good, cuz you usually gotta stop at the office and make a donation.

Last donation I gave them was 'bout 6 years past, when I donated a whole basket of bass me and one of those addicts caught in about 4 hours of fishing. I swear we caught a 100 bass or more than day. That basket was slam to the top with bass. I told Richard I needed to get gone to roost a bird and we trailer'd my boat and he showed me the way to the cookhouse. They dumped all those bass into a big ol' bucket and not one of them offered me a single bass. I didn't mind, I enjoyed the banter they started up in amazement of the number of fish. They was going on 'bout how Richard was the King of the lake now. Heckfire, they thoughts they was only catfish and carp in dat lake.

I took my empty basket, thank'd 'em for the permission and went and kilt me a nice double bearded tom than eve. Named him King Richard in honor of my fishin' buddie of the day.

Dang, I get side tracked reminiscin', don't I? Well, I said dat to say dis, I asked Charlie if he remembered Richard and he said he probably did but there were far too many folks passin' thru the Land of Promise to remember many. I then asked if this nice deer stand was theirs that was just inside their property off the line. He said no, it was a fella's they let deer hunt. That response was a great lead in for my next question, "Mind if I get after a turkey, iffn I see one up there", I slyly slipped in. He said, it was alright by him, just tell 'em Charlie said it was ok, if asked. I thanked him bigtime and headed off to Culloden.

Now that ya'll know all that and the story behind the Land of Promise, back to the question at hand, which lake to fish? Will said Alan's with half arsed enthusiasm. Believe the boy was tired, real tired. Ever time the truck was on pavement, he was snoozin'. So Alan's it was to be, which would prove to be prophetic.

Spinner's hitting the bank again and I again got first fish. Ah ha, golden dollar time again. Will just mutter'd some cussin' and swarin' while shakin' his noggin' in disbelief. Mentioned something 'bout takin' trollin' motor foot operation classes when he got back home, something 'bout the front of the boat. Boy's getting quick on me, dat's for certain.

That afternoon was fine for bassin' but poor for bream. I hooked a good 7 pounder that I carelessly lost at the second jump. Geehebubamus, was he a big ol' bucketmouth. Will was more upset than I, as that one woulda made the stringer of memories I have planned to bestow upon him one day. Dang, more I think about it, the more I shake my head too. But that's phishin'.

A good four pounder made up for it later and we boated that bad boy. Will wanted to keep him to eat and we might have if I'd remembered my filet knife. Let me tell ya, right here and now, a bowie knife just ain't cut out for a filet knife job. Proved that the night before beheadin' those bream.

We took pics and released him for a fight another day. Got the boat back on and eased out into the orchards, bangin' that boat all the way on the rough dirt roads. Now comes the part that really perked up the boy, the tale of "Joe Dirt, The Good Day Gobbler."

Just as we turned the corner into the orchard what did we spy but a huge tom in full strut for three hens. Two jakes accompanied him, flankin' both sides of the boss. Sorta bodyguards, I reckon. The truck seemed not to bother any of them. Alan doesn't turkey hunt and I reckon they see a lot of human activity on the tree farm. But we were caught just the same. Couldn't get out of the truck, so we just watched them. He was a beautiful strutter. Red, white, and blue adorned his top like the brightest flag you've ever seen. Took a good hour for them to feed to the wood line.

Whilst we watched I told Will to come up with a name for him, as we'd definitely be at his doorstep in the morn. Ended up taggin' the bird with a handle Will had used to describe his look after I made him tuck his hair behind his ears. "You look stupid with long hair in front of your ears, dem ears stickin' out. Fold that crap 'round the back of your ears, boy", I jokingly said. He did and commented he looked like he had a mullet going on, like Joe Dirt. HA! So, the tom would become known as Joe Dirt, the Good Day Gobbler, as this turned out to be a good day, indeed.

Once Joe Dirt flew to roost, just into the heavily foliaged oaks along the orchard, we got out and enjoyed a beer and a short coke, waiting for dark thirty to insure he didn't change trees. The next really stood the hair up on Will's arms. Mine too.

It commenced to lightening and thunderin' something fierce. With every thunder boom, ol' Joe would holler his lungs out. Dang good gobble too. He musta gobbled 30 times in a 30 minute span. Only thing he didn't gobble at was some peacock down the road. Everything else, he roared, including gunfire from way off.

