O.K., so it’s a new .44, but you get the idea.  When I was a kid, there was only one thing I wanted to be, a cowboy.  I wanted a six-gun, a lever-action rifle, and a horse so I could ride the range.  Career options for cowboys being rather limited in West Tennessee, I went to college after high school and double-majored in English and Spanish.  I then did the next logical thing and went to law school.  Now, twenty-something years from graduation, I’m trying to save as much money as I can from teaching to get a six-gun, a lever-action rifle, and a horse so I can ride the range.

My dream got one step closer last weekend with the purchase of a Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum.  I worked up a mild reload for it, and the Sporting Wife and I headed for the open range . . . the firing range.  I am not ready for whitetail or outlaws, but at seven yards I am on paper and so is the missus.  Cow-punchers we ain’t, but punching paper will do for now.

“Lefty” Kreh advocates the wearing of a cap or hat with black under the brim to cut glare and allow better vision for sight fishing.  Having tried an A/B comparison as Lefty suggested in his excellent “Fly Fishing in Salt Water” I agree that a dark color underneath the bill does allow one to see further beneath the surface of the water in bright sunlight.  Unfortunately, not all of my favorite fishing caps come with this feature from the manufacturer.  It’s probably cheaper for them to make the whole thing out of the same cloth.  With some assistance from the Sporting Wife, I’ve turned my beloved Tennessee Titans cap into a much better choice for fishing than it was with off-white cloth under the bill.

In order to complete this project, you’ll need a favorite cap, some paper, a pencil, a marker, scissors, and a sheet of black felt.

First, take some paper and trace the shape of the bill to make a pattern.  You will note those graceful hands in the picture are not mine.  If you can, get your own sporting wife to do this for you pharmacieviagra.com.  If you cannot find a sporting wife, this is not the right website to help with that issue.

Now use the pattern you made to trace a rough outline onto the back of the felt.  We used sticky-backed felt, but you can use plain felt and fabric glue if you like.  Note that I am still doing nothing but taking pictures.  They don’t call me Armchair for nothing.

Cut around the outline.

Peel the adhesive backing if you’re using sticky-backed felt or spray your adhesive if not.

Then just stick the felt onto the underside of the bill.

You may have to do some trimming to get the felt square with the edge of the bill, but don’t worry about getting it perfectly even.  If it cuts the glare coming off the water, that’s all you need.  Lefty talks about using shoe polish in a pinch, but there is another simple method that probably smells better.

I have an el cheapo mesh-backed cap that I like primarily because it weighs nothing.  I didn’t want to add a layer of felt to it, and the adhesive probably wouldn’t stick to the slick material anyway.  I’ve started on it with a marker, and although I’m probably most of the way through the marker already, it’s coming along tolerably well.  I just hope I don’t look like Alice Cooper when the sweat and salt water hits it.  At any rate, it beats shoe polish.

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.

Clockwise from lower left:  Garrett, Bryce, Ford, and Avery.  Not Pictured: Cousin Tim, Tim the Guide, Kenneth, Judy, Jar, and the Armchair Outfitter.

I have often thought we sell small game short in hook-and-bullet literature.  Most of us started out hunting small game, but for some reason if it’s not a deer, a turkey, or something bigger, it’s not worth an article.  One of the best hunts I went on last year was a squirrel hunt at the close of the season.  It was the last Saturday, in fact, and I drove seven hours to Tennessee for a day of guided hunting with dogs.  Good Lord willing, I will repeat that same hunt this year.

Cousin Tim called me with the idea, saying, “I don’t know if you’d be interested in coming all the way up here for this or not.”  He told me he knew a fellow who was passionate about squirrel hunting with dogs, and if we put together a hunt, he’d guide us just to have a chance to go.   Our guide was particularly keen on the idea of bringing young people hunting.  Tim wanted to take his son Garrett, and he knew some other young men who might also come along.  Without a moment’s hesitation, I said to count me in on the deal.  Squirrel hunting was the first hunting I ever did when I was kid, but as someone who grew up “in town” I seldom had the opportunity to hunt them with dogs.

In this case, the dogs were Judy and Jar, two fine representatives of the Original Mountain Cur Breed.  Mountain Curs are known for their courage in hunting dangerous game like wild boar or mountain lion, but they are equally adept at trailing and treeing squirrel.  The hunt began with breakfast.  I got to the restaurant before Cousin Tim, and I didn’t know our guide Tim or any of the other hunters.  As we were the only folks in the tiny diner dressed in camouflage, it was obvious we were all headed in the same direction.  Tim the Guide had brought his nephew Avery, and Kenneth had his two grandsons Bryce and Ford with him.  Cousin Tim and Garret got there just as I was ordering my food, and we had a good talk before setting out for Uncle Gary’s farm.

