They say drunk texting is a bad idea. I wonder if that principle holds for writing? If it does, this post is as ill-conceived as investing in Kmart.
I’m turkey drunk, at least that’s what I’m calling it. This stupor is a puree of:
• a 4:00 am wake up
• stumbling through uneven, rock-strewn, pre-dawn woods in the dark with sweat beading and soaking my clothes
• spooking a turkey off his roost because I went in deeper than my blind was actually located
• creating new swear words in the solitude of the aforementioned pre-dawn woods
• finally finding my blind after I’ve taken the scenic route through the entire valley
• hauling gear to a new location while calling in the hopes of getting a tom to respond
• getting one to respond then…
• playing Marco Polo with him down to 30 yards without a clear shot
• coming home to crash in bed (which is where I just came from. I wish I was still there.)
The dreams were bizarre at best. Bizarre enough to omit what they depicted. I sprawled on the bed diagonally and remained in an in-between state of dreaming and waking for what seemed like ten minutes. It was really two hours. During that time, I can divulge that I heard turkeys gobbling in the backyard; which made me sit up and look out the window. Only I didn’t. Opening my eyes I could tell I was still horizontal in bed, the gobbling and looking out the window a concoction of my turkey drunk brain.
Tomorrow I’ll do it all over again, only I’m heading to church directly afterwards instead of coming home to crash. There’s a strong chance I may be doing some prophesying or speaking in tongues during service. Wonder what our pastor will do if his preaching is punctuated with hen yelps?
I’ve been there more times than I can count. During turkey season, I wake up every morning to a day full of promise and endless possibilities. I eagerly choke down a donut and cup of coffee and then head to the woods with a skip in my step and a song in my heart. By nine or ten that morning, though, my jovial attitude has gone somewhat sour and I start thinking about maybe going crappie fishing instead. By the close of the season that day, I hate anything and everything that has to do with turkeys and turkey hunting. I think that anyone who takes up the sport is a damn fool and I know my wife is correct in saying that the only reason I participate is to practice my cussing. Yet, when the alarm clock goes off before daylight the next morning, it’s like the movie, “Groundhog Day”. I’ve forgotten all about yesterday’s trials and tribulations and know that today is going to be THE DAY that I finally best that gobbler at his game. I’m glad the spring season isn’t lengthy like our archery season is. I’d be dead from exhaustion after the first month.