Unto Our Children's Children


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Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are old, they will not turn from it. Proverbs 22:6

Turkey hunting has taken me many places that I likely never would have visited, afforded me relationships I, otherwise, never would have had, and has absolutely changed the trajectory of my life, for better or worse. I owe every last second of these treasured experiences, first and foremost, to my Lord and Savior. He saw fit to provide me with a father who prioritized taking me to the woods with him. My dad was solely responsible for sparking the fire that burns so intensely inside of me when I was a very young boy, just as his dad had done with him when he was yet a child.

In the fast pace of today’s society, often times I cannot even recall what I had for breakfast this morning, but thinking back on the many experiences I had following my dad through the woods as a young boy, I can still remember what the timber looked like in specific places, I can remember certain folds in the landscape, I even had certain areas that appealed to me more than others- my “favorite spots” so to speak, even at very young age. I can remember walking what, at the time, seemed like thousands of miles following along in his footsteps, dragging my feet and breaking way too many sticks as I tried desperately to keep up. Feet draggin’s and stick breakin’s that I was regularly scolded for along the way. There was no way for me to understand at the time, but these scoldings were crucial. He did not scold me because he was mad, upset, or really even the least bit frustrated with me. He scolded me because of something deeper. This was serious- a right of passage in our lineage. The way he saw it, he had been entrusted with setting the default within the little boy who followed along behind him. A little boy who would carry on a legacy, a heritage that had been passed down to him many years before, and he felt the pressures of the expectations placed on him to teach me the right way, and he scolded me because he wanted me to be better, and looking back, I am so grateful that he did. 

The following is a detailed recount of the spring morning that this fire was ignited inside of me. Because of many reasons in addition to those listed above, having this story on paper to reflect upon is something that I treasure most dearly, and as anyone who truly “gets it” can understand this story is very emotional for me to read, no matter how many times I have been through it from start to finish. Dad, I know I have told you many times before, but thank you so much for taking on the responsibility to pass on this legacy, for taking me turkey hunting at a very young age, for empowering me to uphold our heritage, and for teaching me the way that you were taught to hunt- the right way. I love you and I can never tell you how blessed and thankful I am that God chose me to be your son.   

Bob Persons – April 1993

The turkey’s distant wind-blown gobble was faint, but clearly audible through the cool morning air. “Did you hear that?” I asked Matt. He nodded his head yes. “Come on,” I said, “we’ve got to move some if we are gonna kill this turkey.” Matt stood up from his tree and looked up at me, his bright blue eyes shined over top of the half mask. He had been admonished to walk quiet and say nothing. Even though he had fifty questions, he didn’t say a word. He’d been on scouting trips with me before, but he’d never actually heard a wild turkey gobble, except on hunting videos. This was certainly much more exciting than any video he had seen. 

Matt and I walked quietly down the old logging road until it teed into another. At this junction, there was a clearing where the landowner had cut a small patch of timber that had suffered a bark beetle infestation. I motioned for Matt to stop near a large pine tree. We both put our backs against the tree and stood motionless. Soon the turkey gobbled again- much louder this time but verified that he was on the other side of the clearing. The turkey gobbled again, slightly muted compared to the one prior. “The turkey is already on the ground.” I whispered. “He’s on that ridge right across the cutover. We really need to get on the ridge with him. We can follow this road up the hill and cut back above him. He should come up the hill to us. Be quiet now and watch for sticks.” Matt fell in behind me as I started up the road, dutifully watching for sticks, as instructed. Two hundred yards up the hill, we turned off the woods road and into the stand of timber taking a heading directly toward the turkey, who was gobbling almost constantly. I paused briefly to wait for Matt, whose short legs and desire to be quiet had both begun to tire.

“Ok, we want to sound like a couple of hen turkeys walking through the woods. We’ll go a little further and find a place to setup.” I whispered to Matt. He nodded in assent. He knew from listening to the stories told by his uncles, his grandfathers, and myself, and from the hunting tapes he watched that now was one of the most important times in the hunt. He’s heard and seen stories about turkeys being lost due to the hunter “being setup wrong”. The turkey gobbled again, now only about a hundred fifty yards separated us. We moved to the spine of the ridge to listen again. His next gobble showed that we had gone slightly past the turkey, but more importantly, we were a little above him. 

As Matt caught up from behind again, I gave him the signal to be quiet then motioned for him to continue to follow. We had just begun to move again when a hen exploded from one of the treetops above us. She flew directly opposite the direction of the gobbler. I quickly dropped to my knees, reached into my pocket, and drew out an old handmade scratch box. I chalked the slate striker and clucked several times followed by a three-note yelp. The gobbler immediately answered back. “Good thing that hen didn’t putt at us,” I whispered. “That old gobbler would have known something was wrong.” Matt still said nothing. His heart was in his throat after the hen’s violent exit from overhead. He shifted the small cushion he was carrying in his hands. 

I stood up in a crouch and eased forward quietly. Making a setup where we were would have been preferred, but the underbrush was too thick and there were no larger trees to sit beside. After covering about forty more yards, the woods opened into a glade with some larger trees and only sparse underbrush. The turkey gobbled again. I motioned to a tree at the edge of the glade. Sitting at the base of the tree would put the gobbler just over the crest of the hill from us. I sat down and placed the cushion in my lap. Matt sat down on the cushion and, with a little help, placed the gun on his knee. He placed the comb of the stock under his arm, rested the butt of the stock against my chest, and found the trigger guard of the pistol grip with his hand.  The after-market pistol grip stock aided in the maneuverability of the gun and helped reduce cramping in the hunter’s hand during a long wait for an approaching gobbler. It was sure to help young Matt, as well.

