Woman Midwest-style

Spring 2014  It had been six weeks after my mastectomy -- turkey season would open  at sunrise,  April 21st.  Being layed up for pert'near two months, I was ready to roll out the door. I knew of a spot populated with large gobblers, so  familiar with those fields I can walk in before day's light without a headlamp. (The best tactic not to alert roosting birds.)  Spring was a welcome sight after deep snows and frigid cold.  I dreamt of hunting turkey.  But 2014 was not the norm after February 12th. In the nighttime after dinner, my husband watched his hunting shows before work while I was online double checking the locations I could hunt.  I plotted mileage to drive and yards to walk in for several set ups. Typically, my favorite area is a 3/4 mile walk.  But being a favorite wasn't my top priority this spring due to regaining my strength, still low after surgery.  I tried to plot for less strenuous plans: A, B and even C.  I had no idea how it would all pan out.  I h

SPRING 1999           It was Friday well before dawn, the first week of the season.  I took a vacation day to turkey hunt, hopeful to get a jump on other hunters who would undoubtedly intrude into that section of property, though it was privately owned.  I loaded the '95 Ranger with my lunch and turkey vest loaded with calls,  water  and two ultra lightweight decoys stuffed in the back.  My 20 gauge safely in its case,  I tucked it and a box of shells behind the cab.         Most folks use a 12 gauge but I got a deal on a used, very nice Ithaca semi-auto 20 gauge pump shotgun.  Its action was smooth and the solid walnut stock gleamed after a good rubdown.  I was ecstatic to own my first real gun after lifelong borrowing to hunt.  No men's own shotgun would fit me, b eing a short woman, so any loaner was appreciated but uncomfortable.  I finally had a gun that fit me and was raring to go.        Driving the hour through sleeping small towns and winding narrow bla

It's said that turkeys are the dumbest, smartest critters out there.  And years of hunting them darn birds has proven it can be tiresome and frustrating but also blood-pumping exciting when the plan, my plan comes together.  BOOM!!      A flurry of feathers and the ol' tom backflips to the ground.  The big gobbler flops on the dirt thirty-some yards in front of me, its legs sporadically kicking with wicked talons as big a spread as a man's hand.  The pungent smell of gunpowder wafts into my nostrils -- it's pure exhilaration!  "Yeah!" I holler, my voice echoes down the hill.  I gaze as the big bird's wings flap in reflex to the shot.  I lower my gun, still on high alert to slam the action to shoot again if he gets up to escape.      Leaping forward, almost in disbelief, I scramble to the bird that is still twitching 'like a frog in a frying pan'.  My brain doesn't quite acknowledge yet that it's dead.  Logic spoke, 'Okay - it&