This is, no joke, a picture of my back yard last year.  Those of you who know me are not surprised, but you might be tempted to believe it got this way because I was off somewhere living a fabulous life fishing the salt and playing cards.  Au contraire!  (See there, French.  I told you this site was classy.)  In fact, we got stuck in an awful weather pattern where it would be beautiful during the week while we were working and then bucket down rain all weekend.  I’m hoping for better results this year, and I was out running the old weed whacker today trying to get ahead of it.  For those of you who live in northern climes, i.e try this website., everyone in the continental U.S. save Florida and part of Texas, it is already time to start mowing here in sunny Lower Alabama.  I also installed a new pool pump this afternoon in preparation for opening the pool.  Don’t hate, appreciate.

Hopefully this drudge work now will leave more time for adventures later.  I got to turn some wrenches on the Rover lately too, so things are looking better after a long winter.  We had to get out our long pants there for a couple of  months.  Egad!

Well, here I am on a Sunday morning doing what millions of people do every Sunday, sitting in a bar.  Yes, that is my Bible in the photo, and no, I don’t know who Paco is, so don’t ask.  The bar in question is the world-famous Flora-Bama known for the mullet toss, bikini contests, and yes, Sunday worship.  This morning was the second time the Sporting Wife and I have attended Worship at the Water, an outreach of the Perdido Bay United Methodist Church.  We are sitting in the bar proper because there were so many in the main worship space that we could not find standing room.  You know how it is when you go to church of a Sunday and it’s so crowded you can’t even get a place to stand, right?  Yeah, me neither.

We knew to get there early, as the first Sunday we attended we arrived forty-five minutes before the service and many were already making their way to folding chairs.  Omelets are made to order for $7.50, and you also get a drink ticket.  I had a Bloody Mary on our first visit, and a fellow came over to greet me, shook my hand, and said he was glad we were there.  The Sporting Wife said, “I believe that was the preacher,” and she was right.  Discipleship Pastor Jeremy Mount, in a “My Church is the Flora-Bama” t-shirt and cargo shorts, welcomed us into the fold.  We were only half an hour early this morning and we had waited too late to get our food and get a good seat.  At least we were not among the dozens still standing outside when the service began.

The setting may be all in fun, but the service is no joke.  Worship is a spirit-filled affair, with the Solid Rock in the Sand Band laying down a righteous groove on numbers from the “Honky Tonk Hymnal.”  These are mostly standards my Mamaw would know by heart like “Blessed Assurance” and “Amazing Grace”  but if you have never heard a hymn with a harmony guitar solo in it, you really should.  Dress is casual of necessity; after all, we are in a beachfront bar.  Should you wish to be baptized, the Gulf of Mexico awaits right outside the back flap of the tent.  There is no passing of the offering plate, but there are brightly colored tackle boxes where you can make a donation to these fishers of men if you choose https://s..anada.ca/.

At the conclusion of the service each time we left to a rousing medley of “I’ll Fly Away” and “I Saw the Light.”  Jerry Lee and Hank would have been proud.  No one sings gospel like a sinner, because we know for sure we need Jesus.  Here’s me with the sign out front just so you know I’m not making this up as an early April Fool’s gag.

If all of this is not your cup of sangria, that’s fine too, but don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.  I was there this morning, and I can hardly wait to go back.  As some of their outreach literature proclaims, not everyone feels welcome in a church, but everyone feels welcome in a bar.  You can find more information here http://www.pbumc.net/templates/System/details.asp?id=30004&PID=690833 and here http://www.facebook.com/florabamaworship?ref=nf.

Beata T and I stretch for some beads in front of my office building, 2008.

10. You’ve ever heard of Joe Cain.

9. You know “Tahtacocktail” is a question.  “Tartar sauce or cocktail sauce on your po’ boy?”

8. You’ve ever coordinated your tie with a 17-cent strand of beads.

7. You put an entry on your time sheet for “review parade schedule.”

6. You don’t even think about parking downtown any weekend the month before Lent.

5. You have used beads as packing peanuts for an office move.

4. You bring an umbrella to work for catching throws.

3. You have injured yourself diving for a Moon Pie on your lunch break.

2. You  are vaguely aware a city in Louisiana does something this time of year too.

1. You expect to be off on Fat Tuesday, ’cause everyone else is.

I didn’t know we had entered, so when I saw the check, I told our crack accounting department, aka the Sporting Wife, there had been some kind of mistake.  She said, “You must have won the contest http://ukvia….-uk/!”  “What contest?”  “They were running a contest for the best video.  I didn’t tell you because I never thought you’d win.”  Thanks for the vote of confidence, sugar-britches.  She now says she didn’t want me to be nervous while I was shooting the video.  Nice try.  Advertisers, it appears some people actually pay money for this stuff.  Let me feel the fiber of your fabric.

