April 10, 1996: Grandma’s gobbler by the late Rex Johnson

Written by the late Rex Johnson and first published in the April 10, 1996, edition of the Ozark County Times. 

Grandma [Mary] Mahan was a widow woman. She lived on a farm on Pond Fork Creek. Pond Fork empties into Little North Fork about a mile above Theodosia. As a boy growing up, I loved to go stay with her. Few things are more precious than grandmas. I could play up and down the creek in the summer. What a wonderful time of life. I had no way of knowing that 50 years later, I would be hunting an old wily gobbler on that same land. There were no deer or turkeys in the 30s and 40s — but finally we had some deer in the 50s. 

This turkey hunting day started with one of those perfect spring mornings that only a few people get to witness, as most don’t want to get up before daybreak. No wind, a slight breeze if anything. The smell of spring was in the air. The temperature was in the 60s. Pink was beginning to show in the east. At almost 6 a.m., I knew he should gobble anytime now. More than one hunter had tried to catch up to this old tom, but he was smart and had stayed alive a long time. Meanwhile, he became the biggest boss in the area. A farmer friend said he’d seen him and told him how big he was. The whippoorwills were just about finished and the redbirds were starting to sing. 

I was sitting on a ridge, waiting for that first gobble. As first light came, I looked at the old home place and could almost see Grandma walk out of the house, gathering wood chips in her apron to make the breakfast fire. She had raised her six girls and one boy in that house. Her husband, Tom, had died with the measles in 1918. What a struggle that must have been for her - a farm to tend to, kids to raise, no car and only a few dollars in savings. I can’t remember her ever complaining about her place in life though.

A loud gobble brought me back to reality. It was that old Tom. He wasn’t too far away, just on down the ridge. I hooted. He gobbled right back. I could feel a smile spreading across my face. I knew what lay ahead was the sport that I love. It requires skill, luck and lots of patience. A sport that is as old as man. A sport that was brought back in the 1960s, from almost extinction. I moved toward him. It was getting light. The crows got after him, and in response he was really gobbling. Full daylight was evident now, and every tree and bush took its shape. I heard him fly down, but not on the ridge - down in the field near Grandma’s house place. He liked to get in the field and strut, so the hens could see him better. 

The first sun rays of the day made his feathers glisten. What a beautiful sight to behold. My heart beat quickened, as I thought, ‘Wow, was he ever a huge gobbler.’ Two hens came to him, and he strutted around them as they fed. Now was my chance to get closer. I slipped quietly off the hill and crawled to a big tree near the corner of the yard. My first call was a soft yelp. He liked the sound. He was gobbling, then double gobbling. I knew now was the time for stillness, no movement whatsoever. He looked my way and came a few steps closer, but 60-70 yards is a long way with a shotgun. So, I sat rigid as possible, giving him a soft putt and purr to let him know I was a receptive hen waiting for him to come over for a visit. But he wasn’t going to leave the hens for something he couldn’t see. 

An hour went by so quickly it seemed like only 10 minutes. The hens looked my way, and he sometimes answered my calls but wouldn’t come close enough. He stayed with them in full strut, all the time displaying his beautiful tail, his wings dragging the ground - what a beautiful representation of nature and its reproduction process. The hens started leaving the field, going back up the hill in the heavy timber. I started calling louder and longer, but still, up the hill he went, gobbling only once in awhile.

When he got up on the ridge, he gobbled to my crow caller. I slipped back upon the ridge with him and the hens. He answered the crow caller most of the time. I got set up against a big oak and started calling to him. He was getting more interested now, as the hens had gone to their nests. He was working around me and below me. He wasn’t coming straight to me. No amateur was he. I eased to my bottom, backed down near the field again, as I could tell he was going to circle me and slip up on my backside. Here he came, not gobbling, but stopping every few steps to strut. 

I yelped every so softly and up went his head. I eased off the safety and waited. He was about 40 yards away, but the timber was too thick for a clean shot. Crippling a bird or missing it altogether is hard to get out of your mind. So, I waited. He didn’t move. He stood like a statue for what seemed like hours. He wouldn’t move, just stood and stared. I knew that it was at this point in the hunt when mistakes were easy to make - shooting too soon, getting a cramp or just plain nerves. I passed all of those tests so far. 

The sun came from behind a cloud, and something glistened just in front of him. He putted loudly and ducked his head just as I shot. Not a short pellet touched him. What in the world could that glistening thing be that ruined my perfect morning, I wondered.

As I got to the object, I saw that it was a blue half-gallon mason jar. The old Tom wouldn’t go past it when the sun made it shine. 

He left me, and I hope he is living today. I picked up the fruit jar and thought of how many times Grandma had filled it with peaches or apples or other goodies. She knew how to live off the land. 

The almost-perfect hunt was just like lots of other “almosts.” I didn’t get to carry the big gobbler home, but I took that blue jar home. Frances, my wife, cleaned it up and made a bank for my grandkids. Had I killed the turkey that morning, the story would have soon been forgotten. Now everyone who comes to our house and asks, “Where did you get that antique jar?” and I get to tell the story all over again, reliving my hunt at Grandma’s.

We all get so bent on the kill that we sometimes miss the thrill of the hunt. 

Grandma put a little of her love in every jar she canned. We have the old blue jar now, and the opportunity to fill it with the fruit of love again. 

Editor’s note: Rex Johnson died June 8, 2020. He was born Aug. 29, 1930, in Gainesville, the son of Frank and Jessie Johnson.