“If a turkey could smell, Son, you would never see one.”
My grandfather had a lot to say sometimes.
He was a man who lived through the Great Depression, made the landings on Saipan and Okinawa, survived a broken back right before Korea (which meant, more importantly, he survived naval medicine back then), and came home to help build most of Atlanta.
He loved his family, guns, and hunting. Sometimes we never knew in which order, though. He loved to watch Braves baseball and in the good old days, he’d watch WCW Wrestling on Sunday evenings on TBS, where you always got mad at Ted Turner.
Yes, he was a man without fear or possibly good sense, I’m not sure sometimes. He once bought my grandmother a derringer for an anniversary present. I just know that after 24 years of marriage myself, I wouldn’t do that.
“By the time you opened your mouth, he knew which side of which tree you were on, and the color of your underwear.”
When he passed away several years ago, we had a little wake for him, and we were telling stories. His youngest son, my Uncle Gary, made this comment, “Daddy went out of his way to not intrude on anyone. If he left early in the morning to go hunting, he wouldn’t turn his headlights on until he was sure they wouldn’t shine in his neighbor’s windows.”
“Measure twice, cut once.”
Claude Pressley was without a doubt the most patient man I ever knew. He’d outwait Job. He started turkey hunting in the state of Georgia just about the time of the first turkey seasons here. He hunted with Roscoe Rehems and knew Charlie Elliot.
He was a lifetime member of the NWTF and carried me every year for years to Unicoi to the state convention. Grandaddy LOVED turkey hunting.
“If you have it and need it, you are alright. But, if you need it and don’t have it, you are just out of luck.”
My earliest memories of Grandaddy involved turkey hunting. I was tiny still, but I remember him stopping by the house on spring mornings, showing off his turkeys. I remember when he would bring those birds out of the back of the truck to take pictures. How they smelled and what the feathers looked like. I remember him telling me about the hunt, the gobbling, the strutting, the sounds of the hens.
This made an impact on me like nothing else in my early life. I wanted to be a turkey hunter. About the time I was 6, I think my dad gave in and started getting me up at 4 a.m. on Saturdays. I think this was a self-defense measure for Dad. Someone had to go with Grandaddy, and he was tired.
“Turkeys can hear you change your mind.”
These were the days really before the advent of the hunting show. I mean, we had Will Primos and Toxey Haas doing some early video work, and everyone seemed to have a copy of Lovett Williams’ Real Turkeys to listen to. Trust me, we wore those tapes out!
Grandaddy believed in turkey hunting one way. Sit and wait. We hunted in Taliaferro County back then, not far outside of White Plains. If you know where Lacey Road is, well, I’ve hunted it all. Back then, that area was all but empty. A few hunting camps and that was about it. But more importantly, there were turkeys. I mean, lots of ‘em back in there.
“If you need to be there quicker, leave earlier.”
Most Saturdays during the spring turkey season we were listening for birds long before the sun came up. I never understood why we were always there a solid two hours before sunrise, but we were. Grandaddy didn’t believe in sleeping late on Saturdays and he dang sure didn’t believe in sitting in the warm truck for very long.
If you have never experienced the sound of a mature Tom Turkey sounding off on an oak ridge on a frigid March morning in middle Georgia, then I highly recommend it. It’s a sound that will forever ring in your heart. I can hear it now just closing my eyes.
“A gun is a tool son, just like a hammer. You impart morality to it with whatever you use it for.”
Grandaddy hunted with a Weatherby 12-gauge, a semi-auto shotgun that had a fixed full choke. I remember looking at that gun with admiration and a sense of awe. That gun to me was the epitome of a turkey gun.
I hunted with a Mossberg model 500 in 12 gauge. I bought it myself at just 13 years old and I loved that gun. Nowadays I own both of these guns and occasionally the old Weatherby will go for a walk on a lone oak ridge, and I will remember a childhood that was filled with hunting, fishing, and exploration that few children will ever know again.
Thank you, Granddaddy, for always taking me with you.