Category Archives: Fishing Ramblings – My Fishing Blog

Random thoughts and musings about fishing

Clarks Hill Fising Memories at Christmas

Back at Clarks Hill Saturday morning, I got my first cup of coffee and went out on the deck at my mobile home at Raysville Boat Club and looked at the lake.

Christmas is a time for reminiscing and sitting there took me back over many years of spending Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays at Clarks Hill.  Memories flashed across my mind like the lights of a fireworks display on the Fourth of July.

Saturday morning was the kind of day I love, not a ripple disturbed the reflecting pool of the lake surface.  The only sound was an occasional craw of a crow or the bark of a squirrel, disturbed in his search for breakfast. I was at peace with the world.

Weather always played an important of my trips. One of the best, about 30 years ago, an unusually warm winter found me fishing in jeans with no shirt or shoes.  The water was 61 degrees and big fish were active.  I caught six largemouth weighing more than five pounds each and five hybrids weighing six pounds each in three days on Shadraps.

The other extreme was one winter when my dog Merlin woke me at midnight jumping in bed with me in my small camper.  That was unusual, she always slept on the floor. The next morning I found out why. Her water bowl on the floor was frozen solid. The small electric heater kept the air tolerable from a couple feet off the floor to the ceiling but could not keep up with the 5-degree low that night.

I called my neighbor back in Griffin and asked her to check to see if she heard water running under my house from burst pipes.  She said she did not but the well pump was running. I came home fast and found the well had run dry from pumping water out of 11 holes in pipes.  I learned to solder copper pipe that afternoon.

Another winter on Christmas Eve the wind was howling and it was sleeting. I tried to fish but it was bad, so I went behind an island to get out of the wind. I caught an eight- and one-half pound bass on a jig from a rockpile there. After landing it I figured I had had enough and went in to show it off.

Some foggy mornings I unhooked my boat battery charger, pushed off from the bank, put the trolling motor in the water and started fishing.  As soon as I got a few feet from the bank everything disappeared in a white haze. Outlines of trees were the only indication anything was near.

I could image I was the only person in the world.  The fog dampened even the sounds of crows and squirrels, and the only disturbance was the whirr of my reel and splash of the lure as I cast.  Sometimes the sound of a jumping bass, barely seen in the fog, added to the excitement.

I loved being up there by myself. Back then nobody fished during the winter.  I had the lake and boat club to myself.  One year I went to the boat club Christmas afternoon after dinner in town with my family.  For a week I slept when I was sleepy, ate when I was hungry and all the rest of the time I either fished or built brush piles.

That year I did not see another person for five days.  The only reason I saw people the sixth day was a trip to town for boat gas.

I had never built brush piles but had heard how effective they can be for fishing.  A bank I like to fish near my trailer was bare clay except for two stumps about 50 feet apart.  I could usually get a bite by the stumps if they were in the water, but that year the lake was down seven feet and the water just touched the outside edge.

Up on the bank someone had cut down some big cedar trees, cut the trunk out for posts and left the big bushy tops.  One afternoon I drug two to the edge of the water, tied the base of the trunk to the stump and flipped the top out into four or five feet of water.

The next morning I cast a crankbait to the tip of the trees and caught two pound largemouth from each.

An old roadbed crosses the creek, rising on a hump out in the middle.  There are three-foot drops, from 12 to 15 feet deep, on each side of it where it was cut into the former hill. I pulled two of the cedar tops out there and finally got them to sink by tying 5-gallon buckets of cement to them.  I put them right on the edge of the drops about 100 feet apart.

I caught fish out of them for years, including an eight and one quarter pound bass one winter.  Three years ago, I won a club tournament fishing those same two trees, they are still there.  Cedar does not rot when completely submerged under water.

I have many more fishing and hunting memories from this time of year at the lake, but those are for another time.

Deer Camp Memories

     As I threw another log on the fire, my mind wandered over the past 40 years of deer camp here.  When I first joined, the “old” men mostly stayed in camp and didn’t hunt much.  For several years “Captain” was the old man in charge of the fire.  Now it is my “old man” job and I don’t leave camp much.