There are not too many people you can come to know in your lifetime who reach “icon” status, but we all know at least a few. You know, those people who seem to be a story all on their own just by being themselves, and everyone you know and grew up with seems to have a story about them. Well, one of my icons is Houston Thrasher.

I first met Houston around the 5th grade through his son and one of my childhood friends, Trevor. A tall man, with boots and the rather well-used cowboy hat that were his regular attire. Most nights, you would find him in shorts, with a towel tucked in the front of his pants and his boots still on, cooking up some great food.

His trucks always looked like they were picked up from a second-hand shop and had never been washed except when the good Lord washed them with rain.  Since they lived on a huge farm, I guess that is to be expected. I mean, why wash it when it’s just going to get dirty again, right?

Houston earned his reputation in my eyes the first time I went dove hunting in his back fields. While Trevor, Mike, and I were going on our 3rd and 4th boxes of shells with 5 birds between us to show for it, Houston had reached the limit in one box, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had hit 2 or 3  birds with one shot! “You only need one shot,” was his reasoning. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a better shot than he was.

Houston helped me clean my first deer when I was 16. A 7-pointer at the little hunting club in Ramer, Tennessee, was a pretty big deal to me, and he was there. He didn’t have me drink the blood or eat the liver like you see sometimes in the movies, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had told me to (and I would have felt obligated to do it.) Sticking to his “one shot” philosophy, he made me feel great by telling me that it was a perfect shot.

He could also be a stern man. I remember “goofing around” on the 4 wheeler,  and he gave me a ripping for being unsafe. However, I deserved it, and I ended up respecting him even more. Whether it was at the deer camp or out on the dove fields, he wanted everyone to have fun, but the priority was safety.

Well, my icon passed away yesterday, and I hope he knew how much other people in my life have enjoyed the stories I’ve told about him. Whether it was the thousands of dollars passed around in “small” poker games at the deer camp, or the witty comments he would throw at us “youngsters” hanging at the house, there always seemed to be a story we’d take and tell our other friends.

There was and shall be only one Houston Thrasher, and I will be drinking an Old Milwaukee this weekend in his honor. Thanks for the stories, Houston, because they and you will live on.

“Nope. I ain’t leaving him up here.”  So Joe sat right there on that elk while Houston went down to get the rest of the fellows.  Well, back in camp, the boys had “a few” to fortify themselves for the chore of packing out the elk.  Time dragged on and night was approaching.  As he sat there getting colder and colder, Joe began to wonder if they were coming.  Snow was falling when finally he saw a tiny spot of orange making its way up the mountain toward him.  He roared, “Hurry your . . . up, you mother . . . !”

A shocked voice with a distinctly non-Southern accent replied, “What party are you with?”

Joe answered, “Hell, Republican, I guess!”  True story as I remember it told to all the young shavers around the camp stove one night.  Or at least I think it was true.  Hell, I wasn’t there.

Lest anyone think owl conservation is the only cause to which we are committed around here, I present these photos from a recent Relay For Life event in Gulf Shores, AL.  Relay For Life benefits the American Cancer Society.  You can find out more here:  http://www.relayforlife.org/relay/.  I’m no expert, but I’ll go out on a limb and say cancer can put a serious crimp on your hunting and fishing activities.  We sponsored a hole at a miniature golf tournament.  Here is the Sporting Wife installing our sign and getting a sunburn on the top of her head.  Skin cancer alert!

The youngest guy, who appeared to be in high school or a recent graduate, posed the question, “When you were in the military, what was your favorite weapon?”  The next-oldest fellow, who would have been the right age to have served in Vietnam, answered immediately, “A broom.”  The oldest gentleman, obviously a WWII or Korea vet, added, “We used a mop a lot too.”

