My wife has long accused me of carrying around an empty cranium, and other than the trivia, well, she is pretty much right.
But in the spirit of this stored trivia and Christmas, I am offering you a Christmas movie trivia quiz this week.
Keep score and let me know how you do.
1.) In the movie A Christmas Story, where the kid, Ralphie, longs for a Red Ryder BB gun, what was the mystery phrase he solved with his Little Orphan Annie de-coder ring?
A.) Buy a Daisy Red Ryder, 200 shot Range Model with a compass in the stock, and this thing that tells time.
B.) Drink more Ovaltine!
C.) You’ll shoot your eye out!
D.) Daddy Warbucks is a Grinch!
E.) Fragile(y)! It’s Italian!
2) Hark, y’all! (I love that word — hark!) In the A Charlie Brown Christmas special who plays the part of the shepherd?
A.) Linus. He puts blanket to good use.
B.) Pigpen. One gets dirty out there in the pasture.
C.) Sally
D.) Snoopy
3.) In the movie It’s A Wonderful Life, two characters named Bert and Ernie were later the inspiration for the names of Jim Henson’s Muppets on Sesame Street. What were their occupations in the holiday movie?
A.) A bartender and a bank teller.
B.) An angel and a mayor.
C.) A druggist and a solider.
D.) A cab driver and a cop.
4.) What Little Rascal had a cameo in It’s A Wonderful Life as a grownup?
A.) Spanky
B.) Buckwheat
C.) Alfalfa
D.) Petey
5. In the Dr. Seuss animated TV special, How the Grinch Stole Christmas the singer of “You’re A Mean One, Mr. Grinch” also helped make another cartoon character great if not famous with his booming voice. Which cartoon character was it?
A.) Toucan Sam
B.) Yosemite Sam
C.) Count Chocula
D.) Tony The Tiger
6. What famous actor provided the famed voice for the narration and the Grinch in the animated special? And, as part two, what other green character did he portray in another movie?
A.) John Smith, The Jolly Green Giant
B.) Boris Karloff, Frankenstein
C.) Johnny Whitaker, Sigmund the Seamonster.
D.) Jim Henson, Kermit The Frog
7. Complete the following:
“…And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled ’till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit ______?”
Answers
1. B. “A crumby commercial!?!”
2. A. Linus. Pigpen is the innkeeper. Snoopy plays a host of critters.
3. D. A cabbie and a cop.
4. C. The Barber of Seville, Carl “Alfalfa” Switzer had a few other acting gigs. It all ended later, in a brawl over a bird dog, when the actor was shot. Perhaps some things are worth fighting for (others are not)?
5. D. Actor Thurl Ravenscroft sang the song and was later well-known as the voice of Kellogg’s Tony the Tiger.
6. B. Boris Karloff. Evidently, for him it was not only easy being green, but it was also profitable. Also, a lot of people think Karloff sings the “…Mean One…” song, too, but they are mistaken. (See No. 5.)
7. MORE! Again, try to remember “Christmas means more” this holiday as you celebrate with your family and friends.
Your Score
0-1 - So, as a kid, you bumped your head on the mantle while hanging a stocking, right?
2-3 - You’ve been dipping in the eggnog a bit early this year, eh?
4-6 - OK, so you have seen quite a few Christmases come and go.
7 – Perfect! Call Santa. Apply for job, now! He needs your help!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
The Birth Of A Blood Trailer
There’s a burnt-orange dog that sleeps in the monkey grass, near our home’s front doorstep.
Her name is Honey and she, like most golden retrievers, is sweet and loves people to a fault.
“Don’t let her jump up on ya and lick you to death,” I have to constantly warn visitors.
This bad habit follows a year or two of failing (evidently) to explain to my son, “If you let Honey jump up on YOU, she’s going to try to do that with EVERYBODY.”
“But Dad, she just wants to dance,” he said.
So, fair warning, we have a golden at our house that likes to put her paws on you when she greets you. Now, you can dance if you want, but I step on her toes enough that she doesn’t dance with me. (If you do choose to dance, though, let her lead.)
I think she woulda been a top-notch retriever had her trainer not failed her. Her nose keen, no doubt. She can smell carry-out from a great distance and has found dead doves for me in the thickest of the thick.
Honey, has been run over twice (once by a truck AND trailer), that I know of, kicked pretty good by a cow or two, and hates being penned up so much she will chew through mesh-wire fence to get out. So, she is also a pretty tough character when its called for, despite her sweet nature and name.
