My Thoughts: Gobble, Not Google
My first experience with turkeys was a wild one. It was ten years ago and hubby and I were visiting friends in Eureka. The men-folk were fishing and the ladies were going to shop at thrift stores in Whitefish and Kalispell. I was a passenger gawking out the window (just like a Californian viewing NW Montana for the first time) when the driver suddenly hit her brakes and backed up on US #93. Thank goodness there was no traffic in either direction. She pointed to the side of the highway at a group of wild turkeys, telling me this was a common sight. I thought the birds were magnificent – I hadn’t yet seen the bald-headed eagle, red fox or whitetail doe.
My second turkey experience was when my hunter husband asked if I’d like to scout turkeys early one Sunday morning. I thought fresh air, exercise, and quiet. I was anxious to see what the fuss was all about. I allowed him to dress me in camo and paint my face. He told me to be quiet as a mouse and step carefully through the brush. Although I looked good in camouflage clothing I was like a Mack truck in the woods. Snap, crackle, pop – I’m hungry. Snap, crackle, pop – I drank too much coffee. Snap, crackle, pop – what time is it? I did manage to see one turkey that looked as tall as a small child. I waved to the husband, pointed at the feathered creature and he took aim. I shouted WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU CAN'T KILL HIM, and started to sob. After the bird was long gone my husband told me scouting means find the bird, shoot the bird. I told him I just can’t accept that and walked home alone.
The next year on our July 28th wedding anniversary I came home and found turkey hens and fourteen young in our garden. I was mesmerized; I was smitten; I was speechless. I wanted to know how my wonderful husband had managed this special gift? I started to name the hens Teri-Tanya-Treena and Tricia. I called “The Boys” Tim-Tom-Tucker and Tripp. The largest one I named Grandpa. I began to collect turkey memorabilia, i.e. magnets, wind chimes, Christmas ornaments. Every feather they dropped in our yard was a treasure. My husband strongly advised me not to get attached, because fall turkey season would soon open. I told him no way would I allow my boys and hens to be on someone’s serving platter. And I could not imagine them placed on a paneled wall in full feather regalia. But, of course, the toms disappeared one by one.
Fast forward a year – same time, same place. More turkeys and more youngsters. We started getting calls from friends in California asking if they could come up and hunt. I told them, “We’re going to be out of town.” My husband told them, “Sure, bring your 12-gauge shotgun and your turkey call.” The moral of this story is don’t get attached to turkeys on your property. There’s a food chain and unfortunately folks like to stuff/roast/baste and carve wild turkeys.
But come this Thanksgiving holiday I’m serving CHICKEN, and if the hubby snorts I’ll throw him a frozen Cornish game hen. As God is my witness no Happy Valley Tom will be sitting at our dinner table unless he’s on a leash and wearing a bib.
My second turkey experience was when my hunter husband asked if I’d like to scout turkeys early one Sunday morning. I thought fresh air, exercise, and quiet. I was anxious to see what the fuss was all about. I allowed him to dress me in camo and paint my face. He told me to be quiet as a mouse and step carefully through the brush. Although I looked good in camouflage clothing I was like a Mack truck in the woods. Snap, crackle, pop – I’m hungry. Snap, crackle, pop – I drank too much coffee. Snap, crackle, pop – what time is it? I did manage to see one turkey that looked as tall as a small child. I waved to the husband, pointed at the feathered creature and he took aim. I shouted WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU CAN'T KILL HIM, and started to sob. After the bird was long gone my husband told me scouting means find the bird, shoot the bird. I told him I just can’t accept that and walked home alone.
The next year on our July 28th wedding anniversary I came home and found turkey hens and fourteen young in our garden. I was mesmerized; I was smitten; I was speechless. I wanted to know how my wonderful husband had managed this special gift? I started to name the hens Teri-Tanya-Treena and Tricia. I called “The Boys” Tim-Tom-Tucker and Tripp. The largest one I named Grandpa. I began to collect turkey memorabilia, i.e. magnets, wind chimes, Christmas ornaments. Every feather they dropped in our yard was a treasure. My husband strongly advised me not to get attached, because fall turkey season would soon open. I told him no way would I allow my boys and hens to be on someone’s serving platter. And I could not imagine them placed on a paneled wall in full feather regalia. But, of course, the toms disappeared one by one.
Fast forward a year – same time, same place. More turkeys and more youngsters. We started getting calls from friends in California asking if they could come up and hunt. I told them, “We’re going to be out of town.” My husband told them, “Sure, bring your 12-gauge shotgun and your turkey call.” The moral of this story is don’t get attached to turkeys on your property. There’s a food chain and unfortunately folks like to stuff/roast/baste and carve wild turkeys.
But come this Thanksgiving holiday I’m serving CHICKEN, and if the hubby snorts I’ll throw him a frozen Cornish game hen. As God is my witness no Happy Valley Tom will be sitting at our dinner table unless he’s on a leash and wearing a bib.