They all had a good laugh, and the young man clarified by asking about the others’ favorite assault rifles.  A discussion of the relative merits of the M1 Garand, the M14, and the M16 ensued, but by that time I was absorbed in my prime rib.  I thought back to that conversation later, though, and what it says about the reality of military life compared to the perceptions of those like me who have never served.

If Pete drank it all, why did I have a headache? – Ed.

Once again, it’s hard to believe the year is gone.  I’ve been away from the blog for a while because I’ve been busy doing things that will hopefully prove worth writing about in the months to come.  From the end of deer season to the beginning of spring turkey season can be a long haul, not to mention how far away good fishing weather seems right now.  I’ll try to serve y’all a steaming cup of Armchair gumbo in the meantime, a little bit of this and a little bit of that until we’ve cleaned out the freezer.  Maybe I can tie up some loose ends by finishing some of the multi-episode stories that seem to have taken on a life of their own in the telling.  I hope your 2009 was as blessed as mine, and here’s wishing you and yours a safe and prosperous 2010.

For reasons I still fail to understand, an anti-hunter recently began posting on another outdoor blog I read. (O.K., it was Field and Stream.) I can’t fathom why an anti-hunter would frequent that site, but as I said in one of my comments, it’s just as well. If she were not online annoying us, she might be running around loose in the world where she could do some real damage. There was some ridiculous stuff, like her assertion that Jesus wouldn’t condone hunting or fishing. I replied that by all indications, Jesus spent his time hanging around with a bunch of fishermen, and they didn’t practice catch and release.

Along with all of the other tofu-induced liberal frothings, however, she did raise some semi-serious questions. She seemed to be particularly incensed by her misconceived notions of trophy hunting, and she was perplexed by the idea of managing for bigger and more numerous deer one would then attempt to “murder.” In situations such as this, I advocate speaking in a low, calm voice while slowly backing away, so I posted the following response to her questions:

Not that it will matter, but I will give you a straight answer. Wildlife management is not just about numbers. The goal of wildlife management is a stable and healthy population. Can we get off deer just for a second and look at snow geese? The population of snow geese has exploded to the point that liberal bag limits and long seasons are now in place to reduce that population. Animal numbers in nature are regulated by disease and starvation in addition to predation. If snow goose hunting were banned tomorrow, the population would be curbed eventually by a massive die-off of the species.

Now, back to deer. People seek to increase the size and number of deer on hunting properties managed for deer hunting. This does not impact the population of your state’s deer herd nearly as much as other factors such as human population density and agricultural practices. Hunters want to take healthy animals and leave a sufficient population of healthy animals to ensure a good harvest for the future. You won’t agree with me here, but animals are a resource.

Many people who hunt like to take “trophy” animals. I’m more of a meat hunter myself, but to each his or her own. I have no problem with someone who wants to take a world-class animal, and you wouldn’t either if you understood how many immature animals or others that just don’t “measure up” that hunter will have to pass up in order take (and you may substitute kill if you like, the terminology makes no difference) that ideal specimen. You can’t shoot the first doe you see and think that an 8-point is going to come trotting out right behind her to see what that loud noise was. I’m fine with holding out for a “stud” as you call them, so long as there is already a doe or two in my freezer to last my family until the next season. Before that, if it’s brown, it’s down. I didn’t come up with that one, but you can quote me if you like.

Finally, let’s address what’s really bugging you. When I take, kill, slaughter, again whatever term you like is fine, an animal, I am really happy. I enjoy it. I am thankful to have food for the table, and I snap a few photos so I can show my friends what a fine specimen I have taken. I usually substitute a handshake for the high-five, but a 75-pound doe merits the same fanfare to me as a “hoss” buck because I have accomplished what I set out to do. True, I have cut off the rest of that animal’s natural lifespan, but why should coyotes and buzzards eat better than me? Do you believe those other species eat meat only because they don’t know any better?

You are entitled to your own beliefs and to live your life as you see fit, but you don’t extend that same courtesy to others. You want instead to impose your will. I don’t spend my time on the PETA site, and I don’t berate my vegetarian and vegan friends. They have the good sense and decency to realize that what I do in hunting game is moral, ethical, and right although they choose not to do it.