What is your favorite outdoor memory? I have a lot of them, but I have had a lot of time to make them. If you spend time outdoors you will make both good and bad memories, often when least expected. And you will remember them the rest of your life.

My first bass will always stand out since it hooked me for life. Mom and I were fishing below Usury’s Pond dam and catching small bream and catfish. Our tackle was a cane pole, cork, hook and sinker. Live earth worms were our bait.

My cork went under and when I lifted my pole the fish took off and jumped several times. That bass was probably about ten inches long but I loved the way it ran and fought, very unlike the other fish we had been catching. I have loved catching bass since that day.

My first deer is also memorable to me. I had been hunting for about four years, since I was 14 years old. My first two years my parents would let me hunt only during archery season with my uncle Adron. But when I turned 16 I got a Marlin 30-30 lever action rifle and was allowed to hunt with it.

I was hunting on public land on Germany Creek near out boat club. I had seen a few does during the year from my first climbing stand Mr. Ed Henderson had made from a picture in a magazine. That mid-November morning I had been on the stand about two hours when I spotted a buck about 100 yards up the hill.

It is no excuse, but I this was before I had a scope on my rifle. I aimed at the shoulder, and I am sure I was shaking badly from buck fever. When I pulled the trigger the deer dropped, then got up and ran. I emptied my gun at it as it disappeared over a small hill.

Staying on the stand as long as I could stand it, probably just a few minutes that seemed like hours, I started down the tree. I was in such a hurry I jumped from the stand when it was still about eight feet off the ground. That jump would injure me now, but at 18 I hit the ground running while reloading.

I topped the hill and there lay an eight point buck. I could not have been more proud, although now I know it was a year-and-a-half old buck. Its rack was mall but perfectly formed, and my dad got it mounted. I think he was as proud as me. It is looking at me as I type this.

Camping and building huts in the woods are great memories. The best hut we ever built was a “log cabin.” We cut saplings and made walls between four nicely placed trees, and finally remembered we needed a door so we made one. The roof was saplings laid side by side and thatched with sweetgum limbs and leaves. It slowed the rain a little. That eight by eight foot hut was our castle.

Camping took many different forms, from sleeping in the back yard in lounge chairs to putting up an army surplus pup tent in the woods. Lounge chairs look like they would be comfortable, and they get you off the ground, but that bar across it where it folds guarantees there is no way to get comfortable for the night.

Pup tents worked little better. They were drier than the hut but the gaps around the ground allowed mosquitoes and other bugs in. But we spent many happy nights sleeping on the ground in them in sleeping bags. It is amazing how rocks pop out of the ground right under you all night long no matter how well you clear it before putting out your bag.

My first Top Six tournament when I made the state team will always be special. My first time was over 30 years ago and I have made the team five more times since then, but that one will always hold a special place in my mind. I placed fourth at West Point out of 540 fishermen. Without Kenneth Hattaway’s advice I would not have made the team, and many people have helped me over the years. Those are good memories, too.

Quail and dove hunting with dad was always special, but the first time he let me take the dogs and his short barrel 12 gauge out by myself was special. I found five coveys that afternoon, all by myself, and killed one bird from each covey. That was four more than I had ever killed in one day with my .410!

Dad never went squirrel hunting with me although I hunted several afternoons a week after school and all day on Saturday during most of the season. One day after school while I was getting ready dad said he would go with me. I got a limit that afternoon, killing ten tree rats, very unusual. Dad never fired a shot and I now realized he tried to help me kill every one we saw. He was always the one to walk around the tree to make the squirrel come around where I could see it.

All those and many more are special memories. Don’t miss a chance to make some of your own, especially with your kids.

The song “Auld Lang Syne asks “Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?” The beginning of the new year is a good time to remember our past and people that influenced our lives. They should not be forgotten.

Many people impact us over our lives and affect the way we think and the things we like to do. Most important are our parents and family but it branches out to people we go to school with, work with, and meet in clubs and church.

