We all have memories of some Christmas gifts that were very special to us. Most of mine were something for the outdoors, like the Mitchell 300 spinning outfit I got when I was about 15, the .22 Remington semiautomatic rifle I was given when I was 12 and still use to plink and shoot squirrels, and the camping mess kit and canteen I used for years in the wilds of my backyard.

When I was ten or so I wanted a new bicycle. That is how kids got around back then. We rode everywhere, from school to local ponds to go fishing. We even went hunting on our bicycles. My desire was a shiny new red bicycle as shown in the Sears catalog. I just knew I would be proud and happy with it.

About two weeks before Christmas holidays started at my elementary school I was out in the shop. My dad was principal and shop teacher. He worked hard at school but also ran a farm where we had 11,000 laying hens and sold eggs to local grocery stores. We also raised hogs and cows and most of our food came from those animals and the huge garden we had each year. We did not have a lot of money but lived well.

That day in the shop I saw two old rusty bicycles sitting by a work table. I didn’t think much of them, they looked terrible. Then, on Christmas morning, my brother and I found those bicycles, now shiny with new paint and repaired to new condition, by the Christmas tree.

My young heart sank. I really wanted a new bicycle. I never gave a thought to the hours may dad sanded and painted those bicycles, or the time it took to repair any small defect. I rode that bicycle for years.

Now I appreciate the work he put into it and the fact we just could not afford new bicycles for my brother and me. I still regret not telling dad what that gift meant to me when I was old enough to think about it.
When I was 11 or 12 I had learned my parents were Santa Claus by my younger brother, three years junior to me, still believed. But he was beginning to question the idea of Santa Claus.

We lived in a big old frame farm house and it had an apartment attached to the back. For years we rented the two rooms to military families stationed at Ft. Gordon, then my grandmother lived there for several years. It had a bedroom, kitchen with room for a small dining table, and a bathroom.

A few days before Christmas that year I went to that bathroom since the other one in the house was busy. I heard chirping and opened the shower curtain, and saw a cage with two parakeets in it. I immediately knew they were Christmas presents for me and my brother but did not want to spoil the secret. We had not asked for parakeets but always loved pets of all kinds.

Christmas Eve my brother and I were in bed, trying to stay awake. He started asking me about Santa Claus and I had an inspiration. I told him we should ask for something from Santa that nobody else knew about. Since it was just a few hours before we could get up and find our presents there would be no way we could get that present unless Santa heard us.

I suggested we ask for parakeets! And guess what. The next morning, there they were. My parents almost ruined it by saying they were a gift from them. I saw my brother’s face drop.

I quickly covered, getting my brother alone and explaining that since Santa knew our secret wish was being fulfilled by my parents he did not have to bring us the birds. His face lit up and he believed for a couple more years.

Our gifts back in the 1950s and early 60s were very simple. There was always something special, like the revolving ducks you shot at with a rubber tipped dart. Or the bicycles, .22 rifle or camping gear. The rest of our presents were clothes and other needed stuff.

Stockings were hung by the fireplace and they were always stuffed with fruit like apples and oranges, pecans and small items like a box of sparklers. Strangely enough, the oranges looked just like the ones in the sack we had brought back from a visit to my grandmother just before Christmas in Florida and the pecans where the same kinds we had gathered from our yard. But finding them in our stockings made the oranges sweeter and the pecans taste even better.

Christmas does not have to be so commercial. Small things may not mean a lot right now to kids, but what you do for them now will bring great memories for them later in life. Parents’ time is more valuable than any gift could ever be. Spend time with your kids this Christmas and make memories that will last long after the toys are broken and forgotten.

Rip was my four footed fishing friend. He showed up at my farm one day and adopted me. There has never been a happier, more fun loving dog. His name fit him well. He never walked when he could run and his tail never stopped wagging. His smiling face welcomed everyone.

Rip loved to ride in my truck, but not the first time I put him in it. I tied his collar to a hook in the bed of the truck and he tried to jump out, almost hanging himself. I shortened the length of the rope and drove out to the farm and he never tried to jump out again. I quit tying him in after a few months an never had a problem again.

