The Cherry Wood Gobbler

Will Starr parked his truck on the side of the road next to the small country cemetery and got out. He patted the locked cover on the truck bed as he walked around the rear of the vehicle. Holding a hand-made box call in one hand, he walked over to the back corner of the graveyard and paused at a recently placed marble marker. He smiled when he saw the three turkey wing feathers someone had placed in the ground in front of the marble slab.

“Old Jonas is always on top of things,” Will said.

It was a simple marker—about 2 1/2 feet tall and rounded off at the top. Mr. Hardy Matthews had passed away three months earlier in January, and Will had been present at his service; not by design, but by what he considered to be a very curious set of circumstances.

The camo-clad hunter peered down at the inscription that had been etched into the polished Georgia marble:

Hardy P. Matthews

March 3, 1960 –

Jan. 11, 2016

Loving father and husband

His turkeys were his pride and joy.

No one could call them better.

“Well Mr. Matthews, we did it,” he said out loud, talking to the polished marble. “I hope you approve… I think it was just dumb luck, but Greg calls it serendipity. Whatever it is, I thank you and dedicate the Admiral to your memory.”

He knelt down and placed the box call next to the wing feathers on the ground. “This belongs to you, not me,” he said. “I don’t think I’m meant to keep it. It was only a temporary loan, but it’s a beauty.”

Will heard Greg’s truck coming down the gravel road, but he didn’t look up. Greg parked and walked over to join his friend.

“Wow, the cherry leaves are startin’ to come out,” Greg said, gazing at the clump of large cherry trees at the back edge of the cemetery. “I think green-up is finally upon us.”

Greg looked down and saw the box call. “Are you leaving that here?”

“Yes, it wouldn’t be right to keep it.”

“Well, it sure did its job for you this morning,” Greg said. “It’s a one of a kind. But I guess that’s up to you.”   

“Yeah, it did its job all right,” Will said. “Jonas will find it here. It was almost like it had a mind of its own today. It put out a sound like you’ve never heard before.

“Raspy and irresistible, like you like,” Greg said. “But I think something else had a little to do with it, too,” Greg said. “I believe it was…”

Greg started to speak, but before he could get the word out they both said it together: “Serendipity!”

They laughed. “What is serendipity anyway?” Will asked.

“It’s what happened today,” Greg said. “It’s chance without design. Can you believe it? The season ain’t even a month old yet. We never do that.”

“We’ve been down to the wire plenty,” Will agreed. “I prefer it this way.”

“You gonna make me stand here all day, or are you gonna let me see this outlandish longbeard in the flesh?” Greg asked.

Will fished into his pocket for his keys. “Here, he’s locked in the bed wrapped in my poncho. Go take a look. I want to stay here for a moment.”

Greg took the keys. “It’s been one heck of a ride, these last few weeks.…”   

Will nodded.    

While Greg headed off to the truck to examine the legendary gobbler, Will’s jumbled mind went back to that strange encounter three months earlier….

• • • • •

It was mid January, two months before opening weekend. Will and Greg were headed to their hunting property in Greg’s truck to do some scouting. As usual, they turned off the four-lane highway leading west out of town onto the paved road that led down to Calvary Baptist Church. They then turned left by the church onto Cherry Wood Cemetery Road and went a short distance to the back side of the 386 acres known as “Turkey Haven” that Will, Greg and several good friends had leased for more than 10 years. Will usually went in through a locked gate a few hundred yards past the cemetery and parked his vehicle just inside the woods at an old home place near a large creek. Greg usually hunted on the other side of the property. The land was owned by his uncle Dr. Harley Walters.

Both men were excited about the prospects for the upcoming season. But as their truck passed by Calvary Baptist Church on that fateful Saturday morning about 11 o’clock and turned down Cherry Wood Cemetery Road, Will nearly ran off the road as he and Greg focused their attention on the happenings at the church. Judging by the dozens of cars and trucks parked around the church, someone had died, and a funeral service was taking place at the church. But that was not the reason for their great surprise.

The church portion of the service had just ended inside, and people were filing out of the front doors and making their way to the cemetery behind the main church building where a small tent indicated the decedent’s final resting place. This, too, was perfectly normal for a country funeral, but the thing that got the two hunters’ attention as they drove by was the way some of the mourners were dressed. Most of the men were dressed in full camo from head to toe.