Do you ever stop and think about what influenced you to love fishing? All kids seem to instinctively like fishing and enjoy going, but many never get that chance. And others seem to turn away from fishing as they grow up. But without the chance to go fishing growing up, few will become fishermen after they become adults.

Although I had only one brother, my father and mother had many brothers and sisters and those aunts and uncles influenced me in many ways. Most of them lived within a few miles of where I grew up so I had lots of contact with them all the time.

Uncle Adron, my mother’s youngest brother of five, took me deer hunting my first time when I was 14 years old. He also took me fishing and introduced me to Crème worms, the first plastic worms to come out, back in the 1950s. He taught me where to fish them, how to fish them, and ways to fight and land bass that hit.

Uncle Mayhu lived in Virginia but made annual summer trips to Georgia. I always looked forward to his visits because I got to go fishing with him almost every day he was in town. He and Uncle Adron fished together and let me go along on most of the trips to local farm ponds and lakes. Uncle Adron had permission to fish almost every pond in the county and we had many memorable trips.

I also got to go to New Port News, Virginia and visit Uncle Mayhu most years. He took me to tidal rivers and creeks to catch catfish and bass as well as fishing for saltwater fish in the James River and Chesapeake Bay. Those saltwater trips were great and I was amazed at how many fish we caught, and the variety. Many I had never seen or even heard of in central Georgia since there was no saltwater fishing within many miles of where I grew up.

Uncle J.D. owned a hardware store and he sold fishing and hunting supplies there. I bought many of my fishing and hunting supplies there at a very steep discount. It seemed something extra was always included after my purchase, too.

He also had a farm where we shot doves and fished in his pond. He gave me and army surplus gas mask bag the first time I hunted there when I was about eight years old and I still use it to this day, over fifty years later, to carry essentials when I go deer hunting. Old and ragged now, I carry it for the memories although newer more fancy bags are left at home.

Uncle Roger was a salesman for a big outdoor distribution company and always seemed to have something for me when I visited. From boxes of bullets to a brand new bass plug, he seemed to delight in my thrill of getting those items and using them. He did not fish much but loved to hear about the fish I caught on things he had given me.

Uncle Walter, daddy’s brother, took me saltwater fishing the first time I ever went. He loved going to Carrabelle on Florida’s panhandle and fish for trout. We went and stayed a week and the wind blew so bad we were able to go out only one day, but I fished in the boat canal and caught dozens of topsail catfish.

Those men will live in my memory as long as I am alive. I cherish the things they taught me and the trips I took with them. And they helped instill the love of fishing I have that will also live in me as long as I live. My mother loved fishing, too, and was probably the biggest influence on me, and that is a strong motivation in my life.

Family is important. At the end of the year, remember people who have influenced you and honor their memory. In fact, do that every day, not just at the end of the year.

Its hard to believe this is the last few days of 2014. Every new year gives hope of better things for us, and if we work at it, each new year will offer them. The end of the year is a time to reflect but also to plan, and to make resolutions to better yourself for the future.

Reflecting back, not over just the past year but over all the past years, I realize I have been blessed with a wonderful life. I had two parents that loved me but did not smother me. When I read about “helicopter parents,” parents that hover around their children all the time even to the extent of moving to the town where they go to college, I grimace.

My parents took care of me but allowed me to be free. I spent countless hours out in the woods and on ponds by myself or with friends my age. That taught me independence and to think for myself, something I fear kids now days will never have the change to learn.

I was taught to work for what I wanted, and to keep my wants reasonable. Never in my life would I bite off more than I could chew, as my dad used to say. I can’t imagine using a credit card without paying off the balance every month nor can I imagine depending on others to support my wants. That is something else I am afraid the current generation will never learn.

I know I am the only one responsible for my decisions and the mistakes I make. I call my mistakes “self inflicted wounds” and know to not blame others for them. Anyone can succeed and become almost anything they want to be, as long as they work at it and don’t blame others for their problems.

I often shake my head in amazement when hunters and fishermen blame their “bad luck” on others, or things they can’t control. The wind changed direction and the fish quit biting? Change your pattern, don’t cuss the wind. Someone is sitting on the point you wanted to fish? Go to a better one.