    After spending almost half my life in the club, memories are plentiful. Hundreds of nights sitting around the fire, eating parched or boiled peanuts and sharing stores, some of them mostly true, revive past experiences. And the same ones are told over and over, drawing amazed reactions from young members and smiles from us older ones.

    And we celebrate and morn lost members. Many of the young members fathers I watched grow up and become men over the years.  They pass on their traditions to their children, just as their fathers passed them on to them. The never-ending cycle of outdoor and hunting life.

    Many of the stories are funny and draw laughs every year.  Tales of cut shirt tails, stories of first blood, memories of members walking to their stand in a circle in the dark and ending back up at camp, all bring chuckles.

    One of mine is finding the perfect place for my climbing stand, easing up the tree in the dark then staring another club member in the eyes in a tree only 30 feet away.  Or the time I helped build a permanent stand with a friend, only to have him not be able to hunt it opening day. He doesn’t laugh much when I mention the big nine point I killed from that stand on opening day, but everybody else does.

    Four wheelers stuck in the creek are both funny and scary.  Turning a four-wheeler upside down on top of you in a creek is not funny until after you are safe.  It is funny now to remember the work of the six of us laboring for hours to get it out, but at the time it was only exhausting.

    Some of the scariest stories are the one or two about stands breaking and tumbling members to the ground. Fortunately, none ended up with serious injuries, just injured pride.

    Many of my memories revolve around a stand I have hunted for more than 30 years.  It is a simple stand, 2x4s nailed between two sweetgum trees about 24 inches apart 20 feet off the ground with a 16-inch piece of plywood nailed on top of them.  Spikes driven into the trees 30 years ago are sticking out barely enough for a boot hold now.

    The stand has been sweetened over the years. A small shelf is placed in the perfect position to hold my coffee cup.  Sticks cross the area above my head, placed just right for a black plastic bag to stretch over and protect me from rain.  And a nail holds my hanging rifle in position to raise it without excess movement.

    I found the place for the stand by accident.  I found a creek hillside that seemed to be perfect for a stand, near the very end of one of our roads.  I loaded materials to build it in the truck then headed to the end of the road.

    Before toting everything through the woods, I remembered hunting too close to the other club member so I walked around a little. Sure enough, there was another stand, hidden in an oak tree, looking over the same hillside.

    I went back to the truck disappointed and started driving slowly back out, watching the ground on either side of the road carefully.  When I spotted a trail crossing it, I stopped and followed the trail though some pines to where they stopped at the edge of hardwoods.  There was a slight opening along the edge from an old logging road.

    Careful inspection proved there were no other stands for at least 200 yards in any direction.  I built the stand with help from a fellow club member.  The first morning I hunted it I was shocked how close it was to Highway 18.  The bends in the road fooled me.  I could glimpse 18 wheelers traveling along the road, and their tire noise often make it hard to hear.

    Even with the noise problem I have killed more than 40 deer from that stand.

    Some of those kills I was very proud of, some not so much.  One day I glimpsed a deer facing me about 50 yards away at the very end of the old logging road.  Young pines hid part of it but I could clearly see its head and chest since it was facing me. I shot it with my 30-30 in the chest and it dropped.

    When I got to it, I was shocked how small it was.  Although it was doe day and I was hunting meat, I wanted a bigger deer since the limit was two a year back then. I was able to pick up the 40-pound yearling by its back legs and carry it over my shoulder, not drag it out.

    I quickly gutted and skinned it and took it home, since I did not want to take it back to camp and get kidded about its size. I quartered that deer, cut its backbone in half and froze it.  Each piece fit in a big crockpot!  But it was some of the most tender venison I have ever eaten!

    I was very proud of a big ten point I shot from that stand, but I really didn’t put any effort into finding it, it just happened to wander by me.  It fell near the camp road and I drove to it. As I drug it to the truck and started loading it, another member stopped on his way out of the woods and helped load it.

    He gave me a sour look and said “I have been hunting that deer all week!”

    Don’t miss a chance to make memories in a deer camp.

Till next time – Gone fishing!