She is a darn good hunter, too, often bringing neighboring quail, rabbits, moles, voles, etc. to hand, even though I didn’t ask for such.
Her primary job for the family, though, is to let us know if somebody arrives unexpected, be it stranger, polecat or coyote.
She doesn’t care much for deer, and with that in mind I let her blood-trail one my son shot on the youth hunt. The buck fell off into a very deep and log-loaded kudzu ditch, so rather than try to trail a deer in the jungle by myself, I went home to get Honey.
Well, what do you know? She’s a blood-trailer, too. In hind-sight leaving that long lead on her was not a good idea, and she told me as much when it became tangled around the buck’s small rack. And yes, there was a brief moment that I wondered whether the whitetail was going to carry my dog away. But Honey wore on the dying buck. As it turned out, both of the buck’s shoulders were ruined and when it bedded down, Honey bedded down with it.
I wanted to get a photo with my phone, but I didn’t dare get in photog range, or I might risk jumping the buck and sending them off to the races again. So I just watched the strange scene, both of ’em bedded down like cattle in pasture.
And Honey babysat it pretty good, too, well, in her way. She just lay there licking the dying buck on the nose and muttering her favorite recipe of tenderloin sautéed in a skillet with onions, peppers and red wine. (I guess like most of us, she does have a dark side, too…or at the least, a sick sense of humor.)
Well, we got that buck, and of course, I shared some venison with the dog. (She told me I shouldn’t cook with such cheap wine! But I did note Honey said it with a mouth full of venison.)
She has since gone on several other blood trails with dead deer waiting at the end, and a time or two she found only a bloody arrow. And true, on some of the trails, we already knew where the dead deer was. We took her just because we knew Honey likes to go along. (I mean what are friends for?) I suspect it also keeps her dead-deer retrieval/finding skills sharp as well.
One fall day, I told my buddy when we picked Honey up to take her on a fresh trail, that she was talking to us, and asked if he could hear her.
“No, what’s she saying?” he asked, since he obviously did not speak golden retriever.
“Oh, she wants to know what we have messed up and let nearly get away this time,” I laughed.
But really, a good blood trailer is always good to have around, especially if they can also hold down/stunt the monkey grass, fend off polecats and dance with the guests…
Taylor Wilson is an editor at Bill Dance Publishing. He can be reached via email at taylorwilson@billdancefishing.com.
Her name is Honey and she, like most golden retrievers, is sweet and loves people to a fault.
“Don’t let her jump up on ya and lick you to death,” I have to constantly warn visitors.
“But Dad, she just wants to dance,” he said.
So, fair warning, we have a golden at our house that likes to put her paws on you when she greets you. Now, you can dance if you want, but I step on her toes enough that she doesn’t dance with me. (If you do choose to dance, though, let her lead.)
I think she woulda been a top-notch retriever had her trainer not failed her. Her nose keen, no doubt. She can smell carry-out from a great distance and has found dead doves for me in the thickest of the thick.
Honey, has been run over twice (once by a truck AND trailer), that I know of, kicked pretty good by a cow or two, and hates being penned up so much she will chew through mesh-wire fence to get out. So, she is also a pretty tough character when its called for, despite her sweet nature and name.
She is a darn good hunter, too, often bringing neighboring quail, rabbits, moles, voles, etc. to hand, even though I didn’t ask for such.
Her primary job for the family, though, is to let us know if somebody arrives unexpected, be it stranger, polecat or coyote.
She doesn’t care much for deer, and with that in mind I let her blood-trail one my son shot on the youth hunt. The buck fell off into a very deep and log-loaded kudzu ditch, so rather than try to trail a deer in the jungle by myself, I went home to get Honey.
Well, what do you know? She’s a blood-trailer, too. In hind-sight leaving that long lead on her was not a good idea, and she told me as much when it became tangled around the buck’s small rack. And yes, there was a brief moment that I wondered whether the whitetail was going to carry my dog away. But Honey wore on the dying buck. As it turned out, both of the buck’s shoulders were ruined and when it bedded down, Honey bedded down with it.
I wanted to get a photo with my phone, but I didn’t dare get in photog range, or I might risk jumping the buck and sending them off to the races again. So I just watched the strange scene, both of ’em bedded down like cattle in pasture.
And Honey babysat it pretty good, too, well, in her way. She just lay there licking the dying buck on the nose and muttering her favorite recipe of tenderloin sautéed in a skillet with onions, peppers and red wine. (I guess like most of us, she does have a dark side, too…or at the least, a sick sense of humor.)