Our contingent was carrying a variety of arms, with hunters about equally divided between riflemen and shotgunners.  There is not sufficient space here for me to get into whether a .22 or a smoothbore is more appropriate for squirrel.  Let me just say that a mix of both is ideal.  Our guide began the day with a talk about safety which was directed equally at the younger folks and us old hands.  This alone convinced me we were in the hands of a professional and were in for a good day’s hunting.  Tim the Guide explained that there was no hurry once the dogs treed because they would hold the squirrel until we were in position.  Riflemen would approach first with hopes of getting a good clean shot.  If the shooter missed or if the squirrel broke for cover, shotgunners could take the animal on the run.  This arrangement suited me about as well as I could imagine.

The day was sunny with a brisk wind, and we didn’t have lots of opportunities, but we wound up with around a half-a-dozen squirrels between us.  This style of hunting, ambling through the woods on the trail of the dogs and conversing with the other hunters, is very agreeable.  I learned that Kenneth was a contemporary of the late, great Houston Thrasher, and we shared some stories about hunting with him, none of which can here be reprinted.

I hear about young people going on their first hunt for deer or turkey, and I can’t imagine a worse idea.  The expectation and the potential for disappointment are so high with big game that I’d much prefer squirrel for a hunter’s introduction.  We got a few squirrels, but we had a blast and shared some good fellowship in the process.  I’d drive any distance for the opportunity to do that again.

Some of you may recognize Mr. Johnson, the author of a series of books about the fictional exploits of a Wyoming sheriff.  The series spawned the excellent television show “Longmire” which will no doubt be cancelled soon if it has not been 86ed already.  I say this because the Sporting Wife and I like it about equally well, and that is the kiss of death for any program.

I chose this quote for the first post after a long absence because it describes how I feel about life at the moment.  I’m trying to stay ahead of my professional and family obligations while still finding time for my hobbies and interests, and I have decided that the Indians I was once leading are now chasing me.  There’s nothing for it but to keep running and hope I wind up somewhere great.  Look for new posts, and I will also try to finish some of the old installment articles.

Looking at the smallish box does not give you a fair idea of the tools and fly tying materials inside.  From my limited experience, the only thing missing is a whip finisher.  I haven’t watched the DVD or tied any flies with this kit yet, but I wanted you to get a look  at the contents before I post some of my results.  Look for the second part of this review when I get time to sit down at the bench for a few minutes.  While you wait, try to come up with some humorous comments based on one item, head cement.

Those of you who read the last “Words of Wisdom” and did not sleep through high school English  will no doubt notice the foreshadowing of this review.  Lest you should be surprised by the appearance of such a sophisticated literary device, bear in mind the many times I have told you there is nothing short about this operation. – Ed.

Anyone passingly familiar with hook-and-bullet literature has read the first-hand account of a peerless sportsman who has performed some amazing feat of outdoor prowess.  Perhaps he hiked alone into Montana’s Bitterroot Range, lasered a bull elk at 400 yards with a custom rifle based on a wildcat cartridge of his own design, quartered the animal and packed it back to base camp, and then lit a campfire by striking a match on the stubble of his grizzled chin.  Or maybe he caught a 1,000-pound marlin from a kayak on a hand-tied fly dangled from an 8-weight rod he built himself.  Who are these demi-gods of the outdoors?  Not Bill Heavey.

Heavey, an editor at large who writes the humor column for Field & Stream, is more recognizable to us ordinary mortals.  As fellow F&S editor David Petzal writes in the foreword, “Bill is an everyman who may be the most inept sportsman ever to grace the magazine’s pages.  On the other hand, he may simply be the most honest . . . In short, his boneheaded mistakes are our boneheaded mistakes.”

The quote in “Words of Wisdom” epitomizes Heavey’s writing.  Note that he does not expect to see a deer.  Note also that like many of us late in the season, he is out there freezing anyway.  He begins the same chapter with, “I never expected to say this, but here  goes:  I’m glad the season is almost over.”  This combination of enthusiasm and fatalism is the essence of why we do it.  We are disappointed when we don’t succeed, but not overly much, because we really didn’t expect this time to be any different than the last.  But next time, just maybe, next time . . .

Heavey’s misery is not confined to hunting season.  Of fishing, he writes, “Did you ever have one of those days on the water when you happened to be in exactly the right place at exactly the right time and caught fish until you were sick of it?  Me neither.”  Instead of a demi-god, we find in Heavey an actual human being.  We find ourselves, which is what we really seek in all literature if you believe certain critical analysis.  “Like many ineffectual people, I am addicted to the transitory endorphin buzz that comes from impressing somebody besides my own mother.”  Folks, that’s me, that’s probably you, and that’s certainly armchair.

Should you wonder for a moment whether Heavey has the true humor writer’s faculty of gently  ripping your guts out with a serious tale, read the shattering “Lilyfish,” an account of the passing of his baby daughter.  If weeping openly before others bothers you, maybe save this one for a private moment.

In short, Field & Stream continues its tradition of disgustingly good writing and Heavey makes his own mark on a publication that’s been around longer than all of us have been alive.  That in itself is no mean feat, Mr. Heavey.  Your mother and the rest of us are impressed.