He would jump from side to side, putting his front paws up on the sides, going back and forth especially when getting near the farm or home. When I made a stop at the store there was almost always someone petting him when I came out. Despite his 90 pounds he just looked friendly and always welcomed a petting hand from anyone willing to give it. And everyone that saw him was willing.

Going to the pond was one of his favorite activities, but sometimes he got into trouble there. Rip would not swim but would wade out and sit down up to his neck in hot weather. Anytime I caught a fish he got excited and tried to sniff it. If I gave a bream to him he would eat it. I worried about the bones the first few times but he never seemed bothered by the fish he ate. I guess he liked sushi. And if I let the fish go he stared at the water then looked at me like he was asking why I let dinner go.

Tearing things up was also a favorite pastime. I had a bundle of yellow insulation at the barn and tried to use it to insulate a house for him before taking him to my house. The next day it looked like a yellow snow storm had hit the area. At home sticks of wood from the woodpile would be dragged into the yard and chewed to bits. Maybe he was part beaver. No rug had a chance on the back deck, it would be nothing but threads the next day. He even chewed the handle off an ax left in a stump in the woodshed.

When he was ten years old I got a friend for him. Ginger is a brindled pit bull but very gentle, and she and Rip played together. They got along great.

Rip loved it when I got out a gun. The first time I shot a squirrel in the back yard I wondered how he would react. The shot did not bother him, he just ran and got the squirrel and brought it to me. From then on if I walked out with a shotgun he started looking up in the trees. I even trained him to go around the tree so the squirrel would move where I could shoot it.

But both Rip and Ginger were terribly afraid of thunder. Last summer while I was at the lake they dug under the fence during a storm and got out of the yard. Two days later, on a Saturday, I got a call from a neighbor about a mile down the highway saying Rip had been hit by a car. He was alive but dazed. I took him to an emergency vet clinic and they sedated him. That night at about dark I called and they said he might recover. He was no worse but no better, either.

I went to bed at midnight planning on fishing a tournament the next day. About an hour later the vet called and told me Rip was going into convulsions. He probably had brain damage and had less than a 25 percent chance of recovery. More likely he would just suffer until he died. I choked out “Put him down.”

I could not catch a fish the next day – my broken heart kept me from thinking about fishing. I picked his body up from the vet and buried him under the pear tree with Merlin and Squirt, watering the ground with my tears as I dug.

Two days later Ginger came home, safe and sound.

Rip Was My Four Footed Fishing Friend

Everybody needs a dog to make them realize what it is like to have boundless energy and the pure joy of being alive. My dog Rip constantly amazes me. He never slows down from daylight to dark and finds everything from cats to old pieces of wire and waterhose extremely interesting.

He lives up to his name daily. Nothing is safe from him that he can get his paws or teeth on. When the cold weather hit I bought a cheap indoor/outdoor thermometer to monitor the temperature in his insulated dog house. It sat on top of his house out of his reach, but the wire probe stuck an inch or so into his house.

One morning last week the probe reading was flashing. Sure enough, to no real surprise to me, he had grabbed the end of the wire in his house and pulled it out, chewing it up. So much for keeping up with the temperature in his house.

Exuberant is the best word to describe him. He doesn’t walk when he can run, and he doesn’t run when he can bounce like a kangaroo through the woods. He loves to chase a thrown ball, stick, plastic bottle or anything else, and will bring it back for more. I get tired of the game much faster than he does.

He loves to fish. That is one of the few times he will sit and stay still. Anytime I make a cast he watches the arch of the lure, never letting it out of his sight. When it hits the water he watches with great interest, waiting on a bass to jump. I think he wants to go chase them but so far I have been able to keep him on the bank.

Rip loves to wade in the shallows, lapping up water and cooling off. When it was hot he would wade out and sit down, submerging his body chest deep. He does not like to swim, though, and will not get his head wet – on purpose.

At my pond I had dug out some dirt near the bank with a back hoe, making a three foot deep hole right by the bank. The outer rim of the hole has a couple of inches of water covering it. Rip waded out around the rim then decided to come straight back. When he hit the deep water his head went out of sight. I will never forget the look on his face when he came up and immediately headed to the bank.