Well, we got that buck, and of course, I shared some venison with the dog. (She told me I shouldn’t cook with such cheap wine! But I did note Honey said it with a mouth full of venison.)
She has since gone on several other blood trails with dead deer waiting at the end, and a time or two she found only a bloody arrow. And true, on some of the trails, we already knew where the dead deer was. We took her just because we knew Honey likes to go along. (I mean what are friends for?) I suspect it also keeps her dead-deer retrieval/finding skills sharp as well.
One fall day, I told my buddy when we picked Honey up to take her on a fresh trail, that she was talking to us, and asked if he could hear her.
“No, what’s she saying?” he asked, since he obviously did not speak golden retriever.
“Oh, she wants to know what we have messed up and let nearly get away this time,” I laughed.
But really, a good blood trailer is always good to have around, especially if they can also hold down/stunt the monkey grass, fend off polecats and dance with the guests…
Taylor Wilson is an editor at Bill Dance Publishing. He can be reached via email at taylorwilson@billdancefishing.com.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Friendship, Fun Wrapped In A Foliated Box
By Taylor Wilson
“You know I like duck hunting best, right?”
This from my nine-year-old when we were hunting something other than ducks.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Well, because you can talk a whole lot more,” he said.
I laughed and thought of his mom, and realized the gene pool is indeed split 50-50. (When the kid was a baby, he babbled so much that I figured he would probably have no other career choice than auctioneer.)
“I also like it because you get to be in the blind with your friends, and cook stuff and have fun. And if it is really right, we get to shoot a lot, together,” he added.
I agreed, with him, and as a dad, enjoyed his word “together.” Then I added that if forced to choose, my leanings were more toward waterfowl as well. And then it hit me.
Clubhouse?
A duck blind is no more than a clubhouse, really. Not unlike those places we would build out of scrap lumber as kids and go hide from the rest of the world with our best buds and our dogs.
Why had I never seen it that way before?
Maybe I had listened too much to some who believe blinds to be nothing more than a foliated box where they sit and wait?
Or maybe it was because it had been too long since I saw it through the eyes of a child?
This year, according to waterfowl surveys, looks to be a bang-bang, bang-up season; so clubhouse time could be prime.
But I have heard the “Mega Migration” predictions before, and to tell the truth, I have actually experienced better seasons in the reportedly lean years, than in those forecasted to be fantastic. So I am skeptical, in a cup-half-empty, one-hipboot-leaks, one-doesn’t kind of way.
Yep, you see enough seasons, greenhouse theory included (gaseous as that may be), and you’ll witness all the cycles of cold weather, rain/water and crop production/food. You’ll notice they pretty much chart all over the place. And at such times, it doesn’t matter how many ducks are north (or south) of you.
Then too, on the other side of the johnboat, just have all the ’fowl factors line up, and it can become the kind of season where clubhouses/blinds become crowded.
So it comes down to: We can only hope and keep our trigger fingers crossed.
But either way—lots of dead ducks or only a few—at Show Time I am mainly shooting for some time in the clubhouse/blind, with good buds, good food and our dog.
What? Some of us will never grow up?
Probably not, if we had been given a choice. But even all grownup, we can still catch a hint of being able to travel back, now and then, especially when occupying a camouflaged clubhouse.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Savannah's TN River Museum
My son and I were recently on a fishing trip in the Pickwick area, and when we left the water, we traveled north to Savannah, Tenn., for a stop at the Tennessee River Museum, 495 Main St.
This is truly one of those hidden gems, not unlike a freshwater pearls, that the museum tells about and showcases inside.
I had been there before and wrote a story about it, many years ago for a daily newspaper; at the time the museum opened its doors.
But each time I visit I am impressed and learn something new, which is what museums are supposed to do.
The “company” line is the museum includes info and artifacts about: dinosaurs, T.V.A., history the prehistoric Mississippi Mound Builders, the tragic story of the “Trail of Tears,” the Civil War on the River, the Golden Age of Steamboats, and the Tennessee River today and much more.
But this description sells short what there is to learn and appreciate here, especially when you see it through the eyes of a child.
For example, a child might learn:
“Wow! This general had 30 horses shot out from underneath him in the War, and still survived!”
Or, “I never thought a cannon ball this small, would be this heavy.”
And maybe a kid can pick up a dose of reality about the difference between video games, action movies and a real war.
