If my kids were writing this blog, it would probably go something like this:
Dad is so nuts. Every Saturday, I’m talking about every one, he’s all like “we’ve got to get up
at the butt crack of dawn and go do something. It’s like he’s got this crazy lens for looking at “fun” and it’s all about hunting and fishing and Bass Pro shops and taking boat rides. He’s out of his mind.
Yeah. I mean, he’s always pointing things out to us, like the whistle that a wood duck makes, or how to tell when a snook strikes, that distinct “pop” sound . . .
How to tell which way a gobbler is going, and whether he’s already on hens. The right time to take the ducks as they’re dropping into the decoys. How to set the decoys out so that the ducks will want to land inside them, not outside. How to let a shrimp drift just right, so it doesn’t appear to be hooked at all, but still be able to detect the bite . . .
I’m saying, he’s so bananas that he holds classes on the boat to teach us how to tie a knot, or bait a hook, or how to get more distance out of a cast. I mean, who does that?
What high school freshman girl needs to know the difference between a full choke and improved cylinder? What 8 year old boy needs to be able to identify every shark indigenous to Florida?
He’s even gotten us hooked on bird dogs! Do you know how awful a wet Brittany Spaniel smells? Like soured fertilizer baked on oysters . . . but my room doesn’t feel the same without that faint odor . . .
His latest thing is the smell of rubber boots – like some tire factory has captured their essence into a perfume . . . we get to the snipe field and he’s like “smell that – the dew? And the grass? The dogs and those boots? Doesn’t it smell magical?”
He thinks this is fun?!?!?!?
We’re seriously thinking about having him committed . . . we just can’t find the time to do it . . . maybe after turkey season . . . no, then it’s tarpon time . . . then redfish . . . then dove . . . then ducks . . . deer . . . small game . . . oh well, maybe it is kinda fun . . .
At least, I hope that’s what they’re thinking . . .