When he got out on the bank I was laughing so hard I could not stop. He did his usual trick when confused, he started running around me in circles. It is amazing how fast he can run in a 20 foot circle without spinning out. The harder I laughed, the faster he ran. I am surprised he did not turn himself into butter.

Rip can really make me feel old. While working on a siphon on my pond dam, I had to climb up and down the dam. I am just able to pull myself up it by hanging on to limbs and inching along. Rip runs in circles around me while I am doing this, running up the dam face like it is flat ground. I have to remember he has four wheel drive compared to my two, but he often will circle me 20 or 30 times while I make one transit.

Rip is a pretty good squirrel hunter, too. He surprised me the first time I fired a gun near him. I did not try to train him at all, but he is definitely not gun shy. The first time I fired a shotgun he just looked at me, then he heard the squirrel fall. He immediately went to it. Now if he sees me with a gun he starts looking up in the trees for my target.

Last week I shot a squirrel and it fell outside the fence around the back yard. Rip was watching and got real excited. When I went to get the squirrel it was not there. I let Rip out and he ran to where the squirrel fell the tracked it straight to a stump about 30 yards away. He stuck his head in the stump and pulled the squirrel out. Although the squirrel bit him on the nose and he yipped real loud, he hung on and shook it, killing it instantly.

I want to train him to tree squirrels but Rip does not bark. I have had him almost a year and he makes lots of different kinds of noises from a whine when I won’t take him with me to a strange combination growl/whine when confused to yipping when bit by a squirrel, but he just will not bark. That is a good thing most of the time.
Dogs can be a great joy and a real pain. The pain seems short and the joy much greater overall. Everyone needs a Rip to keep them laughing.

Do you ever wish for a simpler time at Christmas? If you are old enough you know of more simple holidays that involved family and friends, church and great food. For me almost all my memories also included the outdoors. From kids getting BB guns and rushing out to shoot them to adults getting new shotguns and shells for an afternoon quail hunt, guns and Christmas always went together for me.

My Christmases growing up in the 1950s and 60s always ran a similar pattern. We went to Florida the week before Christmas to visit my Grandmother who live there. That was usually a four day trip but we always came home a couple of days before Christmas to enjoy everything we had been working on, from the door decorations to the tree.

Christmas Eve we always had a service at Dearing Baptist Church, singing wonderful songs and eating great food. Then it was home to make sure the stockings were hung, milk and cookies were out for Santa and off to bed, where we tried to stay awake and listen, but never could make it long.

Well before daylight we would wake up and rush into the living room where a wondrous spread of gifts awaited up. There was always on big item wished for all year, a bicycle, a .22 rifle, a set of briar proof hunting clothes. Then there were smaller gifts.

I always got a brick of .22 bullets, 500 rounds promising many happy hours of shooting. And I could count on a box or two of .410 shells for rabbit hunting. Guns, bullets and shells were always prized. I am sure I got regular clothes and other things but really don’t remember them.

The stocking was kept to pull down last because it would be stuffed with small things. There were always a couple of oranges and I never made the connection that they looked just like the ones in the sack we had brought back from the annual visit to my grandmother in Ocala Florida the week before Christmas. But there were also boxes of sparklers, often a pocket knife, maybe the knife, fork and spoon set to go with the mess kit under the tree.

After exploring the gifts over and over I usually wanted to go outside and shoot my new guns and bullets. But I couldn’t go far. Christmas Day was the day for just my parents and my brother and I to have a big lunch together. We didn’t visit other family members until the days after Christmas.

My dad often took me quail hunting after lunch, one of his loves. We would go get the dogs from a nearby pen and head to fields where we knew the coveys would be feeding. If we didn’t go quail hunting I would usually get with a friend and go squirrel hunting, or go by myself. I loved being in the woods all along.

I still have the .22 rifle I got for Christmas when I was 12 years old. It still works well and is very accurate even after killing untold numbers of squirrels, birds and paper targets. Guns are often passed down from generation to generation if they are taken care of and cleaned.