For the new year I plan on living by the things I have learned and that I know will work. I love bass fishing and am determined to think while fishing a tournament, not just go through the motions. If my favorite way of fishing isn’t working I will do something else.

If deer just won’t come by my most comfortable stand I will go to one that is not as comfortable and change my luck. I won’t blame bad luck when I turn my head too fast and spook a deer, I will just move more slowly when scanning the woods. And I won’t climb out of my stand as soon as my feet get cold or I get uncomfortable. I will stay as long as possible to improve my odds.

This next year I hope adults will take the time to work with kids and teach them to hunt and fish. One common character of the students that got into trouble and were sent to my school when I was principal of the alternative school was they did not have parents or other adults that took time with them.

I will never forget the way the kids eyes lit up and how excited they got when one of my teachers organized a scout troop and took them fishing. I hope every kid will have an adult that will light up their eyes. And it seems that kids spending time outdoors somehow insulates them against the things that get so many of them into trouble.

There is an old saying that God doesn’t count against you the time you spend fishing. I hope so, and I am determined to go fishing every time I can, and to enjoy every trip. Even if I make mistakes and don’t do well in a tournament I will try to enjoy the time fishing and learning from my mistakes.

This coming year the counselor and two teachers, with the help of some students at Spalding High are trying to organize a bass fishing club. I will do everything I can to help this club be successful, and encourage members of my two bass clubs to work with them, mentor them and take them fishing.

We live in a fantastic country with unlimited opportunities for anyone willing to take advantage of them. Too many folks scoff at that idea for some reason, but it is true. Nowhere else on earth can anyone achieve their goals like they can here.

I hope parents will be parents, and teach their children to work for what they want and to not blame others for their problems, just like my parents taught me so many years go. The possibilities are unlimited.

A recent article in the Griffin Daily News about the sounds of summer while growing up, written by a guy that grew up in a suburb, brought back many memories. Although he had some of the same memories as me, there were many unfamiliar to this country boy, and he did not mention many that were important to me.

He told of the different ways parents had of getting their kids home in time for supper. My parents blew the car horn three times. From our house on top of a hill I could hear that distinctive sound for a very long way. And I knew I better high-tail it home since my parents insisted the whole family sit down together every night for dinner.

I was too far from any neighbors to ever here them talking, or even yelling inside their houses no matter if the windows were open or not. But at night I did hear crickets, spring peepers, the sound of distance thunder that seemed to be present every summer night, and the clucking of chickens. Since we had 11,000 laying hens and kept lights on all night to encourage laying more eggs, that sound lasted all night.

Car sounds were very unusual after dark, and not very common during the day. Before I was school age the main road that ran in front of my house was dirt. Sometime around the time I started school the county put down tar and gravel. That made for a better road, but not much. The gravel was put down in a thick layer and gravel sprayed on it. The tar kinda kept the rocks in place.

The sounds of passing cars changed from a soft grinding in the sand to a crunching as the tires ran over the rocks, and an occasional clank when a piece of gravel was thrown up into the fender well.

It was not unusual for me to come in during the summer with tar on my feet. I wore shoes only on Sunday during summer vacation from school, and walking on the road after the sun heated the tar was guaranteed to get it on my bare feet. So the sounds of me fussing about mom scrubbing my feet with turpentine to get it off was pretty common, too.

We had something else in common, that city boy and me. Apparently he lived on the edge of the suburbs since he talked about damming creeks, building tree houses and camping out. I did all that, so the sounds of hammering and sawing were pretty common, as were the sounds a shovel of sand makes hitting the pile for the dam or being poured into croaker sacks.

I will never forget the sound a butcher knife makes slicing into a cold watermelon, then the crack as it is split apart. We ate watermelon at least once a week during the summer. Since we had a walk in cooler for the eggs we always had six or eight in there ready to eat.

The sound of bacon sizzling, eggs frying and the toaster popping up were daily indoor sounds. But the bacon and eggs cooking outside while we camped out sounded different, and better, somehow.

