Saint Tom and the Turkey
Posted on March 1, 2016 by bob in OffTheBeatenPath
Tom had never been much of a regular in the church pew, especially in the spring. While he attended Christmas Eve and Easter services, the latter – given the time of the year – he regretfully marked off the calendar as just another day he wouldn’t be chasing turkeys.
It wasn’t that Tom wasn’t spiritual. Six weeks each spring he was certainly devout, as the fields and pine
stands became his daily sanctuary and the songbirds his morning’s choir. Tom’s religion was turkeys, and he worshipped at the altar of the woods. So incredibly steadfast was his commitment it earned him the nickname “Saint Tom.” When his mother called one Wednesday afternoon late in the season, Tom almost didn’t answer, expecting the usual request to attend evening church. Perhaps it was divine intervention, but he answered.
“You remember your cousin Paul?” she asked. “Your Great Aunt Mabel’s son?”
“The weird guy that picked up and moved to Kenya?” he responded uninterested.
“He’s called a missionary son, and he’s doing the Lord’s work. I wish you’d think about a mission trip sometime, one of the ones the church does each year. Anyway, Paul’s in town and he really likes turkey hunting and they don’t have turkeys in Africa so I’d like you take him while he’s here.”
He was speechless. He preferred going alone, especially late in the year.
“If you don’t want to take him, I understand,” she said, “but since he’s staying with us and due in town in a few hours perhaps you’d come to church with all of us tonight?”
He took a deep breath.
“Saturday morning, four o’clock sharp,” he quipped. “If he’s not ready I’m not waiting.”
Saturday morning rolled around and Paul was on the front steps when Tom arrived. He hopped in the cab, dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of overalls Tom recognized as his own father’s.
“Leave your camo in Kenya?” Tom asked, scratching his head. He didn’t see a shotgun either. They drove to Tom’s hunting lease, an hour trip without a word between them. Paul slammed the door as he got out and not a hundred yards away a gobbler sounded off. Tom exhaled slowly. It would indeed be a long morning.
“Would you mind if we prayed before heading out?” Paul asked.
“Be my guest,” Tom said, put out by the delay. “We’ll need all the help we can get.”
Paul thanked God for the cool morning and the star-filled night and asked for a safe and productive hunt. The two headed down a logging road, toward a bottom Tom had roosted several mature gobblers in earlier in the week. As they walked, the faintest hints of pink and crimson colored the eastern sky. Periodically, Tom would signal Paul to stop and he’d use the owl call trying to locate a bird. As they neared a clearing and a small stream in the bottom where he wanted to set up, Tom put down his shotgun and hit his owl call once more.
Across the stream, a gobbler still on the roost thundered in reply. “Gooood mornin’,” Tom whispered, pulse quickening.
“Can we get to him?” Paul asked.
“No. He’ll hear us. He’ll have to come to us, and I doubt he crosses that stream.”
“Dear Lord, thank you for this beautiful morning,” Paul whispered,”for the opportunities and challenges you have laid out before us.”
Tom was about to respond but the sound of a turkey descending through the canopy to the forest floor cut him off. He popped a mouth call into place and let out a series of quick yelps. The gobbler thundered back.
“Lord, thank you for Tom, for the wisdom and skill you’ve given him,” Paul whispered again. Tom ignored his cousin and attempted a couple of soft purrs with his call, but the material split, letting out a loud, goose-like “honk.”
With that, Tom figured the hunt was over, but the bird, having covered significant ground since touching down from his treetop repose, fired back with a gobble so deep and close it stood the hair up on both their necks.
“Do you see him?” Tom mouthed, surprised.
“Lord, thank you for the excitement of the hunt thus far,” Paul said, “but please bring this turkey into range and …”
“Tsssst. STOP that!” Tom muttered under his breath. He reached for his gun as the turkey closed the distance between them at breakneck speed, but the gun wasn’t there; it was propped up behind Paul, who had never stopped praying the whole time. “Paul…?” Tom said in an exaggerated whispered. “Shoot!”
Over breakfast, the two sipped coffee and recounted their hunt.
“That was some shot,” Tom said to Paul admiringly. “Up to that point I wasn’t sure you even knew what a turkey was. I’m not much for company in the turkey woods, but you’re welcome anytime.”
“That bird in the back of your truck is the first real turkey I’ve ever seen!” Paul responded.
They leaned back in their chairs and studied each other’s faces.
“But mom said you were a big turkey hunter,” Tom said.
“And she told me,” Paul shot back with a wry smile, “you hated hunting alone.”
They might’ve sat there all day trying to figure the whole thing out had their waitress not arrived with their order.
“In any event, it was a good morning,” said Tom. “But I can’t see how that bird didn’t bust when my mouth call split in two.”
“Just one of God’s mysteries,” Paul offered. “Mind if I bless the food?”
As Paul asked grace over the meal, Tom reflected on the morning’s events. Had Paul really prayed up that turkey? Could he? There was no other plausible explanation. He smiled, and for the first time in a long time, truly gave thanks.
Niko Corley, a USCG-licensed charter boat captain, spends his free time on the water or in the woods. E-mail niko.corley@gmail.com.
