In the land of the late great Larry Brown lives a man about my same age. He and I were in school together in Oxford, Mississippi, eight years ago, and he is close to finishing a dissertation on the foundations of the American experiment. The peculiar part is that he was born in a province six hours from Shanghai, China, and he has taken an obsessive interest in the history of the United States. I am not the only person that has joked with him that he is a Chinese spy, but his friends are all “rednecks” according to Bob.
When I called Bob it was because I knew from speaking with him that he was living in a cabin in Panola County, Mississippi. He sent me a picture in winter of thirty turkey congregated in his driveway. I wanted to kill two birds with one stone, so I called Bob from Academy sports where I was buying a new camo mask, and invited myself to his cabin for the evening in the hopes of shooting a turkey in the face in the morning. He was about five hours from Gadsden on the North shore of Sardis Lake. As I drove to meet up with him I hoped that his landlord would allow me to hunt, but I knew there could be trouble here, especially if his landlord was a hunter himself. Most hunters are extremely proprietary about their birds. I know I am.
As I passed a sign for Senatobia, Bob called and explained, “I have never known Al to not be laid back, but he really does not want you to hunt.” I said, “well, I understand, but I am already on my way.” I thought maybe I could convince him that I am a good person, and a competent hunter by talking with him. When I pulled in to Bob’s landlord’s spread it looked really rich in turkey habitat from what I could tell in the dark of night. I was really happy to see Bob, as it had been nearly a decade.
He had changed somewhat. Apparently, he did not play music anymore. The legend of Bob is that he taught himself to speak English by listening to Hank Williams Sr songs on youtube during a more permissive Internet period during the early 2000s. Im unsure if the Chinese government would censor Hank Sr now, but Bob was enthralled during this time by country music and some Rock and Roll, and he ultimately found his way to Mississippi blues tracks. He used to play the guitar so much that I would sometimes call him and make requests. When we were in school together I once drove him from Oxford to Birmingham where he proceeded to catch a greyhound to go visit the Hank Williams Museum in Montgomery. He thumbed his way to the museum. Since his PhD in History, Bob has put the guitar down for a time, and he seems more concerned with classical and enlightenment influences on the founding of the American government.
When I arrived we shook hands, and I ate the fried rice he cooked me. Then we took the bottle of Basil Hayden I brought over to Bob’s buddy Kevin’s house, and my plan was to ply them all with my superior whiskey. Then they started shooting Blanton’s. I sipped mine.
They all gave me a significant amount of shit about driving five hours to not be allowed to turkey hunt, so I broke out my fly rod and showed them how beautiful my cast is. I was in full strut. Pulling out videos of turkey, and tarpon jumped. I was not in their club until I knew who Hannah Baron is, and then I seemed to meet their approval. However, the landlord and his wife were wasted and went home before I had finished peacocking in the street with my fly rod. I said, “I’ll just fish Sardis if I can’t hunt; no big deal.” Bob and I took the dirt road home to avoid county road blocks, and he fairly well fell asleep before we made it back.
I slept on the couch in his office, and at 6:30 am I heard a gobble through the thin corrugated tin roof and walls of Bob’s home. I arose. Put on my camo, and walked outside to my truck. Within five minutes I heard a gobble, and so I got out my slate, and started grinding on it with the striker. “Yawp, yawp, yaw.” One answered immediately, but I hesitated. On the one hand, I felt Bob should be allowed to have company kill a turkey if it is done in his driveway. On the other hand, if I was proven wrong I certainly did not want to complicate things with Bob’s friends. They seemed to be great salt of the Earth folks, and they were smoking a pork shoulder, so if I shot a gobbler chances are that I would miss the bbq. Furthermore, I did not want Bob to be dispossessed because of his Alabama redneck friend. His Mississippi friends were practicing barbecuing for the Memphis in May World Championship of BBQ, and so I did want to see what their cooking was all about.
I sat against a tree in full camo, and put my gun on my knee. I never put a shell in, and the gobbling continued. Finally, I got anxious and stood up, just then a bird awkwardly busted me and ran into the pines at a forty five degree angle. Then I walked down to Sardis Lake and caught a few crappie momentarily, but then I could never draw them to hand because of all the structure they were finding. Al the landlord watched me from his porch, and then came down to investigate me one more time. I was fully dressed in turkey gear. But I had no gun. I just wanted to make them gobble, and I viewed it as a chance to build a friendship where I could come back some future year and hunt. We even played corn hole while we ate barbecue, but he twisted the knife as I departed, saying, “only ten more visits and I’ll let you hunt.” I laughed it off, but I was spent, and had to make a five hour drive home to teach in the morning.
While we ate bbq, Bob’s “redneck” friends watched Nascar at The Richmond Speedway, and a den of children played on go carts, and trampolines. I noticed that Bob was hardly speaking, and he was no longer imbibing alcohol. He seemed so distant from these friends. I could tell he was happy I came to visit, so I guess I killed one bird with that stone.
Please enjoy this sampling of Bob’s talking points on America from my new Panola County hunting camp.
Some Senatobia Blues Sounds…