Another sound of the summer was the whoosh of daddy’s fish fryer under the carport. It was sometimes frying fish, but much more often it was boiling water to blanch corn, string beans, okra and other vegetables from our garden that mom was freezing. His fish cooker was home made out of an old wheel rim, with a pipe in the middle that the gas line hooked to. It put out a flame thrower like column of fire that heated things up fast.

One of the most important sounds of summer to me was the plop of a cork hitting the water, or the gurgle of a Jitterbug wobbling its way across the surface of a pond. Fishing was one of my favorite activities, even back then, and I went several times each week. It didn’t matter if we were fishing red wigglers dug behind the chicken house for bream or casting plugs for bass. I love it all, as I do now.

The sounds our bicycles made on the gravel and dirt roads, and the change to a whine when hitting asphalt ones, will always remind me of the fishing trips we made. My friends and I would ride our bicycles for several miles to farm ponds and spend a cool afternoon wading and catching supper.

I hope kids made some good memories of the sounds of summer this year.

Dads do a lot for their kids. My father was not a fisherman, but I have some memories of fishing with him that become more special each year. The older I get the more I realize the sacrifices he made so I could fish, even though he did not like fishing.

We went camping at Clark’s Hill often and I will never forget a couple of trips. One of the first, when I was about 10, involved me, my best friends Harold and Hal, and our fathers. All six of us were in a wooden boat and the men were throwing Hula Poppers around shoreline cover while we boys paddled the boat.

Mr. Bill, Harold’s dad, caught most of the fish. He fished a lot and was much better at casting than dad or Hal’s dad, Mr. Bonner. Dad managed to catch a couple of bass but lost several more. The next week he went and bought a new rod and reel and several new Hula Poppers so that would not happen again.

I don’t think Dad ever used that rod or Hula Poppers. I still have a couple of them that survived my use over the years. Many times I tried to learn to use that old baitcaster and solid glass rod, but never got the hang of it. I am not sure what happened to it.

Another strong memory was a trip to Elijah Clark State Park. I had heard about fishing at night for crappie and white bass under bridges at the lake, and there was a bridge a few hundred yards downstream of the park. I talked daddy into renting a row boat and taking me fishing under the bridge one night.

I was so excited I could hardly stand it, and it felt like it would never get dark. We went to the area where they kept the row boats with our tackle, a bucket of minnows and a lantern as the sun set. I loaded the rods and tackleboxes into the boat while daddy got the paddles.

Daddy rowed to the bridge, tied up and hung the lantern over the side. I got my rod ready and looked for the minnow bucket. It was not in the boat. Daddy did not say anything, he just got the lantern in, untied the boat, rowed back to the park and got the minnows, still sitting where I had left them.

Although he had rowed us a couple of hundred yards each way for nothing, daddy never fussed at me for forgetting the minnows. After rowing back to the bridge we fished for several hours without a bite. I was just about asleep by the time daddy rowed us back to the park and took me to the camper for bed.

The only kind of fishing daddy seemed to enjoy was catching crappie around the bushes in the spring at Clark’s Hill. He would spend hours in a boat with my mom and me catching crappie. I realize now he was thinking about all the good eating and did not mind “wasting” time fishing since he was filling up the freezer with fish.

Daddy bought a 17 foot Larson outdrive ski boat for us in 1966. I loved to ski as a teenager but wanted to fish, too. I rigged up a wooden seat that fit over the front running light and had a drop down part for the trolling motor. I fished many days from that boat until I was able to buy my first bass boat in 1974.

When daddy saw my bass boat and how easy it was to fish from, he decided to fix up the ski boat for him and mamma. He built a nice platform with a swivel seat on it, and put a foot controlled electric motor on it. That worked great for easing around the edges and fishing for crappie. He was very good at putting things together like that and made a much better fishing boat than I was able to make.

I have a lot of fantastic memories growing up, and often wish I could go back and enjoy some of those times again. Fathers and children, don’t let any more time pass without making some memories of your own. Go fishing together and enjoy the time you have. It will be gone all too soon.