Spring for me is a time when I stand amazed at the growth of my children.

The swift passage of time and the grey hairs that seem to show up in my

beard in the pre-dawn hours. Easter and it's memories of family get togeth-

ers. The carrying forward of our family traditions and the faith of my fa-

thers'. Turkey hunts, beautiful hand made calls, dogwoods in bloom, and the

glory of a pre-dawn wood lot. The quiet. The feeling of being there as if you

are witnessing the birth of the universe. You can feel God there with you.

The soft whistle of a whippoorwill in the morning air.

The sound of a turkey's wings beating as it flies down in the first crack of

day light.

That lone gobble in the mist. He's the one bird you never seem to pin down.

Every southerner (cause we are a hopelessly romantic lot) who hunts them

has one. That one majestic long beard that seems to always escape every-

one. Every season. No matter that we claim to be hunting this bird 10 years

later. His name is Crazy Larry, the ghost, psycho gobbler, Boss. He never

seems to die. For some reason he is that rarest of all turkeys. The UNDEAD.

Oh well. The South has created many creative and wonderful people and a

few kooks. I guess I stand in line with the kooks... Those who chase red

headed strutting birds around all spring. Bass all summer and fall and little

furry animals all winter long.

The glory of the outdoors is the wonder of God's creation. God's intricate

planning and workings to provide for us this magnificent place we call home.

It's just that down here. In Dixie. In Georgia we live in His den.