All was fine and dandy at that point, then Will said, "What's that". I spy it right away and dang if I could figure it out. Big ol' black and white tail, solid black body. First thought was a fox squirrel, then his actions weren't right for a squirrel. He never hopped or took notice of the barkin' I tried to pull off. Will got the nocs out and dang if it wasn't a pole cat. Right smack dab in front of where the gob was. Uh uh, that ain't good. I'm a pro at smellin' those, growin' up on a poultry farm and all. I told Will, we better watch our step in the morn or we'll be smellin' to the high heavens.

Once dark thirty fell, we eased out and headed to camp. Fire was cut short by a pretty good downfall of rain that evenin' and we called it a night early with expectations of being under that tom a good half hour before day break.

I musta been more excited than Will cuz I woke every hour on the hour after a possum outside my window awoke me at 1:30 am. He musta been gettin' his daily fix of Mountain Dew Will had left over, as he was bangin' cans bigtime. Sugar drunk possum's make a racket, I'm here to tell ya. 'Bout 4 am, he woke me up again and I told Will it's time.

We gave ourselves plenty of time that morn and a good thing too. Once we got right to where the tom flew up at, we couldn't find a place to set up. A little island of bushes, poison ivy, couple of oaks was just outside where Joe was sleepin' but Will gets that stuff easy.

Couldn't even make it into the woods due to a bunch of tangled masses of vines. We were at a loss. Out in the orchard some great big holes were about three foot deep, once home to some good size maples. I told Will to get down in one and see how it fit him. He obliged and dang near sunk arse deep in water. Evidently the irrigation lines were still feedin' those holes.

Day was breakin' fast, so I set him just in front of the tom against a small maple with some sort of bush in front of it. He could see all the open areas from that vantage but there was no room for me. Will said I should move and quick. So I melted into the ivy patch. Couldn't see Will but could see where the hens had flown up.

Morning was met with a multitude of thunderous gobbles from Joe Dirt. If he gobbled once, he gobbled dang near 150 times. At one point I expected him to fall right off the limb from the lack of oxygen after a series of gobbles one after another. A good thirty minutes passed while he hollered his lovesick squalls.

Next thing I hear is a gobbler on the ground a good 100 yards down the wood line away from Will. I hadn't heard any fly downs, so I'm thinkin' maybe it's another gobbler coming in. I don't move, just wait for an expected gunshot.

A hen pitches down right in front of me and goes to feedin'. The tom is still gobblin' down the line. My thoughts fade to it being Joe Dirt. Not good. The hen feeds out far enough for Will to see and I'm hoping he sees her. 'Bout that time, that hen gets real alert and I start purrin' and cluckin' tryin' to calm her down.

I'm hoping if she stays there the tom will come our way. Well, she was having none of a sister in an ivy bush, so she started hot footin' it toward the tom. I threw out a loud putt hopin' she'd turn and head the other way, but no luck.

A few minutes later another hen starts her pitch down and abruptly uplifts again and sails to a far away tree. I'm thinkin' Will's up and moving, so I get up and ease out into the orchard. Will's amblin' back my way all wet and disheveled. I ask him if he saw that hen that just bolted towards him and he tells me she ran right past him at ten yards, got in front of the gobbler and took him off into a clear cut.

Then Will filled me in on the happenin's. And they were some more happenin's too. Will's sittin' there listening to all the mornin' music from Joe Dirt, at the ready for his shot at his first longbeard. Hearts pumpin' hard with every gobble.

If that ain't enuff to stir the blood, the two big red foxes gallopin' right past him into the woods right towards the gobbler, shoulda caused him to have a small stroke. He thought about shootin' one but decided correctly and didn't for fear of messin' up the tom. He said he heard the tom pitch down and the next thing he saw was Joe Dirt come out in full blown strut with the two jakes at his sides. Problem was it was 100 yards down the orchard and they headed the other way. The distance didn't ease his heart beat any though. Joe strutted and gobbled, just doin' the figure eight in about a ten yard space, waitin' for his hens.

Will makes up his own mind to see if he can use the holly bush row to close the distance and starts a belly crawl keeping the bushes between him and the toms.

Unbeknownst to him, that hen was watchin' him and dang it all, reckon it was because it was Mother's Day that gave that hen the courage to save the day for Joe Dirt and perhaps their offspring from last season.

She certainly did something I've never seen. She hauled butt right past crawlin' Will and started puttin' as she passed her family and they wasted no time in following. Will was just returnin' from his adventure when I eased in view.

I must say the boy took it well. Seemed like a sure thing, seemed like slingin' bird would definitely be the order of the morning. I was proud nonetheless, for Will's remarks and actions proved to me he was well on his way to truly enjoying the sport of turkey hunting.
He wasn't sullen, depressed, mad, or disappointed. All he could remark on was how hard and fast his heart started beatin' when Joe popped out of the woods in full strut.

