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Having
just celebrated my 49th birthday in May, I am beginning to wonder if it
is worth it. The years are definitely catching up with me. Now, I know
there are people who are saying at this very moment, "Old at 49?!?
Give me a break."
Just
remember this, it’s not the age, it’s the miles. I look back on some
of the more stupid things I have done and I wonder just exactly what was
I thinking? One thing I know, it sure did seem like a good idea at the
time!
I
wasn’t a bad kid; I just managed to get hurt a bunch of times.
It’s
a combination of old injuries and plain old age that is my problem now.
My worn out ankles and knees I’m used to so I can handle the pain from
them. I have been kicked by cows, stepped on by cows, bitten on the
finger by calves still in the cow, thrown from horses, bitten by dogs,
cut with a pocket knife a million times, bashed so many fingers and
thumbs I’ve lost count. I have broken an arm and almost lost my left
eye from an angry cow. But all of this I’m used to; they are injuries
I’ve had for years and they are almost like old friends. (They
tell me when the Resurrection comes, we’ll get a new body that doesn’t
have all the old damage. If so, I won’t know how to act, assuming I
make the cut.)
What
I can’t get over is how I just don’t have the stamina I used to
have. When I was 19, I could exist on about six-and-a-half hours of
sleep. I would work all day on the farm, quit at dark and then go help
the neighbors load watermelons until midnight, just for the fun of it. I’d
get home, grab a shower and go to bed and get up at five o’clock in
the morning and do it all over again. Not anymore.
When
I was in my 20s and even 30s, I could still hand-load about 700 square
bales of hay, unload and stack them by myself.
I
could outrun cows when I was tagging calves. Now I have to stand my
ground and fight them because I cannot outrun them.
As
I neared my mid-forties, I had to admit I was slowing down. It’s funny
how when you are young, you think 50 is ancient, but as you get closer,
it doesn’t seem that old. I turned 49 in May and reality set in. It
really set in back during turkey season, a good four weeks before my
birthday.
It
all started on April 2nd. I have been hunting a particular turkey for
three years. This bird had always managed to give me the slip. He was
the boss tom and although he would come close when I called and he would
enthusiastically answer me, he never showed himself. Many mornings I
thought I had him only to have him hang up and eventually move off.
Sometimes I felt as though I was running a turkey dating service as I
watched a hen pass by me, wave her wing in thanks and go straight to the
gobbler telling the world where he was and that he was available. I
hunted and scouted, scouted and hunted, and finally developed a game
plan to get him. He followed a pattern every morning and I knew within
100 yards where he would be at any given time between sunrise and 9 o’clock
in the morning. The problem was he knew how to make me commit to a stand
by making me think he was coming to me.
Finally,
my time came and I was in the right place at the right time. I only
called to him three series of yelps. The first was when he was way down
in the woods and, when he answered, I just knew he was going to
come. Of course, I had been there many times before over the past three
years. He was about halfway between me and the hardwood bottom he
started from, when he gobbled again. I gave him three or four soft yelps
and he answered, this time much closer. I did just what all the books
and magazines tell you to do, I shut up. It was just a few minutes and I
saw him coming through the pines. He was about 40 yards out and made a
cut to my right and, instead of coming to me, he was moving away from
me. He was behind a youpon bush and I could see him, but not shoot him.
He was one step away from an opening between another youpon bush. I
yelped at him very softly another three times and he stepped into the
small opening. My dad’s old Winchester thundered and just before the
recoil I saw the underside of his wing, which told me he was down. I
jumped to my feet and went to recover my bird. I had carpal tunnel
surgery back in January and I still have problems putting weight on the
palms of my hand…like when an old fat guy gets up off of the ground.
If my hands hurt, I wasn’t aware of it. I got to my old bird and later
measured his spurs at an even inch and a quarter. I admired his 9.5 inch
beard and tried to guess his weight (18.5 pounds). I felt very satisfied
with myself. I had gotten this turkey, with no help from anyone but the
man above. I slung my turkey over my shoulder and started on the
satisfying walk only a turkey hunter can appreciate.
It
wasn’t long afterwards I was convinced I had shot the heaviest turkey
ever killed. At least it felt that way. I had probably a half-a-mile
walk to my truck and had to stop to rest twice. All of my clothes were
soaking wet and I could hardly breathe. I was worn out. I was only 48
then.
Just
a few weeks ago, my wife had me running a tiller at church to plant some
shrubs and I literally thought I was going to die. I told her if this
was what getting old was like, I’d just as soon die now and get it
over with. I am now at the age where I cannot hear most of what is said
to me and remember even less. Too many loud tractors and guns have made
me half-deaf.
There
are some benefits. I know a great many people who are way older than I
am and I’ve always been a believer in, if someone has got enough sense
to survive 70 or 80 years (or even more), they have earned the right to
do some things the way they want to, regardless of what anyone else
thinks. I feel as 50 nears, I deserve a few of those "survival
perks."
One
is that I refuse on or after my 50th birthday to ever pick up or even
touch another square bale of hay. I just am not going to do it; I don’t
care if the barn is on fire.
I
am sure this list will grow as 2009 approaches. I’ll let you know.
Ralph
Ricks is the manager of Quality Cooperative, Inc. in Greenville. |