The week after Christmas was filled with visits to kin folks houses. Usually there were huge meals at lunch time and my aunts and uncles hosted the meal on different days. That was quite and undertaking with over a dozen adults and 20 or so kids running around. Five of my mothers brothers lived near us and she was the youngest, so even when I was very young some of my cousins had kids my age.

I don’t know how we stuffed so much into the two week holiday from school but we did. It seemed we never slowed down from heading to Florida the day after school was out until the church services on New Years Day and then back to school.

Later in life deer season became important. Back in the late 1960s season was open all November then closed until opening again from December 26 to January 1. I hunted as much as possible during that week. Then in the mid 1970s I found out bass and crappie would hit good during Christmas holidays and started spending most of them at my place at Clark’s Hill, fishing and hunting every day except Christmas Day when I joined my family for dinner.

We all have Christmas memories and that is one of the things so important about this time of year. I hope everyone makes so great new ones this year!

Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing Event Provides Therapy and Recovery

Today’s feature comes to us from the Virginia Department of Game & Inland Fisheries
from The Fishing Wire

In mid-October the trout stocked waters of Back Creek below Dominion’s Bath County Pumped Storage Station provided valuable recreation and rehabilitation for a special group of anglers on a two-day trout fishing trip in the Virginia Highlands. Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing (PHWFF), Dominion, The Guilford Foundation of Richmond and Virginia Department of Game & Inland Fisheries (VDGIF) hosted a combination of 12 active duty military personnel and veterans recovering from wounds and injuries incurred while serving their country. Warriors and vets from the following military medical facilities and Veterans Administration (VA) centers took part in the two day fly fishing event: McGuire in Richmond, Fort Eustis Warrior Transition Unit, Hampton, Portsmouth Naval Hospital, Salem and Staunton-Harrisonburg Community Based Outpatient Clinic. Service members and guides also participated from VA Medical Centers in West Virginia at Beckley, Huntington, Clarksburg and Wheeling. Volunteer Guides from the PHWFF programs provided one-on-one support for each warrior and vet fishing designated sections of Back Creek called ‘beats’. Another 40 plus volunteers from the sponsoring organizations pitched in to make this event a great success for a special rehabilitative and therapeutic fly-fishing experience.

Each warrior and vet was given a complete fly fishing outfit from rod to waders featuring gear provided by a number of outdoor retailers. For the fourth year in a row, Dominion overstocked the delay harvest section of Back Creek with very nice rainbow trout. This assured the new fly fishers an opportunity to hook up with nice fish on their new 5 wt. rods. This special stocking using private hatchery stock while immediately benefiting the event, enhances the fishery for all the anglers who come to fish Back Creek. Bath County Pumped Storage Station employees provide great support and they kindly allow the group to use their facilities for the event. Phil Johnson, PHWFF Virginia’s Regional Coordinator expressed a big “THANK YOU” to all the volunteers who help make this one of our program’s best trips this year. A special plaque was presented to Dan Genest, Dominion Coordinator for PHWFF sponsored events, in recognition of his service to the organization. Mike Puffenbarger and family who operate Maple Tree Outdoors and provide the home cooked meals for the group while visiting the Virginia Highlands, were recognized for their support of the event now in its fourth year. David Coffman, VDGIF Editor for The Outdoor Report e-newsletter provided goodie bags for the vets and volunteers featuring gear and information to enhance their outdoor activities and provided photos of the participants in a special CD following the event. The Warm Springs Inn was also noted for their contribution of accommodations for the service member guests.

The many volunteers who assist with the PHWFF events note that, “We’re not just taking them fishing…” The volunteer guides who assist the service members while fishing come from a variety of backgrounds and fishing oriented organizations including the Fly Fishers of Virginia, Trout Unlimited, and PHWFF Program Leads who hold fly tying classes and casting workshops at the veteran facilities and military hospitals. Many of these Program Leads are also veterans themselves who have been through rehabilitation and recovery and see this as a way of giving back to fellow service members working to recover from their injuries both physical and emotional. Participants in Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing (PHWFF) programs and alumni receive therapy, physical and emotional rehabilitation and support for their recovery and transition back into their communities.