He can learn that bayonets were used not only to kill people, but also to drag countless dead bodies from the field; that the “Bloody Pond” really was just that; and that the “Hornets’ Nest” must have been hell on earth.
Yep, there are a lot of lessons and amazing things to learn here. Check it out, should you ever be in the area. Take your kids.
Museum hours are Monday-Saturday 9 a.m. until 5 p.m.; and Sunday, 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $3 for adults and free to those age 18 and under. Orange admission tickets to nearby Shiloh National Military Park allows for free admission to museum, as well.
For more information, call 800-552-FUNN.
This is truly one of those hidden gems, not unlike a freshwater pearls, that the museum tells about and showcases inside.
I had been there before and wrote a story about it, many years ago for a daily newspaper; at the time the museum opened its doors.
But each time I visit I am impressed and learn something new, which is what museums are supposed to do.
The “company” line is the museum includes info and artifacts about: dinosaurs, T.V.A., history the prehistoric Mississippi Mound Builders, the tragic story of the “Trail of Tears,” the Civil War on the River, the Golden Age of Steamboats, and the Tennessee River today and much more.
But this description sells short what there is to learn and appreciate here, especially when you see it through the eyes of a child.
For example, a child might learn:
“Wow! This general had 30 horses shot out from underneath him in the War, and still survived!”
Or, “I never thought a cannon ball this small, would be this heavy.”
And maybe a kid can pick up a dose of reality about the difference between video games, action movies and a real war.
He can learn that bayonets were used not only to kill people, but also to drag countless dead bodies from the field; that the “Bloody Pond” really was just that; and that the “Hornets’ Nest” must have been hell on earth.
Yep, there are a lot of lessons and amazing things to learn here. Check it out, should you ever be in the area. Take your kids.
Museum hours are Monday-Saturday 9 a.m. until 5 p.m.; and Sunday, 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $3 for adults and free to those age 18 and under. Orange admission tickets to nearby Shiloh National Military Park allows for free admission to museum, as well.
For more information, call 800-552-FUNN.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Two Thumbs (Hooked) Up/My Life As A Pin Cushion
The Trials & Tribulations Of A Good Hook-Set
By Taylor Wilson
Ever read the, “this happened to me!” columns in the old outdoor magazines?
You know the stories I’m talking about. It’s the ones where some guy spent hours on a life raft and thwarted sharks, or where another guy climbed a tree, chased by a grizzly bear and survived only because he raked the bear’s snout with a piece of his arrow.
I was once at an outdoor writers’ meeting where the aged and grizzled scribes began telling about their “near-death experiences in the outdoors.”
One by one they told of the horrors they had somehow managed to survive and be present, there that day, to make laps around the free food bar.
When it came my turn, I of course, told ’em the truth of my most dangerous outdoor adventure:
“Well, WAY back in the day, I was hunting duck hunting off somewhere, and the night before we were hanging out in a honky tonk, and I made the BIG mistake of asking an even BIGGER guy’s girlfriend to dance.
“Have you fellas ever heard the Skynyrd song, ‘Gimme Three Steps?’ Well, I lived it! No wait, better make that, I SURVIVED it, way back in a 1980-something duck season!”
Now, my fellow scribes were not impressed. Especially not the one that had been washed down white-water rapids while trout fishing, nor the guy that had battled a Russian boar (in Russia) with a penknife!
Oh well, I survived, nonetheless. And just maybe it was such experience that got me through my latest mishap. But meanwhile in the spirit of the old magazine columns:
So there I was betwixt hook and crook…more so than rock and a hard place.
My tackle box lid was broken and would not stay closed, but I strapped it across my back, anyway.
Took it off my shoulder, put it in the bed of my truck.
Unbeknownst to me two bass plugs with (as it turns out) several very sharp treble hooks decided to hitchhike on my hind quarters, clinging to the backside of my Sunday pants.
I realized this when I sat down in the truck.
Ouch.
Of course, it wasn’t just one hook, but judging from the pain in my butt (literally), there were treble hooks aplenty.
So, I did what most folks would do when sitting on something sharp: I tried to fly.
Not unlike those folks that sat on tacks placed in chairs back when we were kids.
(An argument for what goes around, comes around, I tell ya.)
But, as it turned out, I was also now hooked to the seat covers, and the bass plugs, which were also hooked to my Sunday pants as well as some padding I had accumulated on a diet of high carbs.
Rising upward with my feet, I used a free hand to reach around and flank the problem.
And guess what?
It went from bad to worse.