“Looks like Duck Dynasty gone to church,” Greg commented, trying to be funny.

“I don’t know about that, but did you see what I just saw?” Will said. “That man over by that red Ford truck just reached inside and pulled out a shotgun. What the heck is going on?”

“I don’t know,” Greg answered. “But it’s strange. Look. Several others over there are carryin’ shotguns, all headed to the back of the cemetery near those big cherry trees where that tent is set up.”

They slowly passed by the cemetery and continued on down the dirt road.

“Turn around,” Will said.

“What?” Greg responded. “Why?”

“Turn around. Let’s go back.”

“It’s somebody’s funeral. We can’t crash somebody’s funeral.”

“Why not?” Will asked. “Don’t you wanna find out what’s happening? Aren’t you curious? We’re dressed just like them, so we’ll fit right in. Let’s go see who died. This has to be some kind of hunter’s send-off. It might be somebody we know.”

“I sure hope not,” Greg said, turning into an old Jeep trail off the dirt road so he could turn around.

Five minutes later, the two hunters were standing awkwardly in the back of the crowd listening to the graveside eulogy by the church minister. They quickly noticed the eight camo-clad men of various ages lined up behind the preacher like a military drill team. The men were holding shotguns while a ninth man on the end was holding an American flag.   

After the family members had been seated, The Rev. Andrew White began a short graveside service: “Brother Hardy Matthews was a true southern gentleman who loved his God and the land that spawned him,” the minister said. “He had always stipulated that he wanted to be buried in a simple pine casket, and his wishes have been honored…”

Most everyone glanced at the unusually light-colored pinewood casket, specially requested by the Matthews family.

A few words were spoken about his love of the land and his love for hunting. Then the reverend quoted Archibald Rutledge: “In closing, I quote the timeless words from that well-known 20th century turkey hunter and writer, Mr. Archibald Rutledge, of South Carolina, one of Hardy Matthews’ favorite authors:

“Hope is stronger than fear; love is greater than grief;

Life is mightier than death;  disaster is an incident of time.

The shadows and rain of today will nourish the blossoms of tomorrow.”

Reverend White continued: “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.

“And now, several of Hardy’s good friends would like to pay him homage with a special, er, and maybe a bit unusual, tribute.”

The man holding the American flag stepped forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we would now like to begin our salute by reciting the pledge of allegiance to the flag. Since Hardy Matthews was such a devoted patriot and retired Navy man, we feel this is something he would have wanted. This will be followed by an eight-gun salute.”

After the pledge of allegiance, the flagman stepped back.

“Attention!” the man on the end of the shotgun team yelled. The men pointed their shotguns toward the sky. “Ready. Aim. Fire! Ready, aim fire! Ready, aim, fire!” After the third shot, a cloud of small turkey down feathers began to drift down over the cemetery and the crowd.

“This beats anything I’ve ever seen,” Greg whispered.

Special shells had been loaded with a half charge of powder and cupped cardboard wads so that the feathers would not catch fire and burn up as they exited the guns. Although a few of the tiny feathers were smoking, most floated down over the quiet graveyard as planned. Several seconds went by as the crowd watched the feathers float down to earth. Then, as if on cue, a turkey gobbler let loose with a blood-curdling gobble not 75 yards back in the woods behind the cherry trees. The thundering sound reverberated across the churchyard like a loudspeaker. After a moment of silent disbelief, the crowd began to clap.

Reverend White quickly spoke up.

“Friends, if that’s not a fitting symbol of immortality, I don’t know what is…” Everyone laughed as he looked up toward the sky. “Hardy, did you hear that? I know you did! You must have had this planned all along. Rest in peace, my friend. Praise the Lord!”

Several jeers and laughs came from the crowd as the gatherers began moving toward the church. It had been a special moment none of them would soon forget.

“This is surreal,” Will said, shaking his head as he clutched a small feather in his hand that he had caught in mid-air. “I’ve been to a lot of memorial services in my time, but this one takes the cake.”

“Remind me to find out who those fellas are,” Greg said. “What a way to check out. I want to hire them for my service!”

“What about that gobbler? You want him at your service, too?”

“I’ll settle for an up-close-and-personal meeting with him on our property come March,” Greg answered. “He was on our property, you know.”

“Sure sounded like it,” Will agreed.

