Turkey Talk

About this time of year my grandmother Bookie would call me from Alabama, letting me know that deer hunting season had officially opened. Now, when my Alabama relatives talk about hunting, they ain’t talking about rooting through the freezer case at the Piggly-Wiggly, looking for the Butterball big enough to feed all the cousins. No, they’re talking about the Real Deal, where you get up before the crack of dawn, dress in several layers of camouflage, hop into the old pickup truck, bump along country back roads, tromp through the forest, climb up into the tree stand, and sit. And sit. And sit. And sit.

Eventually, my butt falls asleep and I have to adjust my position, slightly. At which point Cousin Bubba jabs me and says, “Shh! You’re scaring away the deer!” Scaring away WHAT deer? Now, if Bubba had ever let me hold the gun, I might have enjoyed hunting more. As it was, the best part for me was afterwards, sitting around the kitchen table, listening to my grandfather Bobo’s stories. And the best stories were about hunting turkey.

In case you aren’t familiar, there are 5 subspecies of wild turkey in North America: the Eastern wild turkey, the Osceola wild turkey, the Rio Grande wild turkey, Merriam’s wild turkey, and Gould’s wild turkey. If you bag 4 out of the 5 subspecies of wild turkey in one season, it’s called a Grand Slam. If you bag all 5 of the subspecies in one season, it’s called a Royal Slam. To Bobo and his compatriots, the pursuit of the Grand Slam was a noble endeavor. None of this sitting around in tree stands business. No, to catch a wild turkey you must become a master of disguise. You must Become a Wild Turkey.

At this point in the story, Bobo would bring out his collection of gobbling devices –mouthpieces, called diaphragms. Look like retainers. Unlike retainers, however, upon insertion these diaphragms allow you to gobble like a turkey. Several of Bobo’s favorite mouthpieces were made from lead. However, when Bobo started acting a little crazy after long hunting trips, Bobo’s doctor recommended he switch to plastic.

Bobo never did achieve a Grand Slam -- although he and his gobbling devices brought home some trophy birds. He turned the meat over to my grandmother Bookie, who was a legendary Southern cook. And then he turned the carcass over to his taxidermist. The taxidermist would mount the turkey fan on a wall plaque. He would also cure the turkey claws and turkey beard, as toys for us grandchildren.

Maybe you have never played with a turkey beard before. Let me tell you, those birds can grow some serious facial hair: thick, black, and about 9 inches long. In fact, 10-20% of female turkeys also grow beards. Which makes me thankful, today, for tweezers.

In honor of Thanksgiving this year, I’d like to conclude with a tribute to turkeys. From the Butterball in the freezer case, to the Rio Grande roaming the wild, you turkeys know who you are -- and this song is for you:

A turkey sat on a backyard fence, and he sang this sad, sad tune,
“Thanksgiving Day is coming, gobble-gobble, gobble-gobble,
And I know I’ll be eaten soon!
“Gobble-gobble, gobble-gobble, gobble-gobble, gobble,
I would like to run away.
“Gobble-gobble, gobble-gobble, gobble-gobble, gobble,
I don’t like Thanksgiving Day!”