One of the darn things snagged a thumb. The more I moved it, the deeper the barb went into my thumb.
So, again, there I was—contorted kind of limbo-like.
I remained this way for a few seconds that seemed like hours, realizing I couldn’t drive like this. And if I could, what would I do when I got there?
So I finally lifted upward and ripped free, from the seat covers. I was still wearing treble hooks in/on the hiney as I stood on the side rails and drove the pickup from a storage building to my house.
While driving, I had this image of me, falling out, being run over and found dead with bass baits attached to my butt.
Nope, it wouldn’t exactly be going out in a blaze of glory. But I’d be an obituary writer’s dream: “ANGLER DIES OF PAIN IN THE BASS,” “END OF LINE IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE FOR FISHERMAN,” “THOSE HE LEFT BEHIND,” “ANGLER’S DENIED HIS LAST FISHES,” “ANGLER KICKS (MINNOW) BUCKET;” and “LAST CAST,” etc., etc., etc.
But fortunately, as noted, I survived and made it into the house…though bleeding moderately, and got the pants off. And sure, I said several un-Sunday like things, but then again, these pants were never again be labeled “Sunday pants,” either.
After much pained delay, I finally got to leave for fishing trip.
Of course, it promptly rained it out, basically while en route to the water.
And as I retrieved my fishing rods from a friend’s vehicle to return home, they slipped and I felt the not-so old and familiar pain, again, but this time the hooks was in my other thumb.
My buddy helped cut it out with needle-nosed pliers. And after threatening to sue him for malpractice, I went home—bleeding yet again, and thankful again to BE the one that got away!
By Taylor Wilson
Ever read the, “this happened to me!” columns in the old outdoor magazines?
You know the stories I’m talking about. It’s the ones where some guy spent hours on a life raft and thwarted sharks, or where another guy climbed a tree, chased by a grizzly bear and survived only because he raked the bear’s snout with a piece of his arrow.
I was once at an outdoor writers’ meeting where the aged and grizzled scribes began telling about their “near-death experiences in the outdoors.”
One by one they told of the horrors they had somehow managed to survive and be present, there that day, to make laps around the free food bar.
When it came my turn, I of course, told ’em the truth of my most dangerous outdoor adventure:
“Well, WAY back in the day, I was hunting duck hunting off somewhere, and the night before we were hanging out in a honky tonk, and I made the BIG mistake of asking an even BIGGER guy’s girlfriend to dance.
“Have you fellas ever heard the Skynyrd song, ‘Gimme Three Steps?’ Well, I lived it! No wait, better make that, I SURVIVED it, way back in a 1980-something duck season!”
Now, my fellow scribes were not impressed. Especially not the one that had been washed down white-water rapids while trout fishing, nor the guy that had battled a Russian boar (in Russia) with a penknife!
Oh well, I survived, nonetheless. And just maybe it was such experience that got me through my latest mishap. But meanwhile in the spirit of the old magazine columns:
So there I was betwixt hook and crook…more so than rock and a hard place.
My tackle box lid was broken and would not stay closed, but I strapped it across my back, anyway.
Took it off my shoulder, put it in the bed of my truck.
Unbeknownst to me two bass plugs with (as it turns out) several very sharp treble hooks decided to hitchhike on my hind quarters, clinging to the backside of my Sunday pants.
I realized this when I sat down in the truck.
Ouch.
Of course, it wasn’t just one hook, but judging from the pain in my butt (literally), there were treble hooks aplenty.
So, I did what most folks would do when sitting on something sharp: I tried to fly.
Not unlike those folks that sat on tacks placed in chairs back when we were kids.
(An argument for what goes around, comes around, I tell ya.)
But, as it turned out, I was also now hooked to the seat covers, and the bass plugs, which were also hooked to my Sunday pants as well as some padding I had accumulated on a diet of high carbs.
Rising upward with my feet, I used a free hand to reach around and flank the problem.
And guess what?
It went from bad to worse.
One of the darn things snagged a thumb. The more I moved it, the deeper the barb went into my thumb.
So, again, there I was—contorted kind of limbo-like.
I remained this way for a few seconds that seemed like hours, realizing I couldn’t drive like this. And if I could, what would I do when I got there?
So I finally lifted upward and ripped free, from the seat covers. I was still wearing treble hooks in/on the hiney as I stood on the side rails and drove the pickup from a storage building to my house.
While driving, I had this image of me, falling out, being run over and found dead with bass baits attached to my butt.
