Two gnarly-looking, blue-ish heads covered in bright bulbous red bumps poked out of the treeline overlooking a field of waist-high wheat. The Old Man and I had been hunting these turkeys for the past four days. Most likely brothers, these two gobblers had been hen-ed up along the thick creek bottom below and wouldn’t budge. Finally hen-less, the scout stepped out into the open 30 yards away and the strutter followed.
“Ok, you take the one on the right and I’ll the one on the left.” the Old Man whispered.
“Ok” I whispered back.
“Ready?”
“Yeah”
The Old Man started to count, “One.. Tw..… “
“Wait!…” I interrupted.,“I don’t have a shot.”.
The strutter momentarily ducked his head behind a clump of grass, then reappeared.
“Ok, got it.” I whispered.
“Ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok, One… Two…Thr..( BANG!!)
The head and neck of my gobbler disappeared behind the grass and the built up tension and adrenalin gave way to a sudden rush of endorphins. As I lifted my cheek from the stock of my shotgun, I realized I didn’t hear a second gun shot. Something wasn‘t right. My Dad’s gobbler startled and flushed six feet in the air towards the woods. Why didn’t he shoot? I looked over at the Old Man.
“!@##$ IT, SON!! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!???” he yelled.
I shrugged my shoulders. Honestly, I didn’t really know what he was talking about. I felt pretty good. I was under the impression that I just shot a turkey. But then, the reality of the situation snapped into focus and put a pit in my stomach.
“You can’t count to three?! You have a @#$#-ing college degree, and you can’t count to @#$%-ing three?” he continued to yell.
I had messed up the Old Man’s count and blown his chance at the second gobbler. We had been waiting and hoping for this situation for the past week. And I literally jumped the gun. We had been over the Old Man’s count system numerous times. I was even reminded 15 minutes before the gobblers showed up.
“One.. Two.. Three, then shoot where Four is supposed to be, that way you have time to whisper wait if you lose your shot.” he explained.
So in my defense; it's actually a “on four” count--not a one, two, three, shoot count--, I had plenty of time to say "wait", and it goes against everything you learned growing up about doing things as the same time.
“Will you help me lift this?”
“Yeah”
“Ok, on three.. One.. Two..Thhrree.” (The lifting happens on three)
“Wanna race?”
“Ok… Ready.. Set..Go!” (you break on Go!)
"Paper, Rock, Scissors?"
"Yeah..one.. two..three. (you throw on three)
“Ok, let’s jump on three..”
Do you know what happens to the person who waits after three?
They don’t jump.
So all the lifting,running,jumping, banging, etc.. happens as soon as you hear three.
The “on four” system is like giving someone a telephone number in the wrong rhythm.
“52-396-9-4”
“What? Did you just give me a social security number? Say that again.”
It’s just confusing.
So pumped up full of adrenalin, it was instinct to shoot “on three”. But the Old Man had reason to be pissed. The same situation happened to him the previous week in South Carolina with another hunter which ended in a blown shot at a double. I stood up to take the next round of profanity.
“wa. wa.. Wait.” the Old Man interrupted.
In the 5 seconds in between my shot and the subsequent cursing, the second gobbler settled down and stepped back into the open. Probably the result of months of constant fighting and pent-up aggression, the sub-dominant bird moved quickly towards the dead strutter. He paused and craned his neck towards the dead bird giving the impression of, “It’s about time.. I’m gonna come over there and finally whoop up on your…”, but before he could make his move, the Old Man leveled his gun, bang!
The second gobbler flopped in the grass and the Old Man looked back at me. “@#%$#!...You’re the luckiest !@#$%#% alive. Your @#$ would have been walking home, if I didn’t get a shot at that bird.” I think the Old Man's natural ability to cuss, comes from a mixture of growing up under an old Southern mother who could cuss up a storm just as well as she could cook, and watching the HBO series Deadwood. My brother-in-law's father is the only other person I've heard speak so eloquently.
We both got up to check our birds.
The family’s first father/son double. After a few fist pounds and sighs of relief, the Old Man’s mood relaxed and I started to pick up my gear.
“Wait a sec..I’m not ready to go yet. I just want to sit here and bask in this glory.” he said.
“And you know, if I didn‘t get a shot at this bird, I probably had it coming. I can‘t count how many times I‘ve shot a gobbler out from underneath your brother. ” he added.
