Last Day for Old TomThe earth has risen again after a long cold winter. The snow was melting, leaving the streams to fill with runoff. The finches exchanged their ash feathers for their auspicious honeyed pompom. Spring had finally arrived, bringing with it the spring turkey hunting season. For weeks, I sifted through my extensive collection of turkey hunting gear, setting aside my most reliable shotgun and cartridges and my favorites in camouflage, decoys and turkey calls. Wild turkey hunting requires the judicious use of a mocking turkey call, a sound that will attract the turkey to the hunter. Calling a turkey or gobbler can mean sounding like another male and wanting a confrontation. It can also mean imitating the sound of a female searching for a mate. For many years before this one, I had spent many hours trying to perfect the “art” of calling. Little did I know all my hunting practice, my perseverance and patience were about to pay off. As the birds began their first blushing melody and dawn broke on the horizon, I sat down for what would become the world's most exhilarating hunt. spring. The crisp, fresh, forsythia-scented air greeted me at the front door as I left the house, taking with me everything I needed for a successful hunt. After filling my camouflage-adorned Jeep almost to capacity, I had one last thing on my mind. Even though I had never tried it before, I decided to put my tree stand in the Jeep as well. Tranquility and serenity filled the freshly colored forest paths. The leaves of the trees twinkled in the warmth of the morning sun like the lights on a Christmas tree. As I drove further into the woods, contemplating the perfect place to set up, I noticed a few definite signs... middle of paper ... that distinguish her from a female turkey. Very few gobblers have two or more. Killing a gobbler with these ornaments was like catching lightning in a bottle. I continued to examine it and noticed that its spurs, bony spikes on the back of its lower legs, were those of a three-year-old bird. My breathing was returning to normal and the rush had reached its peak as I put my hunting suit back in the bag. Jeep. With my head held high and proud of my step, I returned to my prettiest chicken and slung it over my shoulder to take it home to weigh and record it. I struggled to put into words all the emotions I felt on that memorable spring day, but I'm thrilled to have earned the bragging rights of being a 24 ½ pound gobbler. Today the masterpiece decorates my den wall and I will always enjoy telling the story of old Tom's disappearance..