My dad was a barber by trade and at this time in his and my mother’s marriage, they lived in a small town in the Florida panhandle and rented a house from a friend who was a high school principle in a small South Alabama town. Mr. Smythe owned this very old civil war era home, which supposedly was built with the aid of slave labor. It was one of those grand old Southern homes with large rooms, high ceilings and a wrap around high porch, which, when standing on it, one could see all the way down the half-mile dirt entrance road leading up to it. Being good friends with my parents, and needing someone to act as caretaker for the home and grounds while he was employed with the Alabama school system, he rented it to them for a small monthly fee with the understanding that they would maintain and perform the needed maintenance as well as look after the grounds and animals.

Mr. Smythe was very fond of animals and had a few horses, chickens and geese on the place. His favorite farm animals though, were his turkeys. He loved turkeys…..he had, it seems several varieties…..the regular ones, white ones, large ones, small ones…..all kinds of turkeys. He had built special pens and coops for them with running water and special feeding setups. He had this THING about turkeys. It was part of my dad’s job to look after all of these animals, especially the turkeys. I can remember him commenting that Mr. Smythe thought more about those turkeys than he did the whole rest of the property and stuff on it.

My dad was never much of a hunter ….. a fisherman yes, but hunting was not something he cared a whole lot about. He did have a couple of guns though, and shot them on occasions. An old Stevens .22 automatic that jammed most of the time when it was fired, and an even older 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had the name of N. R. Davis and Sons on the receiver. The gun was given to him by an old man when my dad was a teenager needing a new stock and forearm ….. the originals having been destroyed in a fire. My dad was real good at woodworking so he re-stocked it in a nice piece of walnut. It was not a high quality gun and having been shot a lot over the years, it was loose to the point that at times the safety did not always work and it would not lock up tight when closed. Since my dad didn’t use it that often, he just lived with it, making allowances for the condition and normally using low power field loads.

One of the biggest fears of a turkey farmer is wild dogs and/or foxes or coyotes getting in the coop and killing them. As mentioned earlier, Mr. Smythe had provided facilities to prevent this occurrence with his prized turkeys. However, one thing he and my dad forgot about is that given enough time, wing feathers grow to a point where if the turkeys are so inclined, they can fly over the highest fencing. This is what happened to about a half dozen of his prize birds early one morning. They had managed to fly out of the fenced enclosure and were feeding out in front of the house.

I awoke to a commotion in the house caused by my dad slamming the closet door shut where the old 12 gauge was kept. Asking something about what was happening, I remember the words, "dogs in the turkeys". He had the gun broken and was loading it, afterwards it would be very apparent; with buckshot ….. not the normal light field loads.

My dad always slept in a night shirt, the length of which went down to his knees …… this was his attire at this moment. Closing the double gun, he started running through the house, night shirt flying with me close behind, headed for the front door. Opening the door and walking out on the front porch revealed mass confusion. Out about 40/50 yards, were the wayward turkeys together with a pack of real excited dogs. The dogs had the turkeys surrounded and were having a field day. Turkeys were squawking, dogs were barking and growling …… it was pandemonium.

My dad was not one to use foul language, but at this moment he forsook this approach to life ………. "damm, can’t get a shot, turkeys are in the way". No way did he want to be responsible for the demise of even one of Mr. Smythe’s turkeys. The dogs however, were not allowing the turkeys to disperse. They were literally tearing them apart.

I remember my dad saying something to the effect, "hell, they’re going to be dead if I don’t do something". What followed will remain, I guess, with me until I breathe my last. I remember dad shouldering the old double gun, taking aim and firing. I remember flames, yes that is flames plural, coming from the ends of both barrels and a noise that seemed to defy description. I looked at where my dad had been standing, and through the smoke a couple or three feet back I saw him flat on his back, night shirt wadded up around his waist and the old double gun lying across his chest.

"Did I get one, did I get one"?

For a four year old, the sight was just too much. I laughed until I cried….I still laugh to this day when I recount the event. It’s one of those things that you had to have been there to fully appreciate it….. it’s hard to convey to others just how funny it was.

The old double gun just could not take the full power of the buckshot load without it’s internal parts doing things they weren’t supposed to do. True to its name, it had doubled. My dad, not expecting it was caught off balance and it put him on the porch….. oh it was funny!

We looked out at the scene of the carnage to asses the damages. There were turkey feathers everywhere, some still floating to earth. There were two dogs down and two or three limping down the driveway howling like they had just met the devil himself. And, horrors of horrors, there were two turkeys down and the remaining ones had patches of hide showing….. no feathers. The double load of buckshot had done its job.

The whole situation now had become funny to my dad. He, still on the porch floor, started laughing so hard he could hardly breathe. When he could talk again, all he said was, "what am I going to tell Mr. Smythe"?

I guess it turned out ok, we didn’t get put out on the street and I’m sure my mom made good use of the two turkeys that didn’t survive the ordeal.

The old double gun is still around. My brother is the current owner and needless to say, it has been regulated to wall hanger status. I still like to pick it up and shoulder it……when I do, my mind instantly goes back to that early morning so long ago when my dad learned first hand about that law of physics that says that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.