Nope, it wouldn’t exactly be going out in a blaze of glory. But I’d be an obituary writer’s dream: “ANGLER DIES OF PAIN IN THE BASS,” “END OF LINE IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE FOR FISHERMAN,” “THOSE HE LEFT BEHIND,” “ANGLER’S DENIED HIS LAST FISHES,” “ANGLER KICKS (MINNOW) BUCKET;” and “LAST CAST,” etc., etc., etc.
But fortunately, as noted, I survived and made it into the house…though bleeding moderately, and got the pants off. And sure, I said several un-Sunday like things, but then again, these pants were never again be labeled “Sunday pants,” either.
After much pained delay, I finally got to leave for fishing trip.
Of course, it promptly rained it out, basically while en route to the water.
And as I retrieved my fishing rods from a friend’s vehicle to return home, they slipped and I felt the not-so old and familiar pain, again, but this time the hooks was in my other thumb.
My buddy helped cut it out with needle-nosed pliers. And after threatening to sue him for malpractice, I went home—bleeding yet again, and thankful again to BE the one that got away!
Monday, June 29, 2009
No Trash Fish, No GARbage, Just Great Fishing
By Taylor Wilson
LOWER SARDIS, Miss. — Mark Beason is the editor of Mississippi Department of Wildlife, Fisheries and Parks’ Mississippi Outdoors magazine.
Among his many other claims to fame, he is also the self-proclaimed title of “No. 2 Gar Man” in all of the Magnolia State.
“Sure, it might not be your typical title (gar being labeled a ‘trash fish’ and all), or it might not even be a title most will claim with pride, but I will take it,” said Beason, a Jackson, Miss. resident.
“And last year, for a while, I was actually No. 1, because the top gar man was out of commission after an ATV accident,” Beason told me.
But these days, the No. 1 Gar Man is reportedly back to health, and Beason is still happy being No. 2.
And as most know, being No. 2 is not all bad because the claim is that “No. 2’s try harder”—’cause they have to.
Such extra effort might be what sparked Beason to have us meet him on this particular shoe-sole-melting day in late June.
The thermometer in my truck said it was 100 degrees when my 9-year-old son, Landon, and I waded through the parking lot’s heat waves to get to the boat.
“Only a fool, or, of course, the No. 2 Gar Man, would go fishing on a day like today. Surely, all the other gar gurus are at home soaking up freon,” I thought out loud.
“Oh, it is going to be top-notch gar weather,” Beason said. “The hotter the better!”
Beason has been chasing gar for a long time. He likes it for reasons other than the fishing is hot, though. He also likes it because the fish are big and follow suit with their fight. He claims gar battles are the closest thing to saltwater fishing that most Mid-South anglers can find.
“And it is probably not a good gar trip, if somebody doesn’t go home bleeding,” he told me.
Something that proved prophetic, at last count No. 2 was bleeding from more than one locale at day’s end. We battled many a bruiser (as well as a couple that were more into lacerations than blunt trauma, evidently.)
Beason makes his own gar lures out of white nylon rope. He frays the rope really well with a wire brush so that it resembles pieces of white beard from a Santa suit.
“These baits last forever, are inexpensive to make and the more you use ’em, the better I think they work,” he said.
He douses the wooly pieces of rope with various attractants (crawfish-, shad-scented, etc.), and believes this helps draw more strikes than rope baits not sprayed with smell-um.
Before the rope is frayed it is run therough a swivel and secured with mono-filament wraps. Above the bait, Beason places a bullet weight which gives cast-ability and added drop.
“I really fish it like you would a Texas-rigged worm, letting it sink, and maybe swimming it from time to time. I think the gar hit it most often on the fall.”
As one might imagine the frayed rope flares in the water, much as a hair- or feathered jig does.
“You don’t set the hook (there is no hook), when a gar strikes the bait,” Beason said. “You just keep the line tight and add pressure as their teeth get caught in that nylon rope. Once they shake their head, you have got ’em; though for a while there, you might think he has you,” he laughed.
Of course, getting a gar “unhooked” from a nylon fray can be a feat in itself.
We had the most success doing this by lifting them up out of the water with channel-lock pliers gripping the gar baits, and letting the weight of the fish rip the nylon tangles from their rows of teeth.
Thick gloves are recommended (see earlier mention of gar fishing trips and bleeding) when handling gar.
Beason admits to eating gar, and actually says they can be pretty good, though he also notes the best way to clean ’em is to use tin shears.