Winter On the Farm – Too Cold To Do Anything But Go Fishing

“Baby its cold outside!”  For some reason that song keeps going through my mind.  Temperatures in the low 20s are not usual here, thank goodness! But when they hit, unusual problems pop up.

    The pressure switch on my well will freeze if the temperature stays in the low 20s overnight.  A heat lamp on it solves the problem, if I remember to turn it on!  Outside faucets will freeze.  I have “freeze proof” faucets on the outside of my house, but I found out a couple of years ago they will freeze if you leave a hose attached!

    Many houses are like mine, with heat pumps to warm them.  But a heat pump can’t get enough heat out of air in the low 20s, so they switch to either gas or electric strip to produce heat.  Problem is, the relay that tells it to switch over can go out, and you won’t know it is bad until it doesn’t work on a cold night!

    Farmers have an especially tough time in bad weather like Texas had this week.  Taking care of livestock and other farm animals is miserable for the farmer but can be deadly for the animals if not done.

    Every winter when I was growing up seemed to produce a few days when the temperatures didn’t get above freezing.  Our 11,000 laying hens didn’t stop eating, drinking or laying eggs. 

    We had seven chicken houses.  The older four were wide, open structures with shavings on the floor.  Nests were attached to the inside of the walls and filled with shavings.  Food troughs had to be filled with five-gallon buckets of food brought from the big bin twice a day 

A trough ran the length of each house.  Water ran very slowly into one end. At the other a drain kept it from overflowing. The pipe nipple had to be pulled from the drain and the trough flushed out every day, chickens don’t know not to poop where they drink!

That water trough would sometimes freeze overnight so we would have to break the ice out by hand so fresh water would be available to the birds.  I hated that wet, messy job.

The other three houses were modern, with cages along the inside walls of narrow houses.  A small trough for water ran the length of the house, and it had to be cleaned, too.  A bigger trough was filled with a motorized cart that augured it into the trough, much easier than carrying buckets!

On very cold days and nights, we had to gather the eggs every hour to keep them from freezing.  The caged chickens’ eggs rolled out onto a wire shelf, so they froze fast. Even the ones in the old houses nests would freeze since the chickens didn’t stay on them after laying them.

With that many chickens, gathering the eggs hourly was never-ending. By the time we made a circuit of all the houses, it was time to start over!

Now, the only time I have to go out in miserable weather is to go fishing. But for some reason, eight hours in a boat is not unbearable, no matter how bad it gets!

Hot Hands Hand Warmers Are Worth Their Weight in Heat

When I first joined a bass club I had no idea bass would bite during the winter.  But a January, 1975 tournament at Jackson taught me they would.  Six bass weighing more than six pounds each were weighed in.    

    I thought I would freeze that cloudy, windy day with sleet all day long.  I had worn my winter hunting clothes that were fine for deer hunting in the fall or walking winter fields and woods looking for squirrels, rabbits and quail, but they were not fine for sitting in a boat in 32-degree wind and sleet!

    A catalog at home from a new mail order company, Bass Pro Shops, offered snowmobile suits and boots.   I ordered both the next week.  The thick insulated jumpsuit was water resistant and repelled sleet and snow, but I had to get a good rainsuit to go over it.

    The boots were very heavy, with inch thick felt liners inside. I knew if I ever fell out of the boat they would take me to the bottom, so I never tightened up the string at the top, leaving them where they would easily slip off.  Of course, with everything else I wore, getting out of the boots probably would not make much difference.  This was way before the small auto inflatable life jackets I now wear at all times.

    I had some of the old hand warmers, the ones you filled with lighter fluid, lit and put in a case in your pocket.  When they came out I got the ones that used a charcoal stick and put it in a cloth lined case to put in a pocket to keep you warm.    Both kinds were messy and hard to use, and inconsistent staying lit, but they helped.

A few years later I saw a product called “Hot Hands” at Berry’s Sporting Goods that did not make sense.  It was a small cloth pouch with grit in it that, when taken out of a plastic bag, shook up and put in your pocket, it warmed up.  Since I taught science at the time I was able to figure out the iron dust inside rusted really fast when exposed to air, producing heat.

Hot Hands make a huge difference when fishing this time of year.  They are not messy or bulky and are easy to use.  I can put them in my boots before leaving home and they are still warming my toes up nine hours later. 