I gave him a pat on the shoulder and mentioned he got the best outta the bird and he was still alive for another hunt. He agreed but did admit he wanted to do the dead bird rodeo. HA!

We rounded the property in search of Joe and his clan but found nothing. Rather than stay and bugger them up, we headed to Huddle House and hatched plans to skip school and work for another try Monday.

After a warm dry breakfast, poor ol' Will dozed immediately once Lorrie Darlin' hit the pavement. I ran into Ben on the way back and stopped to tell him the tales. He said he'd heard nuthin' nor seen nuthin' and was callin' it a season. I bid him farewell and decided to take the back way into the property via the Land of Promise.

As I enter the pipeline road, I spy a hen out in the stubble field up from the prayin' wall. Noc's told me she was the same hen I'd been seeing over in the food plot. She was never scared of my truck. I eased on thru Bread's favorite haunt. Just clearing the crosses, what do I see but a 55 gallon drum dancin' out behind the prayin' wall.
Sure enough, looked to be ol' Moses the Holy Roller tom I'd missed earlier in the season, showin' off for three hens. Will was groggy but awake when he looked thru the nocs at him. He excitedly said, "Heck, he's bigger than Joe Dirt." Ol' Moses wore his beard in a nice fashion that actually made it appear very long. Ol' grey beard too.

I asked Will, "Wanna hunt him"? , it was drizzin' rain now. He said, "Shoot yeah, I'm already wet." So we ease the truck outta sight, which may have spooked his hens, as we saw them depart into the woods. No fear, I figure they are headin' to feed in the wheat anyway.

So food plot bound we are, we run off a hen while setting up but still no worries. Calling sparingly, I could tell Moses was still struttin' his buns off somewhere near, as his drum filled the misty air. Hour and a half passes and nothing. Now I'm wet and miserable and what does Will say? "Let's round 'em and see if we can find him." HA! Dang, I've created a turkey hunter for sure, ain't I?

Well, I know the land real well, so we rounded the long field and came in via the back side. We spy a large hen out in the middle just preening. We sneak up and get set for another hour wait for no show Moses. It's rainin' a bit harder now and the sky is darkenin'.
I'm about ready for Camp Redbeard myself but decide another vision of the prayin' wall is in order. Easin' 'round the hedgerow, I glass the field and see nuthin'. Pannin' right to the nice stand of tall pines, nicely manicured, I see the 55 gallon drum movin' thru the pines. Yeah buddie………..No buddie.

Good Lord evidently figured if we were to take Moses from the Land Of Promise, then we'd have to earn it as the skies opened wide and the floods from Noah drowned us and the heavy rain blackened our vision as well.

We sopped our way to the truck and I removed all my turkey callin' neckwear, put on a dry shirt. Dried and oiled up Will's gun and we waited the storm out. Poor Will was cold, wet and shiverin', dang near whipped. He had no extra camo. He did put on a dry t-shirt under his camo shirt though.

The deluge of rain didn't last long and the sun broke up the clouds. Will asked, "Now what". I said, "Well, I'm gonna ease up to the top of the hill and see if I can see 'em". I figured they would have flown up in those pines and waited it out also. I told Will he could come if he wanted to but I was coming back if I didn't see 'em. Dang if the wet soul didn't follow me, gun in hand.

Noc's were empty but since Will was at my side with gun in hand, I figured one more roundin' was in order. We were both wet ducks, sloshin' pant legs for the whole world to hear. Will's Russell's were boat shoes to say the least.
None the wiser, onward we trudged.

We had three cut roads, more like grass paths, thru the short pines to choose from and picked the middle path. As we headed down hill, Will gravely asked, "Do you think we have a chance?" I paused and considered the shape we were in and replied, "Yeah, I think we do, they are probably just makin' a big circle to get to the food plots. Let's go down this road and if we don't see 'em we'll call it quits". He cut me a half arsed believin' look and followed. 'Bout fifty more yards, I put Will to a halt by my side and whispered, "There he is". I saw wing and breast but no beard. It seemed just to be standing and preening. I felt certain that it had to be one of those three hens.

Mother Nature had placed the perfect brush pile between the pines she was standing behind and Will insisted on trying to edge closer than I had wanted, to a pine with no obstruction around it. We eased quietly into place and I readied the call I'd borrowed from Will's vest, a Graveyard glass slate and hickory peg from Primos. I'd left all my calls and vest in the truck when I changed shirts. Didn't even have a diaphragm.