As with my previous trip with the No. 2 Gar Man, we caught lots of fish and most averaged in the 12- to 15-pound range, and some were near or over 20 pounds.
“I bet there is no one else anywhere on Sardis today that caught this many pounds of fish,” he said.
I bet he was right.
Of course, my son had a great trip. And though I worried he might not make it well in the extreme heat, by halftime he was already asking when he could come back with Gar Man, No. 2. (Having a cooler full of drinks certainly helped fight the heat.)
As it turns out most folks nearly always have a chance of catching their biggest-fish-ever on a gar trip. And Landon did this with his the first gar he caught.
“That’s the fun-est fishing trip I have ever been on,” my youngster said later at the ramp. On the way home, he covered up with a gar-scented beach towel and drifted in and out with dizzy conversation about when we would return for gar and questions about how long until duck season. (There is something to be said for a sportsman that has his priorities set at an early age!)
Admittedly, on this trip, Landon had the best of both worlds. When not landing his own fish, Beason and I would often hand over fish we had on line, so the kid could battle ’em to boat. And the battle is the reason people fish for gar, of course.
Prior to the adventure, Beason told me that no one had ever officially set the Mississippi record for longnose gar on a fly rod. (FYI, though, the all-tackle record is 40 pounds, set at Grenada spillway, according to MDWFP). So I carried a fly rod with me on this trip, for no other purpose than to catch a state record. After all, it would only take one longnose gar (any longnose gar) on the fly rod, no matter the size, to be in the sate record books, what with it being the first entry and all.
So later in the afternoon, with our game for gars about to be called due to darkness, I put down the bait-caster, took out the fly rod and caught one that weighed 8 pounds or so.
But despite a wonderful battle, and well-played fish on my end, if I do say so myself, I was denied.
“Oh no, I am not going to let you take a record with that, ” said Beason. “That’s a pup, if you are going to kick off the category, you ought to at least catch one around 15 pounds.”
So the day ended. And just as unofficially as Beason is No. 2 Gar Man in Mississippi, well, in my (record) book, anyway, I am the unofficial Mississippi record holder for longnose gar on a fly rod — for now, at least.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Sight(s) Set For Fall
By Taylor Wilson
I am seeing things a different way—in a whole new light.
I broke down, or went for broke (literally) a month or so ago and had LASIK eye surgery.
My buddy Chester “Grumpy” Dixon volunteered to drive me home after the procedure.
So he was the one I handed my keys, my knives and all spare shotgun shells in my pocket over to, before I went back to be prepped for procedure.
Needless to say this gathered some attention in the waiting room. But a pocket full of ammo and knives did not stand out as much as when I accidentally showed up with a handful of waterfowl loads (post morning duck hunt) at the Capitol in Nashville for some sort of conservation meeting.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just steel shot, won’t hurt much and politicians are supposed to have thick skin,” I laughed as I handed over the ammo to the State Trooper.
(Hindsight, indicates I am lucky I am not still in the state pen.)
But back to eye surgery… So there I was, sitting in the back waiting for my turn under the laser, in a recliner at full-tilt, wearing a hair net, listening to Muzak and enjoying a happy pill, when they came to check on me.
“How’s Grumpy doing up front in the main waiting room? Is he behaving himself?” I asked.
“Yes, and thank goodness, because thanks to you, he now has ammo,” an employee told me.
“Well, yeah, but at least he doesn’t have a gun,” I replied and offered a relaxed-and-getting-more-so chuckle.
Several minutes later, really, my vision was corrected. Even so, I didn’t open my eyes because Grumpy was soon driving us home, and it was near 5 p.m.—on I-240.
And despite his urgent pleas to do so, I told Grumpy it was best to go home and sleep as the doctor ordered, and not stop and test my new vision at Hooters.
The next day, when I told the doctor, “it’s good to see you, and I mean really good to see you,” it was reported that I was seeing 20/15!
Amazing!
Of course, the goal for me, anyway, in regards to LASIK, was to be less dependent on contacts and glasses. I got that and maybe a little more.
Heck, I wasn’t that far away from Ted Williams, veteran and Hall of Fame angler and ballplayer. (Yeah, I am dreaming now, well that, and me being much minus his cat-like reflexes.)
Williams, they say, saw 20/10. And did you know doctors reported he could see at 20 feet what people with normal eyesight see at 10 feet? Armed forces ophthalmologists said his eyesight was so keen it was a one-in-100,000 proposition.
So, really, I am nowhere near that. But again, I am just happy to be less dependent on corrective lenses.