“Don’t put your finger on the trigger ‘til I tell you to.” “Ok” he whispered in response. I placed my hand on the pistol grip of the gun, gently covering his hand. After double-checking to ensure everything was positioned as we had rehearsed the night before, I drew out the old box and softly clucked and yelped. The gobbler immediately responded. I responded to him with another soft cluck and was again rewarded with an immediate gobble. I eased the box back into my pocket and placed my left hand on the forearm of the shotgun which was pointed toward a large pine tree that rose from over the crest of the ridge. The gobbler sounded as though he was just behind the tree. “He’s gonna come right up beside that tree there. It looks pretty clear down beside it,” I whispered. “Remember to watch for his white head, put the bead on it when you first see it, and keep it on him. Remember to close your left eye.” “Ok.” Came the answer again. We had practiced together many times while watching turkey hunting tapes, competing to see who could see the turkey on the tape first. Matt was usually as good or better than I was a lot of time. 

Looking over Matt’s head I watched for the approaching gobbler. The wind had died down, and now that we were still, I could hear the turkey drumming. A sudden motion out over the cutover caught my eye. A hen sailed in and landed in a tree right above the gobbler! She was in a small lane in the woods and in plain sight from our vantage point. After a brief pause, the gobbler’s drumming redoubled as he displayed for the hen. She eyed the situation for a couple of minutes and then glided down to the gobbler. The clucks of the hen and the gobblers drumming were clearly audible in the now still morning air. 

“Did you see that hen? I whispered. A nod yes. “Did you hear him strutting?” Another nod. The turkeys had grown quiet, and Matt had begun to squirm a little. “Are they gone?” He asked. “No, they’re still there. We’ll just have to wait a little while before he comes to us.” By this time I could feel my leg beginning to go to sleep. “As soon as you shoot, let go of the gun and get over out of the way as fast as you can.” I instructed, “I want to make sure he doesn’t get away.” Matt nodded that he understood and leaned back slightly. I smiled to myself and reached again for the old handmade scratch box. My father had built the box many years before, had hand tuned it, and had killed several turkeys with it before giving it to me. My father taught me that the most important part of turkey hunting was the part that couldn’t be taught- it had to be developed. Patience was the key to being a successful turkey hunter. “Patience, a good box, and a lot of luck.” He often said when talking about turkey hunting. My father had, in his day, been widely classified as a master turkey hunter. He had taught me a lot over our years of hunting together. Now it was time to start passing on some of that knowledge. Patience was the subject and class was now in session. 

Ten minutes or so had passed when I heard the gobbler drumming again. I clucked a few times and gave a soft, almost inaudible, three note yelp. The answering gobble was thunderous. The turkey was definitely coming. Matt moved the barrel of the gun to the right of the tree toward the sound of the last gobble and the almost continuous hum of the turkey’s drumming. No more than a few seconds later, I saw the top of his fan over the crest of the ridge about fifty yards out and almost simultaneously the white cap on top of his head. The turkey came out of strut, searched for the hen for a few seconds, then dropped back into strut continuing his approach toward our position. 

“Do you see him?” I whispered. Matt’s reply was the slow movement of his head down towards the gun. The turkey came closer, stopped for a second to drum, then continued his walk in a full strut. The glow of the morning sun backlit the turkey’s fan making the scene unforgettable. “Shoot him when he sticks his head up, he’s close enough.” I said as I braced for the recoil from the 3” magnum in my chest. The turkey strutted a few steps closer, then raised his head. He surveyed the glade, knowing full well that the hen should be right there. Matt didn’t shoot. He’s frozen up. I thought. At that instant, the turkey turned his head slightly to get a better look and then disappeared in a cloud of feathers. 

Years of training from the master turkey hunter took over- “Get up, boy! Get up! You killed a turkey!!” I pulled the gun away, rolled Matt out of my lap, and quickly ran down to gather up the flopping turkey. Matt’s shot had centered on the bird’s head and neck. “Matt! Come here! Come see what you’ve done!” Five-year-old Matt ran down the little incline, a huge smile on his face. “Matt, that is a fine turkey. I am so proud of you!” I said. “Man, I’m so proud of you! Give me a hug!” Matt gave me a big hug but only had eyes for the magnificent bird that he had killed. He didn’t see the tears in his fathers eyes, just as I hadn’t seen the tears that were surely in his my father’s eyes when I killed my first turkey many years before. I thanked our Lord and Savior for giving us this turkey, and by doing so providing a memory that would certainly last a lifetime.

Later that day Matt and I got see the ear-to-ear smile of his grandfather, the old master turkey hunter, whose days in the woods had been ended by age and an unseen enemy called Alzheimers Disease, but for a brief few minutes that morning, we saw twenty-four years slide away from those eyes as the memory of a twelve year old little boy killing his own first turkey flooded back into his mind. 

“Turkey hunters don’t have time to get in trouble”, the old master turkey hunter had said many times. “They go to bed early, they get up early, they hunt turkeys all day, and when they’re not hunting, they’re thinking about, talking about, or planning a turkey hunt. You teach a boy to turkey hunt like he’s supposed to and you won’t ever have any trouble out of him.” He had taught me so many lessons about turkey hunting, about respecting other’s land, about not “going in” on another hunter, about respecting game laws, about not shooting turkeys with a rifle- “He deserves better than that,” he would say, “if a man can’t call him up close enough to kill him with a shotgun, he’s not a real turkey hunter and ought to go fishing instead.” I hoped that it would hold as true for my son, as it has me personally. Regardless, if I had ever needed a reward for anything that I had ever done, I received it that morning in the looks on the faces of an eighty-three-year-old man and a five-year-old little boy.

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