WSLS TV NBC Channel 10 Roanoke news anchor John Carlin, in his Virginia Crossroads news feature, came and interviewed the warriors at the Dominion sponsored event to get a feeling on what this program has meant to the lives and families of service members who have experienced post traumatic stress disorder – PTSD. Be sure and watch this video clip for a close-up, personal and passionate look at the healing power of fly fishing…

“Is it possible that flowing water (and a few fish) are more powerful than medicine? As helpful as group therapy? Perhaps more. For veterans returning from war the answer is often yes… http://www.wsls.com/story/23661378/virginia-crossroads-project-healing-waters

Visit the Project Healing Waters website to see how you can support this valuable program. Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing, Inc. is a 501 (c) (3) dedicated to the physical and emotional rehabilitation of disabled active military service personnel and veterans through fly fishing and fly tying education and outings. The 2-Fly Tournament is the organization’s headline event each May to raise awareness and funding for its 146 programs across the nation in 46 states. Visit the PHWFF website for more details. For outdoor recreation opportunities in Bath County visit their website.

This holiday season always brings bittersweet memories. I am very thankful for my mother and will forever remember the wonderful things she did for me and that we did together. But she died Thanksgiving week 13 years ago so all the memories are tinged with sorrow.

One of my favorite memories happened at our place at Clark’s Hill. It was the middle of a warm June day and I was taking a break after lunch. When I left our camper and walked up the hill to the bath house I saw mom fishing under the dock by herself.

A few minutes later walking back down the hill I saw mom fighting a fish. I got close enough to hear her talking, coaching herself, saying things like “Play him slow” and “Keep the rod tip up.” I stood by a pine tree for several minutes enjoying the scene before going to the dock and helping her land a nine pound carp.

Mom was totally happy fishing. She would fish anywhere there was water and didn’t mind fishing alone or with others. She and another lady neighbor used to take our truck and 12 foot jon boat to the local Public Fishing Area. Both of them were in their sixties but they would go out and fish all day. Dad fixed up a winch system so they could load the boat by themselves. I have a mounted 2 pound, six ounce shellcracker she caught in 1982 on one of those trips.

Another great memory also involves the Public Fishing Area we called the “state ponds.” Mom and I had fished for several hours, me casting for bass and her fishing with live worms for anything that would bite. We took the boat out of the pond and I walked out on the dam. In the spillway below the pond I could see bream in the pool of water.

Mom and I got our rods and reels and her bait and crawled down the dam to the pool of water. For the next couple of hours we caught bream after bream. We had contests to see who could catch the most on one piece of bait and who could catch the smallest fish. That was a tough contest since none of the little bluegill were over three inches long.

That was one of the many times I totally lost track of time while fishing with her.

Mom was deathly afraid of snakes but loved fishing even more. One day as we walked down to my bass boat tied up under the dock at Clark’s Hill we saw a snake slither off the dock, onto the boat and into the hole at the transom where the controls came out. I told mom there was no way I could get the snake out.

After thinking about it for a few minutes mom gingerly got into the boat. We fished all afternoon but I don’t think she ever completely relaxed. I knew the snake was happy in its dark hole and would not come out, especially with us moving around and talking, but I don’t think mom’s feet ever rested on the deck of the boat in one place very long that afternoon.

Many nights mom went out with me to check trotlines and bank hooks. She was happy holding the light or helping bait hooks. Several times we would bait up our lines, get out on the bank, build a fire and fish with rods and reels for several hours while waiting on catfish to find our set hooks. I remember sitting by the fire with her and talking about anything and everything, but don’t remember whether we caught anything or now.

One summer I found out I could go out with a spotlight at night, find carp in the shallows and gig them. Although I thought it was legal to kill a carp any way you could I found out later gigging them, especially at night with a spotlight, was not legal. We still had lots of fun.

I would gig a carp then raise it out of the water. Mom would sit on the back casting chair and would open the live well as I swung the carp over the side. I would put the gig over the lip of the live well and she would drop the lid, letting me pull the gig out while leaving the carp inside.

One night when mom opened the live well my dog Merlin jumped as I brought a crap over the side. She jumped right in the live well. Mom and I laughed till we cried at the sight of Merlin’s head sticking out of the live well, with a look at said “get me out of here!”

I am glad I have such good memories.