One in each jacket pocket lets me put hands in them one at a time when driving the boat or even fishing a slow-moving bait to warm them up.  A few scattered inside my heavy suit keep my body toasty.

I was a press observer at the 2015 Bassmasters Classic on Like Hartwell. On practice day I rode with David Kilgore, watching him figure out patterns for eight hours.  I could not fish, just sit and talk and watch.

The air temperature was eight degrees that morning, but it warmed all the way up to 20 degrees during the day. And the wind blew. I was comfortable all day though, since I had hot hands in the toes of each boot, in each outside coat pocket for my hands, and four in inside pockets against my body.  I even put one under my cap before putting on a stocking cap and pulling my hood over it. 

Two-packs of both hand or toe warmers are about $1.75 at Berrys and bulk packs are cheaper.  They really help and I don‘t leave home without them this time of year.

Would You Rather Be Lucky Or Good When Fishing

    “I’d rather be lucky that good.” Kenneth Hattaway, one of my mentors in the bass clubs back in the 1970s and 80s, used to say that a lot.  He was one of the best club fishermen in the area back then and did well in bigger tournaments, too. In many ways he was both good and lucky.

    Over the years I have come to believe what he meant was you can be good consistently, but when you are lucky you do even better.  Anyone can win a tournament with the right luck, but it won’ be consistent over time.

    All the pro fishermen on the Bassmaster Elite Series are good. I have fished with more than a dozen of them and they have all the details and mechanics of fishing down pat. They can skip a jig under a dock into places most of us never reach. They can read electronics like a printed report. And they keep all their equipment in top condition.

    But to win an Elite tournament when competing against 87 other fishermen just as good as you are takes some added luck. 

Boyd Duckett sitting on the porch of his cabin after the first day of a tournament, seeing fish schooling and going there the next day and winning is mostly luck.    

Leaving your bait in the water while eating a sandwich for lunch, and your boat drifting over an unknown rockpile and getting a bite, then winning the tournament on those rocks is a lot of luck. My partner in a BASS Regional in Kentucky did that.

When I do well it is a lot of luck.  To do well one day of a two-day tournament is luck, to do well each day takes some skill. There have been multiple times I have done well one of two of the days in our state top six, but I have done well both days only five times, making the state team each time.

Sunday I got lucky enough to stop first thing on a bank with a little current moving, and caught six bass in the first two hours. The next six hours produced only two more fish.  Stopping on that particular bank was as more luck than skill, and the current died before 8:00 AM.

In the Flint River Bass Club tournament Sunday at Sinclair, eight of us fished from 6:00 AM to 2:00 PM to land 18 12-inch keeper bass weighing about 28 pounds. There were two five-bass limits and three people did not have a bass.

My five weighing 10.42 pounds was first. Niles Murray had three at 6.45 pounds for second and his 3.34 pound largemouth was big fish.  Doug Acree had five weighing 6.22 pounds for third and Lee Hancock came in fourth with three at 2.83 pounds.

My first stop was on a deep bank with docks and grassbeds and I started casting a buzzbait.  When I came to a shallow seawall a cast with a weightless Trick worm produced my first keeper, one that was very skinny and barely 12 inches long. 

A few minutes later I skipped a wacky rigged Senko under a dock and landed my biggest bass, a 2.94 pounder.  Then another good keeper hit my buzzbait between docks.  Another dock produced my fourth keeper on the Senko at 7:00.  I was pleased with the fast start.

A few docks later I caught another good keeper, filling my limit, then, right at 8:00 caught my sixth keeper, culling the small bass. I was happy with my catch and started trying to find something else that would work.

At noon I had not had another bite, then I caught my seventh keeper on the Senko on a dock and my eighth, my second biggest of the day, on the Senko on a shady seawall.

Other than hooking a 20-pound blue cat on a shaky head near a dock at 1:00 PM, I did not get another bite until weigh-in.

I wish I could be that lucky every trip.

Till next time – Gone fishing!

Is Forward Facing Sonar Unfair?