   • • • • •

Will and Greg stood off to one side as the people went by. As soon as most of the people had gone inside, Will noticed an old man standing over by the pinewood casket that had not yet been lowered into the ground. The man was dressed in an old wool coat and brown tie. Large tears were running down his face. As Will and Greg watched, he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out several long black and gray wing feathers. He placed them on top of the casket. Then he pulled out a worn homemade slate and corncob striker and rested them next to the feathers.

Will walked over toward the casket and nodded at the man.

“Sorrow is such a big part of life,” the old man said philosophically.

“I guess we have to take the good with the bad,” Will answered.

“Yeah, ain’t no other choice that I know of,” the man said. “The Good Lawd give us plenty of blessin’s in this life, but He always gonna give us plenty of tribulation to deal wid, too.”

He wiped the side of his face. “Was you and Mista Hardy friends?”

“We lease Doc Warner’s land behind the cemetery,” Will answered, pointing to the woods beyond the cherry trees. “I didn’t really know Mr. Matthews, but I knew of him. Doc Warner talked about him all the time. He must have been a fine turkey hunter. We didn’t know that he had ….”

Tears immediately welled up in the old man’s bloodshot eyes again.

“It was a dern blood clot,” he said. “Why Mista Hardy be about the healthiest man I ever know. He only 56. Dern blood clot.”

“That was quite a sendoff his friends gave him,” Greg said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Will nodded in agreement.

“Oh those men love Mista Hardy to death,” the old man said, wiping another tear from his face. “He taught every one of them how to call up a big tom. In fact, he ain’t killed a big tom his own self in prob’ly three, fo’ seasons now. He spent all his time callin’ up birds for other people. Course, they’s only one bird he ever care about killin’ during these past few years—the Admiral. The Admiral be about the toughest bird anybody ever hear of ’round these parts. I believe he some kind of haint or phantom.”

“My name is Will Starr,” Will said, holding out his hand. “This is Greg Warner.”

“Jus’ call me Jonas,” the man said, shaking Will’s hand, then Greg’s. “Jonas Walker. You turkey hunters?”

“We make a stab at it,” Will said.

“Nothing like Mr. Matthews,” Greg added.    

“I done plenty a’ work for Doc over the years,” Jonas said. “He and Mista Hardy always be good friends. Mista Hardy, he be ’bout the best turkey hunter in the whole state.”

“He was a legend, all right,” Will said. “Doc Warner told us lots of stories about him. Told us his 300 acres is about the finest piece of turkey ground in this part of Georgia. We’ve been huntin’ on Doc’s land a long time, and we’ve had a heap of big gobblers over the years that found their way over to Mr. Matthews farm.”

“Most of ’em never came back, either,” Greg added.

“He not only hunt his farm, he hunt all over da’ world,” Jonas said. “He hunt over in Alabama two, three times a year, and he was always goin’ on trips to far-off places like Missoura and Pennsylvania. He say them big ol’ Eastern birds the toughest birds of all to hunt. He say goin’ to Texas after them white-feathered Rio Grandies about as easy as swattin’ flies. He also love to go after them swamp birds in Florida— what you call them?”

“Osceolas,” Will said. “I’ve never hunted them, but Greg has.”

Greg nodded. “They can be as challenging as Georgia birds,” he said.

“Mista Hardy, he be famous, too,” Jonas said. “He had lots of articles written about him. One mornin’ a few years back when he was out in da’ woods, he was easin’ across a ridge when he look up and saw the most magnificent gobbler he ever laid eyes on. The bird was standin’ on top of a small mound on top of a ridge like he own da’ world. The sun was just high enough above the trees to light up his feathers like he was on fire. He say that was the most breathtaking thing he ever seen in da’ woods. Said he bout had a heart attack. Right then and there, he name that bird da’ Admiral.”

“Did he ever get a chance at the Admiral?” Will asked.

“No, but boy he tried. He say that old Admiral be one bird that he might never get. Ain’t no other bird like him in da’ world. Why Mista Hardy been after him five, six years now. He told me, he said, ‘That bird beats everything I ever seen. But he’s just a mortal gobbler, and one of these days he’s gonna slip up. When he does, I’ll be waitin’. Then he’d wink at me.”

Greg said, “We have a giant bird that we’ve been hunting on our land. We call him Tree Stump because he’s so big and dark he looks like a huge black pine stump.”

