These Scissors May Prove To Be OK

Was wandering aimlessly through the fishing-tackle aisles of a local Walmart store yesterday while my wife shopped when I happened upon a pair of scissors like the ones in the accompanying photo.

I really haven't been looking for a pair because, after trying countless other pairs, I had come to the conclusion that no one has yet figured out how to make a good pair. That point is readily apparent with just one look around our home. Failed models are strewn throughout.

This particular pair of Cuda 5.5-inch braid shears, however, grabbed my attention. The packaging made note of the fact these titanium-bonded, 3X-harder-than-steel, dual-serrated blades stay sharper longer. And the grips have a non-slip scale pattern.

The recommended care for this tool is to rinse it after each use with fresh water and dry, using a clean towel. Sparingly apply a lightweight oil to the hinges or joints on a regular basis.

Best of all, these Cuda shears come with a lifetime warranty, which reads as follows: "At Cuda, we believe our legendary products should be supported by an equally legendary promise. If your Cuda product fails to perform its intended use, due to defects in materials or workmanship, we will replace it, regardless of age. Normal wear, sharpening, industrial use or abuse, misuse or neglect is not covered. Send the product in its original box for proof of purchase, along with explanation of defect. You may have other rights, which may vary from state to state."

Just in case these braid shears prove to be worth the $6 I paid for them, I picked up a spare pair today.

Finally--A Story About Someone Who Kept Her New Year's Resolution

The Internet is filled with tales of people who failed miserably in keeping their New Year's resolutions, along with a generous number of suggestions about the types of resolutions you should make in the first place, as well as a vast amount of guidance on how best you should go about keeping them. I was just about ready to give up on finding even one account of someone who had managed to make good on their resolution when, low and behold, I found a winner.

For some unknown reason, the author of this particular account chose to withhold her name from the story. However, I can tell you that it appears to have first been published nearly 40 years ago--in January 1979, to be exact. Here's that first-person account, in its entirety, with only minor editing:

"The idea came to me one afternoon in late December. I had just completed a six-week challenge suggested by a magazine article on doing good deeds daily. Some of the author's activities had included writing letters, calling people he had intended to telephone for a long time, taking someone a pie, a plant, or a small remembrance, praying for others, and sharing the joy of living. It was such a joyful experience that he challenged his readers to emulate his experience.

"At the end of my six weeks, I was absolutely ecstatic about all the good things that had happened. Then it hit me--why not make it a year-long adventure and commit myself to doing something good for someone every day? It intrigued me to think that, at the end of the year, I could have touched the lives of 365 people. And I could keep track of my successes or failures in my personal journal.

"As the year began, I could hardly wait for each new day. It seemed so easy to think of good things to do. For example, I could catch up on my correspondence and lend a helping hand to neighbors with small children.

"I was doing well through February, until one night, after a particularly exhausting day, I suddenly realized that I had not done one good deed. I couldn't bring myself to record a failure, so I crawled out of bed and wrote a letter to a long-forgotten friend.

"Not all of my good deeds were preplanned; some just happened. I recorded in my journal the following example:

"We had an early dinner and looked forward to an evening together with not one meeting scheduled. We decided to relax and watch a favorite television show. I had just popped some corn when the doorbell rang. 'Now who can that be?' I groaned. I opened the door to see three young girls grinning at me.

"My heart sank as they scattered their bodies in the entrance way, but I hid my feelings as they began to talk. After two hours of just listening, I was really a part of their lives. At that exact moment, they had needed someone to listen to them. Although I had missed my television show, I thanked my Father in Heaven for the opportunity He had sent that night to touch the lives of three young girls.

"I was able to touch other lives, too, through my church callings. I had never before realized how tuned out I had been to the needs of those around me. I began to see those who were lonely, those who needed an arm around their shoulder, and those who needed something to spark an otherwise dull day.

"April and May found me making little spring treats to take to friends. My activities were developing a new dimension: Not only was I touching those around me, but now I was reaching out to people I never knew before. I still felt the excitement of my resolution, but added to it now was a deeper spiritual feeling that made me feel much closer to my Father in Heaven.

"I came closer to my children, too, with another unplanned good deed. School had let out for the summer. My 7-year-old son reminded me, 'Hey, Mom, you promised to take us all hiking.'

"'Oh dear,' I muttered, 'why do I make such outlandish promises in weak moments?' But I hadn't done my good deed, and here was a chance.

"We all climbed into the car and headed for the hills. I gave them (the kids) some basic instructions for hiking in that area, and then we set forth. The sun was shining, the lizards were running, and I was hoping that we wouldn't be joined by a rattlesnake. My 5-year-old stumbled over rocks and fell into crevices and kept thanking me for taking him hiking. My 6-year-old daughter grabbed my hand and said, 'This sure is fun just being in the dirt with you.' I felt so full that I could only respond by squeezing her hand.

"When we returned home, my children's wide smiles thanked me again for the time I had taken to be with them. 'That was a lot of fun,' I thought, 'and I was able to touch four lives very special to me.'

"As the summer days lengthened, I wanted my family to experience some of the joy I was finding in my 'journey of love.' We set aside Thursday for making treats or doing something nice for others. The children did the baking and delivering, with me at their side, and they delighted in the joy that they brought others.

"By September and October, my resolution had become a daily habit. Oh, I was still human. Sometimes my heart was not fully in tune when I started out to visit someone ill or down, but I always came away with a strengthened testimony of doing good.

