I moved out of my house shortly after the holidays in 2012.  My wife, the kids, a shitty job, and that house were all I had and the wife and house were gone and my relationship with the kids seemingly uncertain.  I don't know exactly why she hated me, but she did.  I moved to a sad town approximately halfway between the house and the job and the exceedingly long commute they bookended.  Then I worked and drove and wondered if I would survive.

One May weekend I drove to my ex Father-in-Law's 40 acres to turkey hunt.  I love and loved turkey hunting, but that year I went without any clue as to whether it would even be mildly enjoyable.  I had a beer with the old man, watched Austin City Limits after he went to bed, organized my gear, and fell asleep on the couch.

I woke early, had some coffee, and dressed.  Then walked along the side of the long, narrow piece to the five or ten acre wooded portion at the back.  Getting set up for a turkey hunt in the predawn hours is tricky.  If the birds are there, you really don't want to notify them of your presence.  I stopped 40 yards before getting to the trees, dimmed my headlamp to its lowest setting, lowered the integrated seat on my turkey vest, put my camo mask and gloves on, replaced my hat, loaded my gun, and slid a few feet into the woods as quickly and quietly as possible and sat against an appropriately comfortable tree that I'd sat against many times before.  May mornings are cold sitting in the dark.  I didn't think about much of anything besides the cold, but as daybreak neared I hoped there would be a tom (mature male turkey) in the neighborhood.  At least I cared one way or another.

There are several strategies for calling turkeys.  Some hunters call in the predawn to induce a "shock gobble" from nearby roosting toms.  A Spring tom will shock gobble in response to almost any loud noise; a crow or hawk, the slamming swing gate of a dumptruck, thunder, or other turkeys.  I tend to sit it out until the birds wake up and announce themselves and, eventually, as the sun broke, one did.  He was probably a hundred yards to my west and, by the tone of his gobble, was still roosted.  At that point I typically scratch out a couple hen calls to provide the tom some direction.  I'm a good caller, but not so good that I tempt too much calling.  Eventually all one does is explain to the bird that there is a turkey sounding thing nearby that ain't a turkey.

For reasons or no reasons I just sat silently.  And 20 minutes later the tom gobbled again, this time with a tone indicating the bird was on the ground (the gobbles aren't different, only the angle at which the noise hits you and its reverberation off the ground).  Again I just sat there as the woods woke up.  It's cliche for hunters to say something akin to "I don't care if I get something or not, I just like being out there", but it's true.  Sitting in a non-descript patch of Southwest Michigan woods is highly entertaining if one is patient, silent, and still.  I've had songbirds land within inches of me, seen coyotes and deer at 5 yards, and once had a hawk stare at me from five feet trying to figure out if my twitching nose was something to eat.  The tom was on the move, no doubt looking for hens, and I just sat there.

Maybe ten minutes later there he was in full strut appearing between trees and brush as he moved at an angle that might eventually put him within range.  As he crossed behind something I raised my gun and rested it on my knee.  He could have chosen any direction that morning.  He also cold have flown directly into a hen or hens that would keep him occupied well into the morning.  But he stayed on a string and was eventually close enough, still in full strut, beard skimming the forest floor, and head turning spectacularly from purple to red to white and back.

A modern turkey gun is lethal out to to maybe fifty or sixty yards depending on a variety of technical things.  I've never taken a shot outside of 30.  I'm generally fine going home empty handed, but hate, HATE to wound an animal without recovering it.  Hence, in the turkey woods I take easy shots.  This was an easy shot and the bird went down instantly.  Then it got up and ran out of sight.  Deer are trackable and large, wild turkeys are neither and the odds of recovering the bird at that point were 50:50 tops.  I wandered without emotion in the direction the bird ran and I walked directly to where he lay, dead, a couple hundred yards from where we started. 

I removed my flask from my vest pocket and poured a little on the ground and had a short pull myself.  Then sat by the bird and wondered how the past couple hours went the way they did.  I'm not a religious guy.  And there's no damn way God has time to give me a turkey, then give him to me a second time after I make a bad shot, when there are people, children, undergoing conditions that defy description.  Still I had the overwhelming feeling that that bird was a gift.

When I read the 2021 version of The Story and Brian bared some difficult things, I commented with the same sort of encouragement many others did.  But when our football team started winning, really winning, I was reminded of when I felt like I was given a break 10 years ago.  We might lose to Iowa next weekend.  Doesn't matter.  We're 11 and 1 and we have slayed the dragon and Brian, who has given all of us so much enjoyment for many years, has been given a gift.

Cheers and Go Blue.