“Yeah, he’s made fools out of us plenty of times,” Will said.

“You say he big and black?” Jonas asked.

“Yes, he’s huge,” Will said. “He’s got a 13-, 14-inch beard.”   

“Oh, Mista Will, it ain’t possible to have no Tree Stump bird in these woods. Why you been huntin’ the Admiral and jus’ don’t know it. I seen him go over on yo’ property plenty a’ times.”

“You mean, you think our Tree Stump is your Admiral?” Greg asked.

“I know he is,” Jonas said. “Didn’t you hear him let loose, just now? That be him. Why he prob’ly back there on yo’ property watchin’ us this very minute.”

“How do you know it was the Admiral?” Will asked.

“I know his old gobble anywhere. Anyways, wouldn’t be like him to miss Mista Hardy’s service. Them two was friends.”

“Maybe there are several old boss birds around here,” Greg said.   

“With all respect, I say you wrong. They ain’t but one boss bird ’round these-here parts, and it named the Admiral. Ain’t room but for one, and the Admiral ain’t no ordinary bird.”

“Well, he may be an old, boss bird, and a smart one at that, but he’s still just a turkey,” Greg said.

“Yeah, but he’s charmed. That’s what I always tell Mista Hardy. ‘Mista Hardy,’ I say, ‘I’m tellin’ you right now, that bird spiritual. He got somethin’ no other turkey bird got.’”

“‘Maybe he got some kind of sixth sense, but he not infallible,’ Mista Hardy said.

“After a while, I reckon Mista Hardy started believing it his own self ’cause somethin’ always happen every time he went out. Finally, Mista Hardy told me, ‘You know Jonas, you might be right. I’m beginning to believe that bird will never die from a load of No. 5s, at least, not from my old Remington.’

“But he never would give up. He ain’t never been one to throw in no towel. Hope a powerful thing. When you got hope, you still got a chance to make somethin’ work. Ain’t that what the Good Book say? I reckon that’s how them two become friends. And that’s why the Admiral be comin’ back to pay his respects now. I ’spect he also here to size you up a little. Leastways, that’s what he always done with Mista Hardy. Mista Hardy said so hisself. Them two sho’ had each other figured out.   

“It was jus’ a game, but Mista Hardy never give up. Why he told ol’ Jonas right fo’ Christmas if he could do one thing in his life fo’ he went through them Pearly Gates it would be to bring home da’ Admiral.

“He told me, he said, ‘Jonas, I’ve hunted longbeards for nigh unto 40 years now, and I’ve matched wits with some tough and most unpredictable birds, but I’ve never seen anything like the Admiral….’

“He was so lookin’ forward to this new season,” Jonas continued. “He told me, he said, ‘Jonas, I just got a good feelin’ about this season. I think I’m gonna outsmart the Admiral once and for all. I think this year is gonna be the year.’

“But it wasn’t meant to be. He got that awful blood clot. Now he’s gone.”

Big tears started to well up in Jonas’ bloodshot eyes again.

“I’m sorry…”

“It’s okay, Jonas,” Will said. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

“Thank you for sharing this with us,” Greg added. “We had no idea.”

“Reckon I better be gettin’ to work now,” Jonas said. “I dug Mista Hardy’s grave myself, and now I gots to fill it in as soon as they set down the casket.”

“You dug this entire grave by yourself?” Greg asked. “By hand? Why it must have taken you a couple of days.”

“It was a right tough job,” Jonas said. “I started at six yesterdee mornin’ and didn’t finish ’til way past dark.”

“By yourself?” Will asked in astonishment. “Why didn’t you get some help?”

“I figure that’s what Mista Hardy woulda’ wanted,” Jonas said. “It was somethin’ I had to do. He was awful good to me.”

“I’m sure he felt the same way about you, Jonas,” Will said.

“When you boys comin’ back dis way?”

“We’ll be doing plenty of scouting over the next few weeks,” Will said.

“Next Wednesday afternoon is cleanup day around the cemetery here,” Jonas said. “You come back, say ‘round 4 o’clock. I have somethin’ fo you. Somethin’ special. Somethin’ I reckon Mista Hardy want you to have.”

“I’ll be here,” Will said.

 

Part 2 of The Cherry Wood Gobbler