Hunting Memories

Chasing Turkeys With George

It's getting to be that time of year again when I think of going turkey hunting with old George.

George was my grandparent's neighbor in Pittsfield, Illinois. He drove a Cavalier Wagon that he believed could not get stuck, and depending on the time of year it would be filled with hunting and fishing odds and ends. I most vividly remember it in late spring, containing several 2x4's of varying lengths tethered together by twine and camouflage burlap, piles of odd sized hunting clothes, and a turkey decoy named Henrietta. I would wake up very early, so that the topic of the day and reason for any misfortune would not be that I slept in and made us late. Sitting on the tailgate of Pop's pickup and looking out the garage door window I'd wait for the old maroon wagon to rumble up the driveway from next door. As the garage door went up and let the cold air in the shivers would wash over me as I carried my stuff to the wagon and found a place for it in the back seat.

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The passenger door would swing open before I was given the chance to open it, and the smell of George's cigars would wash over me. I've never been fond of cigar or cigarette smoke, but I never felt reason to complain about the little cigars George lit early in the morning and chewed on until the sun went down. I never, ever saw him light one. I can see the package sitting there in the cubby hole in the dash with no more that two of the little cigars in it, half obscured by an ancient can of bug spray. Finding a place for my feet was always a bit of a challenge because there were always shell boxes and papers on the floor boards. He'd always say "Bill up? Making a pot of coffee?" I'd show him the mountain dew can that was a fixture on my person and he'd grumble about it. "Want one of these?" he'd ask as he motioned to the little brown nub that had already created a brown ring on the corner of his mouth. Many times I had considered it, but always turned him down.

Conversation for drive out to the timber almost always consisted of a combination of information gathered from the landowners and people living nearby, as well as his recollections from hunting wherever we were headed in previous years. I never got a word in. Each new piece of information that was divulged was accompanied by a sharp tap from the back of his hand to the very same spot on my upper arm, which on long rides would begin to ache. He'd always ask about the young ladies. Even though I couldn't usually see his face in the dark I knew he was giving me the eyebrows as he nudged me with his elbow and inquisitive "Eh? Eh?" Every time we went hunting it was to a different spot usually quite a ways outside of Pittsfield, and even though the heater was always blasting I'd shiver. Sometimes the moon was still up and it would illuminate the roadsides. The cornfields and stock lots gave way to hilly tall grass pasturelands and deep hollows as we grew nearer to the destination. George always had his speculations about the day based on what the weather man said and what he'd heard about at coffee the week before, and they'd pour from him as the sun drew nearer to the horizon.

The road always ended in the grey light just before the sun began to color the sky. George would put out his cigar and pop it back in his mouth. He'd fling the door open, wrestle to get to his feet, slam the car door so hard I wondered if it would ever open again, and then cut loose with an often surprising imitation of a barred owl that always ended with a big hacking cough. Whether it caused a turkey to shock gobble or not, and it often did, there would be a motion and he would rasp "Over there!" He'd call me to the back of the wagon and begin hastily loading our gear into my outstretched arms. While I struggled to contain and carry everything George would get a head start and continue his long gargling "Whoo-ah's" as he went. It didn't matter where the toms called back from, he'd always already have a good spot picked out.

On one particular morning we'd set up our little blind in the lowest corner of a newly planted bean field. Though he remembered the location and previous hunts well, George could never remember which trees were the best to lean on. We would set the blind up in the dark at least once before thinking better of our situation and moving it. As the sun came up and lit the the thin clouds I could finally see Old Zebrun. Not having the mindset of young hunters like myself, George never even considered matching his camouflage to the season or situation. He wore the large blotchy patterns from before hunting was big business. Guys my age call those patterns "Old Skool" and wear them for fun and to pay homage to our hunting forefathers. From any number of his pockets would come calls to be arranged around us so that they were easily found by feeling when taking our eyes off the bird wasn't an option. He had box calls, and friction calls, locators, you name it. Most he'd saved from hunting buddies, and most made an awful thin sound since they were usually handled incorrectly or had been wet. One thing about George's turkey hunting collection amazed and baffled me more than anything else. Henrietta. She was an old, and I mean right after they were carved out of wood old, hen decoy with real skin and feathers stretched over it. I have no doubt that the entire thing was older than I was. Truth be told it looked like hell, but I doubt an amorous tom thought twice about the possibilities. She always seemed to do her job except for when I was around. Stage fright, I suppose. Across his knees lay an old single shot twenty gauge. He liked it because it was light and he knew just how to hold the bead in every situation. There hadn't been a great deal of activity on this morning, and it was soggy and cold. Behind us in the timber two small creeks came together and created a good sized pool at the base of an oak tree before meandering off to parts unknown as one. From my very low vantage point I'd always try to get a lay of the land without moving two quickly or sticking my head up. This usually got me pretty familiar with anything closer than twenty feet that wasn't in the field ahead of us. There George would sit next to me seemingly watching an invisible gobbler and clucking every now and then on one of his calls, his glassy eyes peering through his face net. Laying there on the ground as the sun came up, burning off the haze and warming the air, I was helpless to fend off sleep's embrace.