Want to know another certainty that’s come out of this? I have an increased self-obligation to protect my eyes. If I am shooting, fishing or mowing the yard (OK, at least two out of three are fun), I am wearing protective glasses. Ironic? Sure, but at such times I wear ’em because I want to, not have to.
And to top all this off, a friend has sworn to me, “You are going to really LOVE it when hunting season comes around!”
I hope so. Though I really doubt my accuracy (with bow, shotgun or rifle) will be that much better (note earlier mention of less-than-lightning reflexes; as of yet, they can’t correct that with a laser). And I will goof-up most days, anyway, due primarily to my known and accepted Charlie Brown approach or lot in life.
Still, I can’t wait to see fall this year.
(Who knows what I may get a glimpse of that I might have previously been missing?)
But until then I can only turn the thermostat down (for simulation purposes), and sit here and imagine what the Hatchie Bottom foliage will look like with new-and-improved vision.
Talk about wait and see…
Taylor Wilson is managing editor at Bill Dance Publishing. He has been writing for newspapers, magazines and websites for more than 20 years.
I am seeing things a different way—in a whole new light.
I broke down, or went for broke (literally) a month or so ago and had LASIK eye surgery.
My buddy Chester “Grumpy” Dixon volunteered to drive me home after the procedure.
So he was the one I handed my keys, my knives and all spare shotgun shells in my pocket over to, before I went back to be prepped for procedure.
Needless to say this gathered some attention in the waiting room. But a pocket full of ammo and knives did not stand out as much as when I accidentally showed up with a handful of waterfowl loads (post morning duck hunt) at the Capitol in Nashville for some sort of conservation meeting.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just steel shot, won’t hurt much and politicians are supposed to have thick skin,” I laughed as I handed over the ammo to the State Trooper.
(Hindsight, indicates I am lucky I am not still in the state pen.)
But back to eye surgery… So there I was, sitting in the back waiting for my turn under the laser, in a recliner at full-tilt, wearing a hair net, listening to Muzak and enjoying a happy pill, when they came to check on me.
“How’s Grumpy doing up front in the main waiting room? Is he behaving himself?” I asked.
“Yes, and thank goodness, because thanks to you, he now has ammo,” an employee told me.
“Well, yeah, but at least he doesn’t have a gun,” I replied and offered a relaxed-and-getting-more-so chuckle.
Several minutes later, really, my vision was corrected. Even so, I didn’t open my eyes because Grumpy was soon driving us home, and it was near 5 p.m.—on I-240.
And despite his urgent pleas to do so, I told Grumpy it was best to go home and sleep as the doctor ordered, and not stop and test my new vision at Hooters.
The next day, when I told the doctor, “it’s good to see you, and I mean really good to see you,” it was reported that I was seeing 20/15!
Amazing!
Of course, the goal for me, anyway, in regards to LASIK, was to be less dependent on contacts and glasses. I got that and maybe a little more.
Heck, I wasn’t that far away from Ted Williams, veteran and Hall of Fame angler and ballplayer. (Yeah, I am dreaming now, well that, and me being much minus his cat-like reflexes.)
Williams, they say, saw 20/10. And did you know doctors reported he could see at 20 feet what people with normal eyesight see at 10 feet? Armed forces ophthalmologists said his eyesight was so keen it was a one-in-100,000 proposition.
So, really, I am nowhere near that. But again, I am just happy to be less dependent on corrective lenses.
Want to know another certainty that’s come out of this? I have an increased self-obligation to protect my eyes. If I am shooting, fishing or mowing the yard (OK, at least two out of three are fun), I am wearing protective glasses. Ironic? Sure, but at such times I wear ’em because I want to, not have to.
And to top all this off, a friend has sworn to me, “You are going to really LOVE it when hunting season comes around!”
I hope so. Though I really doubt my accuracy (with bow, shotgun or rifle) will be that much better (note earlier mention of less-than-lightning reflexes; as of yet, they can’t correct that with a laser). And I will goof-up most days, anyway, due primarily to my known and accepted Charlie Brown approach or lot in life.
Still, I can’t wait to see fall this year.
(Who knows what I may get a glimpse of that I might have previously been missing?)
But until then I can only turn the thermostat down (for simulation purposes), and sit here and imagine what the Hatchie Bottom foliage will look like with new-and-improved vision.
Talk about wait and see…
Taylor Wilson is managing editor at Bill Dance Publishing. He has been writing for newspapers, magazines and websites for more than 20 years.
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