Written by Julie Winokur
Charlie Kirk is dead. The founder of Turning Point took a bullet to the throat while 3,000 young people at Utah Valley University looked on. Kirk, a right wing agitator, dare I say activist, launched anti-gay, anti-feminist, anti-woke daggers with smug certainty. He tested the limits of free speech and President Trump adored him. His death has the entire country on edge, no matter what you believe or whether you mourn his loss or celebrate his involuntary silence. We anxiously wait to see if this is the spark that will light our house on fire.
At the entrance to the Smith Point Hunting Club two small deer nibble at the grass near the gate and the canopy of trees rustles with rambunctious squirrels. A metal sign features drawings of a large antlered buck, ducks, wild turkeys, and a silhouette of a father and son holding rifles. The sign reads “Smith Point Hunting Club: Where Memories are Made.” We were unaware just how indelible a memory would be made for us this day.
We arrive in the dark and can spot Jimmy McClellan’s cabin by the strand of lights ringing its porch like pearls around a large tree trunk. The cabin is elevated to avoid the temperamental swings of the nearby river. We make our way into the woods with Jimmy as the half-moon retreats and pink gives way to orange. Jimmy is in the middle of a four-day fast, which comes on the heels of recovering from strep. “Most hunger is in your head,” he insists, scanning the brightening sky with his eyes. Two unsuspecting doves trace the orange dome, which finally surrenders to blue. Jimmy surveys the nearby trees, cradling his Baretta 12 gauge rifle. He’s in his happy place.
“Did you ever see Charlie Kirk?” he asks solemnly. He says Kirk’s murder rocked him at his core. When he saw the video, with blood spurting from Kirk’s neck, he took a knee and prayed.
I have to confess I was barely aware of Kirk before the assassination. Now it’s impossible to avoid him. He has been lionized by the Right and elevated to martyrdom. His name dominates every conversation and his image floods the Internet. There is talk of erecting statues in his honor. Christi was the first one to tell me about the fallout from Kirk’s assassination, when an Ole Miss employee lost her job for disparaging Kirk post-mortem. She had seen it on social media, where news spreads even faster than its made.
“People would come and attack him and it would just flow off him,” says Jimmy wistfully. “And he would tell them in a very calm manner what is actually true.” Jimmy spots some doves in a nearby bean tree and leaves them be because hunters don’t shoot doves when they’re sitting, only when they’re in flight. He uses birdshot, and he cuts open a cartridge to show us the small pellets that explode inside their little bodies. The pellets resemble mouse droppings and I am curious that something so little can do such big harm. A munitions website for Liberty Safe states, “Traditionally, birdshot is made of lead, but today “non-toxic” shot made from tungsten, bismuth, or steel is widely used.” It’s comforting that the manufacturers are so health conscious and that hunters will be protected.
“I like people that talk sense. Everything he said was factual,” Jimmy continues. “That really hurt me when they killed him. I personally believe it’s a communist plot or whatever. It’s the tearing down of America, and that’s what they want to do. Why? Because America is strong. We have these things,” he says as he hugs his gun tighter. “And that makes you secure.”
A dove takes flight and in one swift motion Jimmy swings his rifle from the crook of his elbow skyward. Pop, pop, pop. A brutal sound pierces my eardrum, followed by a high pitched tuning fork sound that lasts about a minute. I had no warning and was completely unprepared for the sudden intensity. I could appreciate the utter confusion an animal must feel when a bullet slices through skin before it even knows what turned its flesh inside out.
“Why don’t you wear earplugs?” I ask.
“I’m already deaf,” he replies.
Jimmy prides himself on being an independent thinker who sizes up people as individuals. He has sized up that we’re decent people and we’ve sized up a man with a big heart that is constricted by a narrow world view.
“I don’t watch any news. Zero news. Zero! Because I don’t believe what those sons of bitches tell me,” says Jimmy. “I like to figure out my own information and my own thoughts. I'm not a city person and I'm not bombarded with all of this information. I like to see for myself. Kind of like the book you're trying to write. I like to live this instead.”
Apparently, Jimmy has a sister who’s liberal—the only one in the family. A social worker with a “bunch of letters” after her title, he says she thinks you have to “understand” what people are going through. “I don’t like that feel good stuff,” which is what most liberals believe. “What’s actual is actual.” End of discussion.
Last November, when Jimmy was trekking into these woods, he became short of breath and could barely go a few yards before having to stop and rest. Mortally afraid of weakness, he pushed through the day, struggling just to climb the ladder to his hide. The only concession he made was to dash off an email to himself once he got inside: Call your heart doctor. On that Monday, the doctor did a CT scan and within 24 hours Jimmy was on a gurney heading in for triple bypass surgery. Considering that his brother died in his arms on these same hunting grounds from a heart attack, the incident rattled him. He pulls up his shirt to reveal the surgeon’s artwork. Jimmy now bears an impressive scar, his “zipper,” which runs from just below the cross dangling from his neck to the soft spot where his ribs meet.
Now Jimmy claims he just wants to live a simple life and be happy. The less people in his life, the better, because people bring their problems with them. He doesn’t want anyone else’s stress, let alone his own.
We tour the hunting grounds in Jimmy’s Can-Am, a side-by-side beast of a buggy that he maneuvers between tree trunks and through narrow passages forcing us to flinch and hunch our shoulders defensively. We visit a peaceful spot on the bank of an oxbow to the Mississippi River where a barge skims the water. Then we visit the memorial stone Jimmy laid for his brother, tucked inconspicuously in a grove of trees that would be hard to find for someone who didn’t know the intimate curves of this land.
Steve McClellan
May 21, 1956 December 5, 2020
A son brother father and friend
God rest his soul
No punctuation. Simple. Sweet. To the point. Actual.