The Old Home Place

By: Millie Strings @heylittlemillie

We all have a place that we go to in our minds and see whenever we hear that expression—or, if you’re one of the fortunate few, that song. A place that reminds us of good times spent with family and friends, with memories that we will cherish for the rest of our lives.

Springtime turkey hunting is an obsession of mine. I say obsession simply because that’s what it is. It’s nearly all I think about, and a conversation topic I will never turn down.

One particular hunt from this spring sticks out to me and will resonate on my soul forever.

It all started out as usual. Getting up as the clock struck 4:30, I crawled out of bed and walked downstairs to a cup of instant coffee. After gathering my gear and successfully not disturbing my wife or dogs, I set out on the same trail I have set out on many a time.

As I arrived to a piece of ground I am so fortunate to hunt, my mood quickly changed from tired and grouchy to anticipation and excitement. Any springtime turkey hunter knows this feeling—it’s nearly indescribable. I quickly gathered my vest, put on my boots, made sure my Thermacell—something everyone in the South should have—was burning hot, and set out to my listening spot.

Soon, the call of a whip-poor-will started, and just as the first hint of light from the East began to crack, the sounds of songbirds began to sing a tune that resonates with your soul just like a Jimmy Herring solo. The anticipation that had started out as a small ember was now burning inside with the hottest flame.

It was still early, but the birds here like to gobble early, and in that moment I heard a sound that burns the flames of anticipation in any turkey hunter brightest—a barred owl. Awaiting the sound we all know and love, I was deeply disappointed when there was no answer.

Knowing there were birds in this area, I simply knew I had to be patient, and with that in mind, I hooted back. To my surprise—nothing. After going back and forth with the barred owl for what seemed like ten minutes, I decided to switch locations. Surely one would sound off soon.

As I moved around hooting down different ridges, I made my way to the most surefire spot. As the dawn turned into early light and the last little bit of darkness left the sky, I pulled out another tool in my bag of tricks—an old hand-me-down crow call. Something many a friend has poked fun at me for having, but one that has worked many a time.

To my luck, after a quick but loud cadence, there was the familiar sound… a gobble! Then another. Two birds!

Knowing where they were located, I hurriedly made my way to cut the distance between us in half. After doing some yelps, I quickly went quiet—and just as they often do, so did they. The waiting began.

After what seemed like twenty minutes, I let out a string of yelps and clucks and was answered—this time by two gobbles that had gained some ground in the opposite direction. Getting up and knowing where they were headed, I was able to sneak around and get in front of them.

Not knowing exactly where they were, I let out a few cuts—and to my surprise, no answer. Still, I trusted the direction they were headed and moved to a spot that would give me the best advantage.

I don’t know what told me to stop, but I did—and on the third note of my first yelp, they cut me off! Hurriedly, I dove onto the ground and sat up against a very wide loblolly.

Just as I looked up, they gobbled again—much closer. Unfortunately, I had placed myself in the worst position. A patch of greenbriers was directly in front of me. Just as I gathered the courage to move, I heard a sound—the one noise every obsessed turkey hunter truly loves.

Drumming.

Drumming is a sound a gobbler makes in strut. It’s faint, but when they’re close, you can hear it. It almost sounds like a bass line. When they’re real close, you can feel it—and by this point, I could feel it.

And at that moment, as I peered through a hole in the greenbriers, there he was. Full strut, walking right at me. His feathers shone in the sun with as much beauty and grace as the harmony of a live Love Like Me. It was perfect.

He made his way across the lane in the back of a greenfield to about 30 or so steps. He then came out of strut and started looking around for the hen he had heard. After meticulously scanning for what seemed like an eternity, a simple whine from my mouth call made him look just a bit harder.

One swift lift of his head, and it was over in an instant. A flutter of feathers—and he was mine.

As I stood there over him, I did what I always do—I FaceTimed my wife. Once the moment was over and I was sure he had expired, I took him to where I had been sitting, plopped down, and let the adrenaline run through me, just soaking it all in.

After letting the nerves settle, I packed him up and back to the truck I went. In the heat of the moment, I hadn’t realized it—but as I was leaving, I turned around, and in a glance, I saw it.

There in its beauty—reminding me of a time when life was simple, and folks were kind. Surviving storms, logging, and construction—still standing…

The Old Home Place.

-Millie