When you’re young, you love your parents naturally, but they’re also those two who say “no” most often. Of course, they actually know what’s really going on in the world, you just think you do, but there’s always some resentment at times when emotions run deep.
Grandparents, however, are a different matter altogether. Grandparents are laid back, have seen it all and, having raised their children, have had time to look back and see what really was important and what wasn’t. They also don’t have final responsibility which takes the pressure off. I loved my grandparents deeply. There was an unspoken understanding between us, a bond parents cannot obtain simply because of the fact they’re parents.
I especially remember the first time my parents and I, a teenager, didn’t agree on one matter or another at Grandpa’s home. Seething, I glanced at grandma and instead of giving me “the look” parents do, I could see she was struggling not to come to my defense. I was flabbergasted. Grandma really understood how I felt and, though she couldn’t say so, was on my side. A quick glance at grandpa showed him puffing on his pipe, a tiny smile on his face, his brown eyes twinkling. I instantly knew he thought the whole fracas a bit unnecessary, out of proportion and wanted me to know so. My anger instantly died away and the situation cooled off. When my parents left, grandma patted my shoulder. Neither grandparent said a word, but from that moment on, our relationship was special and I never resented any hints they might carefully drop about my behavior. After all, they were on my side.
When I heard good friend Gary Clark of Emporium would be taking his granddaughter, Clara Clark, on her first gobbler hunt, I instantly felt warm inside. There was little doubt in my mind they shared that same special relationship I had with my grandparents. The two of them had already caught a bunch of trout together, Clara landing a dandy 19-inch rainbow. The kid can fish.
The night before youth season, Clara stayed at Gary’s house. Gary had made sure she was well equipped with camo clothing and a .410 shotgun with tungsten turkey loads. These new loads are deadly even in the diminutive .410.
Gary had scouted and knew an area spot where several gobblers were hanging out. He felt their chances of success were good, but with turkeys nothing is ever certain. Hope was high when both hunters went to bed.
Five o’clock comes early, but Clara had little trouble climbing out of bed. A quick breakfast and into the truck. By 5:45, they were in position even though dawn was but a gray smudge in the Eastern sky. Gary hooted and multiple birds fired up. There is nothing sweeter to a turkey hunter than the sound of brash gobbles splitting the predawn silence. Clara’s heart quickened as she and Gary looked excitedly into one another’s eyes while the gobblers proclaimed to the world their majesty and might. “Come to us girls,” they announced. “We are splendid indeed. Come, behold us in our glory.”
At daylight, the birds flew down. Hidden on one of two adjoining fields, Gary’s calls enticed the birds to answer, but they wouldn’t come to the field they were set up on. After an hour of cat and mouse, the gobblers retreated into the thick woods bordering the fields. Gary and Clara quickly snuck to the next field setting out a decoy on the lower edge carefully staying out of sight. It was now about 7:15 a.m.
Gary yelped softly, the birds answered and the gobbling drew steadily nearer. Suddenly, out of the woods marched five black bodied, red headed gobblers. Clara’s heart went into overdrive at the heart stirring sight. The gobblers strutted up to within 60 yards, but refused to come closer.
“Whatever you do, don’t move.” Gary whispered as 10 pairs of six power eyes scanned the field edge where they were hidden. The gobblers were nervous and milled around with uncertainty, then simultaneously began moving away. Gary had called sparingly up to that point but as the range began to open, he yelped, clucked and purred aggressively, hoping to renew their interest. The birds stopped and stared, then four of them turned and began retracing their steps, but at an angle that would just bring them within range if they kept coming. One suspicious old long beard had seen enough though, and walked steadily away.
Clara was trembling with excitement. Would the gobblers come within range? Would they see them? She’d been holding the shotgun up on her knee for some time now and her muscles and joints were protesting loudly, but to move was impossible, the slightest motion would spook the nervous gobblers. She found herself willing the turkeys to continue coming, just a little closer, a little closer.
At 40 yards they stopped and Gary whispered; “Shoot.”
The .410 barked and her turkey went down hard. Leaping to their feet, they rushed to the flopping bird, but he wasn’t going anywhere, a perfect shot.
Gary was, if anything, more keyed up than Clara even though she was shaking with excitement herself. They hugged and laughed, admiring the beautiful gobbler, reliving the hunt moment by moment, filled with joy.
Grandfather, granddaughter, celebrating a memory that will only grow sweeter with time.