A meme on social media shows a fisherman with his head hinged opened and his brain on the floor. The caption reads “I don’t need you anymore, I have Forward Facing Sonar (FFS).”

    Every time something new comes out many fishermen condemn it as something that gives the fisherman an unfair advantage. Of course they mean it gives “other” fisherman an unfair advantage.  It’s fine when they learn to use it.

    Forward facing sonar is amazing. It will show you everything within its range under the water, much like having a video camera under the water. It is directional, sending out a “wedge” of sonar blips covering about one foot wide for every three feet of distance, so at 30 feet the wedge is about 10 feet wide.

It takes a little time and effort to learn what the sonar returns look like on the screen.  The screen looks much like an ultrasound screen at the doctors office.  Fish look like little dots moving around but you can see the limbs of a tree or brush pile and even individual fish in a school of crappie.

A muskie tournament trail has banned FFS in their tournaments and some other tournament trails like BASS are actually discussing what to do. It does give an angler that studies and learns how to use it an advantage, but it does not make the fish bite.  I have had one for three years and it has helped me catch some fish, but many more times I have wasted too much time watching fish follow my bait and not hit it.

I can only hope every fisherman I compete with that has FFS quits using their brain.

A Good Example Of Why I Have Problems With High School Tournaments

I was told “90 percent of our boat captains are safe.” In a 200 boat tournament that means that diretor knows there are about 20 dangerous boats out there!!

At Lanier the second weekend in November, on Saturday when a clerk at Hammonds told me there was an 80-boat high school tournament the next day I instantly wondered what dangerous, stupid and inconsiderate actions I would witness.


On Sunday I didn’t see many boats, I guess most stayed up the river due to the cold wind.

BUT – I had gone back to Balus Creek to finish up the day. I was fishing the bluff bank past the ramp at 1:00, about 3/4 way out to the point. I had been fishing there for about 15 minutes, slowly working out toward the point fishing a jig.

A bass boat came out of the cove on the other side of the ramp with one kid riding illegally in the butt seat up on the front deck and the other illegally in the chair on the back deck.

The “captain” was at that speed where the front of the boat stays way up, half on plane and making the biggest possible wake. And no way he could see ahead of the boat with the kid up there, too.

If I had been tournament director, they would have been disqualified for illegal and dangerous boating.

They came by me about 100 feet away, rode past me halfway into the cove, made a U turn without slowing down, passed me a second time and stopped on the point ahead of me and started casting. I guess I was fishing where they wanted to fish.

I had to hang on to the butt seat to not get thrown out of my boat from their wake.

I don’t know what they caught, but when I got to the point where they stopped and started casting ahead of me, I caught my third keeper and two 13.5-inch throwbacks.

    I try to support youth and high school fishing teams, but things like this are all too common and make it difficult.  I don’t blame the kids, the adult boat captains drive the boat and make the decisions where to fish so safety and courtesy are up to them. But too many of them are teaching the kids bad habits.

I fear it is “when” not “if” there is a serious problem.

Visiting Lake Nottely, Blairsville and the Georgia Mountains

Want a nice get-away to the mountains for some scenery, cool air and fishing? I just got back from a few days around Blairsville and Lake Nottely. On the trip I ate some good food, looked at scenic views and fished for bass.  And I was constantly having flashback memories of my youth.

All the years I was in elementary school, grades one through eight back then, my family went on summer vacation for a week in the mountains.  We would load up the 54 Bel Air – and later the 1962 Bel Air – and head north from Dearing. All the roads were two lane back then and it was a slow, enjoyable trip.

Each night we would stay in a cheap roadside motel, four of us in one room, and eat at a local diner. Daddy insisted on country food just like we ate at home no matter how much I wanted a hamburger or hotdog.  At lunch we would stop at a picnic table, often right beside the road but sometimes at a scenic overlook, and mama would make sandwiches.

My most vivid memory of lunches is not about the food.  We always had Cokes in small bottles back then. I picked up mine for a swig and didn’t notice the yellow jacket on the mouth of the bottle. It took exception to being pressed against my lip and, after the burning sting eased a bit, I swelled up for two days!