One by one, the hens moved into view with one nailin' us to the very pine us two stump headed fools were sittin' against.

Me just over Will's shoulder on the back side of this skinny pine and him musta looked like a mess of weeds and grasses pretty well cuz she eased into her comfort zone when steady Will, with gun at ready, moved not a muscle nor blinked nary an eye. I'd told Will that the pretty purple and white flower 'bout 5 or 10 yards in front of the birds was his range. The tom would have to come to that mark before he could shoot. Come he did, but not far enough. He strutted, twirled and glorified that dome of his with the brightest of white while his neck, cheeks and waddle made up the rest of ol' glory. God, he was a site for happy eyes. Not a bit wet, either. His feathers glistened in the sunlight. His beard bounced as he danced, causing much anxiety to our impatient souls.

The hens actions made me uncomfortable as they seemed to be pointed up the third cut road thru the pines, so I started purrin' and cluckin' on the slate Leland Keith made and gave to Will, free of charge. A good man was that Leland. I only wish he were alive to see Will and his bird. Would be our first using Leland's Graveyard Calls. Only problem I had was the hickory peg was slightly damp and I couldn't get any volume out of it.
I planned on pullin' a loud putt out of it at the opportune moment and that moment was coming fast as our anxiety was getting the best of us. Me mostly, I must confess.

One hen passed by probably at the range of 40-45 yards, I was going to chance it and told Will to be sure to get the red level and between the green and on his head. I tried to anticipate his crossing in the brief opening the hen had just went by and desperately tried to get a putt outta that peg but no luck. So I started poppin' with my lips, probably sounded like a dodo bird but one hen did raise her head. The tom unfortunately strutted his way by on the other side of the brush.

I keep cluckin' and purrin' and the hens did take notice of the calling and that may have been our saving grace. For the next time we caught glimpse of them, they were 30 yards out behind some thick brush.

Again, the hens crossed in plain view, one after another. Folks, know I was dang near 'bout bustin' a heart vessel in my chest with my heart beating so fast. Will's breath was short and fast, I could feel his excitement heaving via our touching shoulders. Out pops Moses in half strut, head poked out enough for a steady shot. Will looks steady, I'm whisperin' shoot him, shoot him.

Boyz, I oughta learn some self control cuz I hurried the boy when it wasn't necessary and once he shot, it appeared Moses lunged forward instead of rollin' over. I hollered, "Shoot him again", but instinctively took off like a bat outta hades and accordin' to Will, went airborne about 5 yards from the wing walkin' tom and landed belly square on top of him.

Later, Will laughingly said the tom probably died from a heart attack seein' me sailin' thru the air like a cat. I laughed and told the boy, "I can move pretty quick fer a fat boy, can't I?" He said, "Shoot, it was like I shot you outta the gun, I didn't even have time to shuck another shell in".

It was all well and good, dead bird rodeo time, no doubt. The sharp spurred boss of the Holy Lands got me pretty dang good on the back side of my knuckles. Will's shot mussed his feathers up a bit and my Bubba Smith tackle done some damage too. Never the less, the boy had his first longbeard, third lifetime turkey and during the last weekend of the season, same as his first two.

Gonna give him a new nickname, "The Closer", no more "Left-Eye Blind" for Will. "Left-Eye Blind" ye say? Reckon I'll leave that lay for another tale, although it be a good 'un.

No doubt about him livin' right, to be able to go the last weekend on a club I've dang near chased or kilt every turkey off of 'tis surely a sign of livin' right by the very Lord we thanked graciously for our blessing in granting us the privilege of takin' one of His finest creations.

The walk back to the truck was one surely turkey huntin' Dads treasure; rebel yellin', thankin' the Lord and for some reason sangin' some of the Dukes of Hazzard theme song, "Just good ol' boys………".

Ol' Moses the Holy Roller boss of the Promise Lands weighed out at 18 pounds and 4 ozs. Sported a nice thick grey beard of 9.5 inches with some beard rot beginning. One sharp arse spur grew to 1 ¼" and the other needle was 1 and 3/16". Dang sure 'nuff trophy, no doubt.

Know what else? Will evened up the golden dollar score for the weekend, as he won back his golden dollar. HA! Yeah man, good day for sure, be callin' my buddro Bread fer a trophy mount for sure.

Thanks ya'll for lettin' a proud Daddy boast. I know I rambled a bit in this story but it is what it is and a tale that I'm proud of havin' the privilege of telling.