by Kelly Reeves
My Ol’ Man was not my father. He was not my stepfather. He never courted my mother. What he did was step up to the plate and help raise a kid who needed a father figure. Mickey Cauthron is a name that is familiar to many Texas readers. For those readers that didn’t know him, allow me to introduce him.
Mickey Cauthron, whom I affectionately referred to as “the Ol’ Man” was an outdoorsman like no other. The Ol’ Man was exceptional in the woods. It always amazed me how he could walk into The Big Thicket, any of the National Forests, a mountain in Colorado, or anywhere else and never get turned around or lost. He never had GPS, and although proficient with a compass, he had no need for one. He had a natural ability to back-track his trail and return to the truck or camp, no matter how deep in the woods he may have gone. He could identify any plant or tree that grew wild in the United States. He was an exceptional marksman, often shooting pennies from the air with an old bolt action 22. He was a fur trapper, hunter with gun or bow, and tracked wounded animals like a Cherokee Indian. He was an avid fisherman, a knife maker, a houndsman, a farmer, a mechanic, and a darn good cook. He excelled at anything he tried. He was a good friend to many, and a wonderful stand-in dad.
During one chapter of my adult life, the ‘Ol Man and I both became wifeless at the same time. I rented an old farmhouse near his home which allowed us to spend more time together than usual. The first year of divorce brought a lot of changes for both of us, one of which was Thanksgiving dinner. I had to work that Thanksgiving Day and the Ol’ Man cooked the holiday dinner. He sliced the breast of two wild turkeys that he had killed. He marinated the strips overnight in a buttermilk bath, then battered and fried them and the drumsticks. He made a pot of smashed taters, a pan of biscuits, a skillet of cream gravy, and boiled some okra. It wasn’t entirely traditional, but was an excellent meal and it fit our budget. After supper, I cleaned the kitchen and bragged on his cooking. He said, “I’m glad you liked it. You can cook at Christmas.”
Shortly after Thanksgiving, I was invited on a cull deer hunt in the Texas Hill Country. I was instructed by my host to take whitetail does, spike bucks, and Rio Grande turkeys. During this dark period, we needed all the meat we could get. My instructions from the Ol’ Man were, “Don’t shoot the first uns, shoot the biggest uns.” I killed my limit of deer but had seen no turkeys. I really had my heart set on a turkey for Christmas dinner but was having no luck.
Around noon on the last day, I pulled into a small cafe and sat at a table to have lunch. My camo clothes, mud, blood, and stink made me readily identified as a hunter. I began visiting with an old fellow over lunch who had asked about my hunt. I told him that I was a little disappointed that I hadn’t gotten a turkey. I had clucked, purred, and gobbled until I was blue in the face without an answer to any of my calls. The old fellow replied, “Heck boy. Come to my place at 4 o’clock this e’nin and we will get you a turkey.” He drew me a crude map on a napkin and wrote his name and phone number on it. He told me to drive in real slow, park in front of the house, and come in the front door real quietly with my shotgun. I thought to myself, “This sounds like a bad plan to me.” I asked if I should come earlier as it got dark shortly after 5. He said, “ This won’t take but a minute. Them things are in my cow lot behind the house every e’nin eatin’ my cow feed.” I did exactly as he told me. I arrived at 4 o’clock, eased into the house, and there he was. He said “Get your gun ready. I’ll slide the glass door open a bit. You stick the muzzle out the door real slow. Pick you a bird or just shoot in the middle of ‘em. You’ll only get one shot and then they’re gone. Be dang sure you don’t shoot a cow.” Everything went just as he predicted and I got myself a young tom turkey.
I decided to pluck the turkey so as not to waste anything. I spent my last night in camp, plucking and dressing my bird and making plans to cook him for Christmas dinner. After a long evening of picking and plucking, my bird was still covered in pin feathers that I couldn’t get out. I recalled seeing the Ol’ Man singe the pin feathers off of ducks with a candle. I didn’t have a candle but I had something better … a Coleman 2-burner camp stove. I pumped the tank and lit the stove, and within minutes I had singed all the feathers off of my turkey. I did take notice, at that time, that the once beautiful tom now looked kind of pitiful. He wasn’t nearly as impressive without his plumage and didn’t much resemble a Butterball turkey. I iced all the meat, got a good night’s sleep, and headed home the following day with a successful hunt in the books.
Since I had worked on Thanksgiving, I was able to take off Christmas Day. I planned to cook Christmas dinner for the Ol’ Man and I, and a couple of other bachelor buddies. Now, I admit, cooking is like welding in my world. If I haven’t done it recently, I catch myself bragging about my prowess in both fields. I’m not lying about my skills. At that time, I truly believe I’m good at it. It’s not until I weld or cook something again that I ask myself, “Why do you keep telling people you can weld? Or cook?” Ron Nalls, a lifelong pipeline welder from Van Zandt County, TX, once looked at a welding project I had completed and was very proud of. I truly expected to get his stamp of approval but was quite hurt after his inspection when he looked me in the eyes and said, “ Looks like monkey poop.”
Christmas morning arrived and I began cooking. I had my freshly plucked wild turkey in a roasting pan. I seasoned him, put him in a baking bag, and slid him in the oven. I made a batch of cornbread dressing and a few side dishes. I prebought a beautiful coconut pie from the Dinner Bell restaurant in Van, TX. I was right on schedule and had everything checked off my list when our guests arrived. I set the table with top o’ the line Chinet paper plates and plasticware, and all my side dishes. The “DING” of the wind-up timer signaled the main dish was ready. I removed the turkey from the oven and placed it on a serving tray. As I proudly placed the tray on the table, the Ol’ Man asked, “What in the hell is that?” A little bit in shock, I replied, “It’s a wild turkey.” He said, “ No Son. That can’t be a turkey. That looks like an egret; or maybe a buzzard pullet. It damn sure ain’t a turkey.” “Why is it so swiveled up?” another asked. I was quick to point out that the correct word is SHRIVELED, but it didn’t help my feelings much. One of our guests said Grace over our meal and prayed that everyone survived it. I wasn’t going to let the mumbling steal my thunder. I sliced and served my turkey and have to say it looked a lot better on a plate. My Ol’ Man took a bite of turkey and immediately spit it out. He said, “Damn, Son. That ain’t a turkey! That tastes like a range cube marinated in Coleman fuel.”
Christmas dinner was a flop. We ended up having Fritos and bean dip, baked sweet potatoes, and the entire coconut pie for our meal. I’ve never been asked to cook again. I now leave the cooking (and welding) to someone else. If I ever do decide to cook another wild turkey, it’ll be done using the Ol’ Man’s recipe!
