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| Wild turkey gobbler struts his stuff. |
(For decades, local historian and paranormal investigator
George “Buster” Singleton published a weekly newspaper column called “Somewhere
in Time.” The column below, which was titled “Agony, suffering ended for dying
Phantom Tom” was originally published in the April 15, 1976 edition of The
Monroe Journal in Monroeville, Ala.)
Phantom Tom was a huge wild turkey gobbler. Although he’s
dead now, this is our story. This tells of my association with him, how he
became known as Phantom Tom, and the circumstances leading to his death.
One of my favorite pastimes is trail bike riding. Most
afternoons when I get off work, weather permitting, I ride the back trails of
Monroe County by motorcycle. I see the wonders of nature and listen to the
sounds of the deep woods, and when I return home I feel relaxed and rested. It
was on one of these excursions that I saw this huge turkey gobbler for the
first time. It was before the spring hunting season, and I just got a glimpse
of his feathered body as I climbed a steep hill that I liked to ride up. At
that time I didn’t think much about seeing this beautiful bird, because I had
seen wild turkeys many times during my rides through the woods.
A day or so later, while climbing the same hill, I saw him
again. I stopped only to see him disappear over the side of the hill.
Gone with flash
He vanished so quickly that I thought of a ghost turkey, or
some type of phantom bird. One minute he was there, standing proud atop the
tall steep knoll. Then, with a flash, he was gone – vanished into thin air. I
couldn’t even hear the sound of huge wings that one hears when a wild turkey
becomes airborne. It was as through he had faded into the ground.
As I sat there astride my trail bike, I remembered that in
two more days spring hunting season would be in and I could come hunting this
fellow legally.
Several days passed before I really got a good look at the
old warrior. I had tried to call him with a mouth caller or yelper. This was
done in the early morning hours when normally a gobbler will answer with a
gobble. When they come close enough, you can hear them strut and drum the
ground with their wings and feet.
Phantom Tom, the nickname that I had given this wise old gentleman,
would never answer my calls. The only way that I knew he was around was the
sound of him running through the leaves and pine needles, down the side of the
hill.
Admire and respect
One evening just as the sun was casting its last rays, I sat
down in my usual place at the bottom of the hill and slowly eased myself into a
shooting position.
I had grown to admire and respect this cunning old bird from
my past acquaintances. I eased my yelper from an aspirin box, placed it in
position in the roof of my mouth, and yelped three times.
Gently I called, trying hard to sound like a young turkey
hen beckoning her lover. That was when I saw him: he came out from behind a bush
with wings spread and tail feathers flattened. His long beard touched the
ground. He pranced and strutted, he drummed the ground.
I sat looking at the most magnificent sight I had ever witnessed.
Here before me after many hours of waiting was the old master himself.
I became aware that I was looking at this beautiful wild
creature, in all his splendor, over the sight of my rifle. I lowered it. I just
couldn’t destroy such a beautiful creature. I whistled a loud shrill blast
through my front teeth, and Phantom Tom was gone.
Hunting without gun
Throughout the spring season I would hunt the wise old
turkey each evening. Only I didn’t carry a gun. I would sit behind the same
bush and call him at sundown. Nearly always he would come out into the small
opening in the brush and strut, drumming and showing off like the king he was.
The spring gobbling season passed, and I continued to tease
the old gentleman with the mating calls. We both grew tired of our game after a
while, and I didn’t see the big tom for several days.
One afternoon as I climbed the steep hill on my trail bike,
I saw my old friend standing right in the middle of the trail, with wings
spread and tall feathers flattened. I slid the bike to a stop, and in the
process of stopping I fell to the ground, skinning my knee.
I looked up and there he was, still standing as though he would
jump me at any moment. I was angry because of my skinned knee and torn
trousers. I swore aloud, “Old man, if it’s a fight you want, I’ll catch you and
wring your neck.” I started after him, down through the pines and underbrush, jumping,
running, dodging and falling.
Just out of reach
The old gobbler stayed just out of reach; never once did he
try to fly to safety.
I ran until I was exhausted. I fell down on my hands and
knees, gasping for breath. I looked up, and directly in front of me stood the
big tom turkey, looking as if to say, “You should have known better.” Then he
was gone.
Three weeks passed after my foot race with the phantom. I
rode out that way several times expecting to see my friend. Each time I topped
the steep hill, I would expect to see the crafty old fellow standing in the usual
place beside the trail. But he was never there.
On Saturday morning, I slipped away from the chores that my
wife had carefully and firmly suggested I do, and headed down through the cool
woods for a few moments of relaxation. I decided to make a quick run up the
hill – maybe I’d see the old gobbler. Sure enough, as I rode over the top of
the hill there he stood beside the trail. As I slid to a stop, I thought to
myself, “Here we go again.”
Shot under wing
But something seemed to be wrong. My old buddy wasn’t
running. I had my hands around this body in about three or four strides. As I
grabbed for his feet so he wouldn’t sink one of those long spurs in my arm. I saw
that Old Tom had been shot, just under the wing.
Instead of the fine, healthy turkey that I had chased
before, I was holding a dying old warrior of nothing but bone and feathers. The
smell of rotted flesh emerged as I raised his left wing. His whole side was a
working mass of maggots, eating away the remaining flesh from his
bullet-riddled breast.
The old tom stood very still, too weak to resist. I knew
that there was nothing I could do now.
I watched his stout old heart grow weaker through the
opening in his side. I reached over across his back and picked up a short stick
that was lying there and ended for all time the agony and suffering with a
sharp blow to the back of his head. Without a struggle, Phantom Tom was dead.
A turkey’s epitaph
I buried the old tom just off the trail a ways, at the top
of the hill. His grave was a deep stump hole with heavy pieces of timber laid
across to keep out wild animals.
If I were to write an epitaph of a wild turkey, it would
sound something like this:
TO PHANTOM TOM
Loved and feared by his own kind,
Respected by one who wasn’t
Gallant and Fearless:
King of the hill; in this life,
And probably, too, in the next.
[This column also included an editor’s note that read: This
article, first published several years ago, is reprinted by request.]
(Singleton, the author
of the 1991 book “Of Foxfire and Phantom Soldiers,” passed away at the age of
79 on July 19, 2007. A longtime
resident of Monroeville, he was born to Vincent William Singleton and Frances
Cornelia Faile Singleton, during a late-night thunderstorm, on Dec. 14, 1927 in
Marengo County, graduated from Sweet Water High School in 1946, served as a
U.S. Marine paratrooper in the Korean War, worked as a riverboat deckhand,
lived for a time among Apache Indians, moved to Monroe County on June 28, 1964
and served as the administrator of the Monroeville National Guard unit from
June 28, 1964 to Dec. 14, 1987. He was promoted from the enlisted ranks
to warrant officer in May 1972. For years, Singleton’s columns, titled “Monroe
County history – Did you know?” and “Somewhere in Time” appeared in The Monroe
Journal, and he wrote a lengthy series of articles about Monroe County that
appeared in Alabama Life magazine. It’s believed that his first column appeared
in the March 25, 1971 edition of The Monroe Journal. He is buried in Pineville
Cemetery in Monroeville. The column above and all of Singleton’s other columns
are available to the public through the microfilm records at the Monroe County
Public Library in Monroeville. Singleton’s columns are presented here each week
for research and scholarship purposes and as part of an effort to keep his work
and memory alive.)
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