After nodding off and on for most of the morning, at half after nine I heard the distinct wing beats and a cluck behind us as a bird hopped across the nearest creek. I gathered that it was a hen making her way out to the field, and as long as we kept quiet she'd keep Henrietta company and help our situation. George had not heard her, which was perfectly understandable because he was into his eighties. Fifteen or twenty minutes later he batted me hard with the back of his arm and growled loudly and quickly "Jeez Ch... T'ere's a hen o'er here! T'ree o clock!" He didn't hear her leave, either. We spent the next hour waiting for her to come out into the field with the tom that George was certain was courting her. I sat there knowing better, but didn't want to tell him as he did his very best to coax the nonexistent tom out to the field edge. At about eleven George told me to take my gun and sneak around behind him. Anyone who's been in the turkey woods knows that there is no sneaking after the sun comes up, and I'm sure he knew that. He just wanted me to jump something. After Elmer Fudding my way through the timber for half an hour I reported back. George told me to go ahead and walk around a bit. "Take your time, I'll get all this gathered up and meet you back at the car." He did this no matter where we hunted. It was usually my favorite part because it gave me a chance to look for antlers and mushrooms on unfamiliar ground. Once back to the car we'd sit and chat about anything I'd found or seen while he finished his cold coffee and I opened the soda I hadn't quite gotten to on the ride out. At this point there was only one thing on his mind: a ham and cheese from Hardee's. He always accented both syllables, like if you were saying RD's. I went with George many times, but it just never seemed to come together. I didn't mind a bit. All he wanted was for me to get my gobbler.

The last time I spoke to George I was home from for a visit from living in Alabama. He was seeing double. A growth far up in his nasal cavity was putting pressure on both his eyes, and he would be having it out soon. George told me many times, sometimes it seemed like every third sentence, that at his age there was no sense in slowing down. The day he stopped "going" would be the day that he kicked his bucket. He proved his belief and resolve to uphold it when he broke his foot squirrel hunting and never thought twice about having it casted. He just kept on going. As I've been told, and this information made it to me through the intricate system of small town conversation, George's surgery went off pretty much without incident. The doctor asked him to take it easy for a few weeks, but George said no. The doctor asked for a week. George said no. Seeing that he obviously wasn't going to come out ahead in the argument, the doctor pleaded for just a few days. George obliged, and spent the day after his surgery taking it easy. Taking it easy didn't sit well with him. The next morning he was up early and off to Coffee at Hardee's. He hopped in his wagon and off he went. He walked in, greeted the crowd, ordered his cup, and as he walked back to sit and gossip with all those in attendance he had a stroke. When he came to in the hospital the next day, or maybe the day after that, he was thoroughly aggravated. Having lost his power of speech and most of the use of one side it was clear to him that "going" was no longer an option. He made his wishes clear by withdrawing the IV's and tubes without proper medical assistance more than once.

I think back to that last conversation. Before I opened the glass door to Pop's garage I could see him musing to Pop while twiddling his thumbs and inspecting the state of his finger nails.There he sat in the chair nearest the east door in the afternoon light with one leg propped up on the other and a ring around the cigar nub hanging from the corner of his mouth. On his feet were grey shoes with two velcro straps, and sticking up from those below his short pant legs were what could only be mismatched socks. He wore a splotchy olive drab t-shirt with a few holes near the tail from carrying a leaky battery to his john boat some years past. He'd lift up a worn out Pheasants Forever hat he'd gotten free at a banquet to scratch the permanently tanned bald head he kept underneath it. As I opened the door he greeted me with a big smile, asked me how living down south was, and if I caught any good fish or seen any pretty girls on the beach. He updated me on all the goings on since I'd left early in January, commented about shifts in the weather at length, and proclaimed that he was happy because it was finally going to stay warm. When he wasn't telling a story or talking about his pals at the DNR office or about his cat Zoey, he was ribbing Pop about not going fishing with him enough. Pop would just sit and chuckle and shake his head as he fiddled with bits of a small engine he was fixing for poke money. After BS'ing for awhile I hesitantly asked George how he was doing, having heard of his predicament before my arrival from my grandparents. He said he was seeing doubles. "Two of everything past three feet out" he stated matter-of-factly. I asked doubtfully how his turkey season went. He told me who he'd hunted with and how the weather had been. He told about where they'd hunted and about the things they'd seen and heard, knowing fully well that he was skirting the answer I was really after. With a bright twinkle in his eye and a grin he finally said he'd helped a few guys get their bird, and filled both of his tags doing it. Incredulously, I asked how? His grin grew into as big a smile as I'd ever seen on his face, the little nub nearly loosing it's footing on his lip. He laughed loudly and said "Dammit, I shot t' one on the right!"

So there he sat, so pleased with himself and my reaction in the fleeting warmth of a late May afternoon. And there old George Zebrun will sit until I no longer have the luxury of memory, teasing Pop and smiling with that little cigar nub and tobacco ring in the corner of his mouth.

Judd McCullum