A Little story about Thomas D. Johnson

It was the type of morning rookie duck hunters dream of and seasoned veterans dread, wet and gray.  Just a few days removed from the afternoon that I awkwardly asked for the hand in marriage of Mr. Thomas D. Johnson’s middle daughter, and there was still a good bit of awkwardness in the air, mixed with the relief that the asking was over, and permission had been given.  This morning the wakeup call came at 4:30 a.m., and as I was slowly getting started the little yellow lab Phoebe was making her rounds around the camp house.  There had been an ice storm that had subsided almost a week ago, but most of the mid-south was still frozen, particularly Northern Arkansas, and thanks to this we were sitting in South-eastern Arkansas with waterfowl everywhere!  There were ducks in the drainage ditch’s, ducks on any spot of water they could find, and in some spots without water.  This was my first duck hunt in the Mississippi flyway, my first hunt since I was a kid in central Georgia, when I and one of my Dad’s buddies managed to talk him into taking me to a flooded beaver pond in the hopes of shooting a duck or two.  Man, was this different, heck the only duck I’d seen killed my whole life was a Wood Duck, now there were thousands of bird’s the likes of which I’d only read about.  I was in wing shooting heaven. 

          The journey began the night before, with a drive up from Monroe, LA trying to beat the icing of the roads, after a quick stop to pick up several duck blind staples, including Twinkie’s and coffee, we were on the way. 

As we neared the camp we slowed down on the side of the road and my host Mr. Thomas Johnson, said, “Roll down your window and listen.”

The sound of waterfowl was deafening, they were everywhere, I could hear them; and with a little luck we’d shoot a few greenheads in the morning.  Whatever happened it would be my first real duck hunt, and I was sure to remember it for a while.  After a brief unpacking that night, and toddy to help us sleep Tommy and I managed to get the lights out about 10:30, after watching the “Duck Camp forecast” on the camp TV. 

The next morning wired with anticipation, I clumsily got ready and attempted to get my waders on, no small feat for a rookie duck hunter at 5 a.m.  After running around like a chicken with my head cut off for a few more minutes Tommy muttered something about “Fartin’ around” and I interpreted that to mean speed it up.  So I did and we loaded up the truck and with Phoebe the lab in tow we were on our way.

We pulled up to the pole barn where the four-wheeler was kept, and loaded the Honda as quickly as we could.  The whole time my pulse pounding with excitement, “this is it” I thought, “This is what duck hunting is supposed to be”.  I wasn’t really sure what it was supposed to be, but I felt like this was it, even though Tommy kept assuring me that it wasn’t the best day for ducks, it felt right to the rookie in me.  As we rode out to the blind, the ice began to break on the water, it created a sort of symphony of it’s own with its cacophonous tinkling.  Then all of the sudden a group of ducks jumped up out of our hole, “yep, this feel’s right” I thought to myself, we might kill a duck or two.  We soon settled into the blind and took our respective ends; it would be just the two of us today.  The others would arrive at the camp this afternoon.  But, for now there was this blind with two men who were just beginning to feel each other out, and then it started.  The sun was coming up, or at least the sky was getting light, for we wouldn’t see the sun all morning we’d just sense it.  Then after a while they came in, a group of mallards that looked down with interest and then as they flew away, Tommy let loose with a few notes from one of his calls.  Then as if by magic (at least it seemed that way to me) their wings tipped a little and they came back with renewed interest, as they finally took their closest pass, a mere 10 yards in front of the blind  Tommy shouted “Shoot” and I did…all three times unloading my 870 without even cutting a feather.  But they didn’t get by unscathed, Tommy had managed to drop a greenhead, and then as if to remove the last bit of awkwardness he groaned, “Gordon…you need to learn to shoot”.  And then it was gone all of the sudden we were just two men in a hunting blind trying to kill supper, no more future father-in-law future son-in-law tension, just two guys who weren’t afraid to tell it like it is.

We would have a great morning by my standards, which admittedly weren’t that high.  The weather continued to be grey with bits of Snow flurries and sleet as we sat in the blind, but I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.  We had a pretty good shoot in spite of the weather, we were even lucky enough to pick off a couple of low flying snow geese who were unfortunate enough to fly over the blind.  Then by 10:00 am, I was one bird shy of the limit, and Tommy had filled his and emptied his gun.  It was up to me.  Shortly a group of three mallards came in, after a little calling they got into what I would now consider to be “chip shot” range, and I proceeded to raise up and punch three holes in the air, I didn’t manage to knock off a feather, not one!  And the razzing began…I was a full fledged member of the club and there were no pretensions of courtesy, Tommy let me have it for holding up his breakfast. 

Thankfully, for me 15 to 20 minutes (and an eternity of admonishments having to do with biscuits, and being out of coffee) later, two pintails, a Bull Sprig and a hen, came in and made a large loop right in front of the blind.  Then on cue they turned into the wind and flew right at the blind, flying low, not more than 3 or 4 feet off the water.  Flying closer they cut right in between two flapping decoys on the pole, I heard Tommy call the shot, and he added “don’t shoot the decoys”.  I pulled the trigger the first time and true to myself cut a hole in the air, but then as the Bull Sprig turned skyward my second shot found its mark.  He folded just as pretty as you please, and a few minutes later Phoebe would return with a beautiful Bull Pintail to complete my limit.  I couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.

This was my first hunt with Mr. Johnson, the first of many since and more to come.  This would take place just a few days after asking for his daughter’s hand in marriage (and witnessing Quincy Carter and my beloved Georgia Bulldogs pull off the greatest come from behind victory in Bowl History against Drew Brees and the Purdue Boilermakers), and we were really just getting to know each other.  But, I think we learned a lot about each other that morning, I know I realized that I was a lucky man to be gaining a father-in-law like him, and I guess Tommy realized that I needed to learn how to shoot.

Gordon C. Shaw Jr.

(who has been trying to learn to shoot ever since)