The roadside attractions back then were not politically correct.  At many you could buy a nickel Coke or candy bar and give it to a chained bear cub to drink and eat.  I never wondered what happened to those cubs when they got too big, the owners probably ate them.

I learned about scams on one of those trips. A sign said give the owner a nickel and he would open the lid of a box cage and let you see the baby rattler and copperhead inside.

Sure enough, there was a baby shake rattle toy and a penny inside.

I loved the mountain streams and lakes but we never stayed in one place long enough for me to fish. But the year I was eight we changed our plans and I could not wait for my dream trip.

My family and another family, close friends, rented a cabin at Vogel State Park for a week. It was right beside a small stream that had trout in it, and only a couple hundred yards from the lake.

The other couple had a baby girl and she had colic.  Her loud crying kept me up all night and almost ruined the trip. That is when I decided I never wanted kids of my own!

One morning before daylight I put on my overalls, slipped out of the cabin without waking anyone, picked up my cane pole and can of worms and headed to the lake.  Where the stream entered it several row boats for rent were chained up.  One was half full of water with its back end in the lake.

I sat on the edge of that boat for a couple hours as it got light, catching small bream, yellow perch and trout with live earthworms.  I put my fish in the end of the boat that was full of water and it was supposed to work like a livewell.

Mama came hustling down the path to the cabin calling my name. When they woke and I was not there they panicked and went looking for me. Mama found me after she asked two teenage girls out walking if they had seen a kid.

Apparently they answered that yes, Huckleberry Finn was fishing down by the lake the lake!  I guess that fit me with my bare feet, overalls and straw hat!

Many things have changed, you will not see chained bear cubs or baby rattlers. But a trip is still fun and fishing is good on Nottely and other area lakes. 

My trip was to go out with guide Will Harkins and get information for my June Georgia Outdoor News article. Although Will is in college he is a great fisherman and knows Nottely and Chatuge well.

I stayed in a nice fifth wheel camping trailer through brooksiderv.com in a retirement camper community.  It was cheaper than area motels and more comfortable and quieter than a motel would have been.  It was only a few miles from Nottely and Blairsville.

About a mile from the camper and Nottely Dam is Papaw’s Bac-yard BBQ where I got some of the best brisket I have ever eaten, delicious and tender enough to cut with a fork. He has a wide variety of sauces and his Brunswick Stew was very good, too.

Next door at the Amish Store some interesting jelly is available. Frog jelly is fig, raspberry, orange and ginger.  Toe Jam is tangerine, orange and elderberry.  Traffic jam is mostly strawberry for some reason. There are also many other things, from furniture to funny signs, for sale too.

The first night I drove into Blairsville and ate at Mike’s Seafood. The scallops were delicious, cooked just right, and the bite of grilled tuna I tried was excellent. I always like walking into a place like Mike’s and see you order at the fresh seafood counter.

I planned on eating there on Saturday night before I left. Although Google Maps said they got less busy after 8:00 PM, an hour before the close, at 8:00 that night the wait to order was 90 minutes!!

Sicily’s Pizza & Subs Pasta was just down the street and there was no wait. The pizza I got was great but it was not the scallops I wanted! Till next time – Gone fishing!

Cut Grass Or Go Fishing

 The sound of lawnmowers, weed eaters and blowers often disrupt the peace while I am fishing.  Those are both sounds I did not hear in my early years.  We had rakes and hoes, not leaf blowers and weed eaters, and many of the folks I knew had brush brooms, not lawnmowers. Their yards were dirt, not grass.

    If anyone wasted time and effort on a lawn, they did it with an old push reel grass cutter.  I had the “pleasure” of using one of those a few times in my preteen years but could never really push them hard or fast enough to make it work very well.

    By the time I was 13 we did have a nice lawn.  The year before my parents had torn down the old farm house we had lived in for 12 years, building a nice split level brick house on the same lot.  Termites in the old house sped up the need for my mom’s dream house and my parents went way out on a mortgage limb to build it, something they did not believe in.  Borrowing money was not something they wanted to do and going into debt was much less common 55 years ago than it is now.

    The old farm house had a huge living room and kitchen in front and two bedrooms and a bathroom in the back.  All the way in the back was a bedroom, a small kitchen and bathroom that my grandmother lived in for several years.  I think those are now called mother-in-law suites.

