As I drove south along Highway 39 that morning, I thought about Pop’s birthday, how every year we would celebrate at the camp on the eve of turkey season.  Initially, those celebrations took place at the river camp at Cook’s Bend then in Louisville, first at the “Little House” and later in the “Big House” up the hill.

 

I thought about how, if he were still alive today, he would most likely be living down the hill from us in the Little House now. I reckoned that would be the greatest present of all as I wiped the tears from my cheeks.

 

Each year, I looked forward to his birthday as it also meant that the opening day of turkey season had arrived.  We would head to the camp that weekend, arriving just in time for happy hour.

 

After we settled in, I would give him his present, always a bottle of bourbon and something for turkey hunting, perhaps a custom turkey call.  A lot of time and thought went into the later item as it’s hard to find something for the turkey hunter who has two of everything.

 

That night we would cook one of his favorite meals, usually a steak, baked potato and salad.  However, as I drove south that morning, admiring the daffodils and redbuds and thinking about how old he would have been — 80 this year— I remembered a different meal—fried fish, French fries and hushpuppies.

 

For years, Pop was the camp cook.  I suspect he was waiting for my cooking skills to pass muster.  Clearly, they had at this point because the torch had been passed.  Nonetheless, I still fried everything under his watchful eye that night in the cool evening air on the screened porch.

 

Afterwards, we fixed our plates and returned to dine alfresco.  I remember sitting there when we finished sharing a post-meal bourbon surrounded by the sounds of the wood ducks on the lake and the night birds.  I miss him so.

 

To this day, when I tell people about the farm and our move from Meridian to the little spot on Brooksville Road, I never fail to mention that the genesis for the move was the fact that G and I both always felt close to Pop when we were here.

 

I’ve written often about the turkey seasons that I’ve shared with him since he’s been gone, how I’ve cried walking out with turkeys over my shoulder, and how I feel that he’s with me on every hunt.

 

I still carry his calls, still wear his clothes, still talk to him, sometimes internally and sometimes aloud, sometimes with words we can print here and sometimes not.  These things connect me to him.

 

It seems that each turkey season brings to light another connection back to Pop.  In fact, I’ve already felt two this season through two different hunts, and the funny thing is that I was present for neither.

 

When the text came through on March 13 (Pop’s birthday) from one of my best friends, Greg Monsour, I had a good feeling.  He and his daughter Stelynn were hunting during the youth week, hoping to bag her first gobbler.

 

I smiled when I read, “Stelynn just busted her first turkey.”

 

That smile grew larger when the picture of the young hunter smiling back at the camera with a trophy longbeard over her shoulder appeared on my screen.

 

Turkey hunters share special bonds.  Time spent together in the turkey woods helps forge these bonds, and when that time is spent mentoring a new hunter the bonds become even stronger.

 

I called in Greg’s first bird as well as the first for his son Hays.  Those two hunts remain among my favorite turkey hunting memories, along with many others I’ve shared with Greg and his family.

 

I taught him what I could along the way and turned him loose to learn what no other turkey hunter can teach you, the reality that the lessons and the learning never stop.

 

On his own, Greg has now called in turkeys for both his daughters, first Anniston and then Stelynn. I’ve thought a lot about my friend’s progression as a turkey hunter and about Stelynn’s successful hunt, and each time I think about it, I think about Pop.

 

Sure, it happened on his birthday, but that’s not the only connection.  Were it not for Pop’s mentorship, none of this would have happened.  If he didn’t teach me how to turkey hunt, then I never teach Greg, and the Monsour “family tree” of turkey hunting never takes root.

 

Connection two came from my own turkey hunting “family tree.”  With the turkeys still grouped up and ranging far in the early season here at the farm, my son Dan decided to put in the overtime for an all-day hunt last week.

 

I received updates from him throughout the day via text until mid-afternoon.  At that point, I knew he had located a gobbler, but with no communication, I assumed that his cell phone battery was dead.  There was nothing to do but wait.

 

When he walked through the door that evening with a big smile on his face, I knew.  “I got one,” he said.  As I hugged him in celebration, I thought of Pop.  He would be so proud.

 

As I listened to Dan share the story of his hunt while he cleaned his turkey, I was filled with pride and gratitude.  I was proud of the turkey hunter he had become.

 

Moreover, I was grateful for the fact that he had the opportunity to hunt with his grandfather, the man who helped make both of us turkey hunters.

 

Until next time, here’s to first turkeys — Congratulations Stelynn! — here’s to those who take the time to mentor others, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.