    We tore down the front half of the old house and lived in the back rooms while the new house was being built within feet of those rooms. When we tore down the old house we found the floor beams were hand hewn pine logs. The ax marks were plainly visible on them.

    The old section had a big fireplace and chimney.  My dad, being frugal, had us tear it down and chip off the old mortar and he sold the bricks. I was weird to me that folks would pay so much for old bricks that we could buy about ten times as many new ones with the money.

    Daddy decided to plant carpet grass since he had seen some pretty lawns of it in Florida.  It was delivered to our house in sod pieces about two feet wide and three feet long.  Rather than place those pieces for an instant lawn, my frugal dad made us pull it apart and plant sprigs in shallow furrows. That was a hot, tiring job but within a couple of years we had our thick carpet of grass.

    That grass required a good lawn mower and dad got a gas-powered push mower. I spent many hours struggling to crank it then slowly pushing it along. We had a big yard and it took several hours to cut it all.

    One of my friend’s dad was a sergeant in the Army and was very strict.  As punishment, he made my friend cut grass – with scissors!  He would be told to take the scissors out and cut for an hour to punish him for misbehavior. That would probably be called child abuse now but it taught him discipline.  I never had to do that, at least.

    Its funny now that I hate cutting grass in my yard although it is small and takes less than an hour. But I like going to the farm and cutting with the rotary mower for several hours at a time.  I guess it is knowing I am getting ready to hunt the field after getting it plowed and planting winter wheat.

Sandwiches and Other Food Eaten Growing Up and While Fishing

I loved the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches served at Dearing Elementary School, probably because they always went with the vegetable soup.  We had that meal about once a month and it was one of my favorite.  And there was always plenty for us to have seconds and even thirds.

    At home during the summers we ate tomato sandwiches almost daily, with delicious tomatoes from the garden. But I never heard of a BLT until I went off to college.  My tomato sandwiches were simply two slices of loaf bread, salad dressing and thick slices of tomato.  And yes, it was always salad dressing, never mayonnaise, although we used that term.

    During the winter we had the sandwiches just without the tomatoes. A mayonnaise sandwich, two slices of bread slathered with so much salad dressing it was hard to keep them from sliding on each other, was both a lunch and after school snack.  Another simple one was a catsup sandwich. Slices of bread soaked with catsup an eaten mostly as a after school snack.

    Pineapple sandwiches had the same bread and salad dressing and we always had canned, sweetened crushed pineapple.  By putting the salad dressing on one slice of bread, piling it with pineapple and putting another slice of bread on top the top slice got delightfully soaked in pineapple juice.  

    On fishing or hunting trips a can of potted meat and Ritz crackers was all I needed, unless I carried a can of Vienna Sausage.  With them I wanted saltine crackers, not Ritz.  The meat had to be paired with the right crackers.

    Those same canned delights made good sandwiches at home.  A thick layer of potted meat and so much catsup on it globs of the mixture fell into the plate from the bottom of the sandwich, to be licked up as a dessert, made a great meal.  I learned at an early age to line of the Vienna Sausage on the bread from side to side with two on top of the row, then the last on in the can on top of those two, filled up the bread. Again, lots of catsup completed my sandwich.

    We always said loaf bread at my house but some of my friends called it “white bread.”  Mom was a great baker, making cakes and pies to sell, as well as fantastic biscuits and corn bread, but she never baked loaf bread. 

    Corn bread was in sticks, muffins or pone that was baked in a black frying pan in the oven. Left over cornbread of all kinds was eaten as an afternoon snack, with a bowl of catsup to dip it in. Yes, I liked and still like catsup!

    My favorite cornbread was something we called “splatter bread.”  Sometimes mom would heat lard in the black skillet until there was a pool a half inch deep and pour a thin mixture of corn meal and water into it.  The edges were amazing, crisp and crunchy, and the center cooked just right.   I still make it to go with steamed cabbage, peas and creamed corn, and soup.

    Writing this has made me hungry, I think I will go make a batch of splatter bread and get a bowl of catsup.