"For example, on the first day of school, my youngest child and I stood on the doorstep, waving goodbye to my other children as they left for classes. I had intended to do some long-delayed house cleaning, but I also had a strong urge to visit a new acquaintance, a bedridden 12-year-old girl. When we arrived at her home and walked into her bedroom, I noticed big, black circles around her eyes and sadness in her face. 'Hi,' I said. 'Thought we'd come and see our favorite person.'

"Her face lit up a little. 'Now tell me, what's the best thing that's happened to you since we were last here?' I asked. She looked at me with her tired eyes, smiled faintly, and said, 'The only good thing is having you come again.'

"Tears filled my eyes, and I hugged her tightly, so that she wouldn't see the tears. We talked a while, then as my little son and I left her home, I took hold of his hand. 'Oh, Danny--' but that was all I could say as the tears streamed down my cheeks. Once again, I was coming away from a visit with much more than I had taken.

"As the year progressed, I came to realize that charity is not always convenient, and that it sometimes takes much thought and planning. At first, I was proud of all the 'good' I was doing, but as the year came to an end, I was humbled to realize how selfish I had been all my life. As I left the home of the bedridden, or listened to frustrated teenagers, or climbed the hills with my children, I often thought of all the lives I could have touched in previous years if only I had taken the time. My one consolation was knowing that I could make a similar journey in all the years ahead."

For the Week Ending Sunday, Dec. 30, 2018

Monday, Dec. 24 (from Ron)...It was Christmas Eve, so I had to wet a line. Fished upper North landing from 2 to 5 p.m. Started with a small striper, and my hopes went up, but then it got real slow. Managed a couple more fish but no keeper stripers. Still, however, it beats a skunk.

Thursday, Dec. 27 (from Ron)...Fished Milldam yesterday from 3 p.m. 'til dark and got skunked. Not a single tap. Fished Tecumseh today, again from 3 p.m. 'til dark, and found one skinny li'l white perch to avoid the skunk. Oh well...

Saturday, Dec. 29 (from Ron)...Had a bit better day. Weather was near perfect; didn't even need a jacket from 2 to 4:30 p.m. Found some small chain pickerel that were slamming the Booyah Prank on top. Third one was a decent size, maybe 20 or 22 inches, but he stole my Prank with his sharp teeth. They didn't seem interested in anything else. Eventually, though, caught a dink bass and a 2-15 on a Berkley Pitbull crankbait. As I was recovering, a guy fishing with kids near the launch site landed a 4-lb. 6-oz. bass on cut bait while fishing on the bottom!

The Fishing Night Before Christmas

By Rory Aikens

Arizona Game and Fish Department

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the lake,

Not a bass boat was stirring, there was nary a wake,

In hopes that the big bass would soon hit the lure,

Crappie schools were nestled way off their lake beds,

While visions of fish dancers leaped in our heads,

With mama in her bass seat, while the line did unwrap,

Had dangled a Robo worm as she took a brief nap.

When out on the lake, there arose such a shad clatter,

I sprang for the bass seat to see what was the matter,

Away to the shad frenzy our boat flew like a flash,

Cast into the melee with some quick flash and dash,

The moon on the water glowed like fresh fallen snow,

Giving threadfin shad a luster to big bass below,

When what to my wife's waking eyes should appear,

But a fast-moving bass boat pulled by Evinrude deer.

With a little old angler, so lively and so quick,

I knew in a moment that it must be Bass Nick,

More rapid than eagles his lures they all came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name,

"Now Dasher, now Dancer worm, now walk-the-dog Vixen,

On rattlin' jig! On drop shot! On spoons he was Blitzen,

To the top of the water, down to a giant shad ball,

Now fish away, fish away, fish away all!

As schools of silver shad swim hither and nigh,

When meeting with structure they bump and they fly,

With the boat full of lures and Bass Nicholas, too,

And then in a twinkling, I hear crossing the lake,

Deer were pulling the bass boat, for goodness sake,

As I turned on the bass seat and was looking around,

Down the dock ole Bass Nick had cast with a bound,

He was dressed in fur shorts, plus a big bright red cap,

And his clothes were all tarnished from fish he would zap.

A bundle of fishing rods hung on the crimson bass sleigh,

He laughed like a school kid on vacation to play,

His eyes how they twinkled, surface dimples were so merry,

His lures were red as roses, his fishin' poles were all cherries,

His troll motor was drawn up as he shouted ho, ho, ho,

And the skirt of his spinnerbait was white as the snow,

The butt of his rod was held tight as a wreath,

And the circling shad made him cast underneath.

His lure had a round face, with a treble for the belly,

That shook when he worked it, like a creel full of jelly,

The lure was so chubby and plump, a right jolly fish elf,

And I laughed when he worked it in spite of myself,

With the wink of a drop shot from the floating bass sled,

Soon gave us to know the bass had something to dread,

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his spinners,

And filled all his sled bags with tournament winners.

And casting the Senko aside a great rocky nose,

And flicking his rod, so the hook did arose,

He then sprang to the sled seat, put motor in gear,

And down the lake he flew like speeding reindeer,

But I heard him exclaim, ere he zoomed out of sight,

Merry fishing to all, catch great memories tonight!

The Envy of Every Fisherman Who Lays Eyes on It

That's the thought I had earlier today as I read a story my friend Jim Bauer had sent me. The story was about a couple of local kayakers who have a special Christmas tree--well, actually it's just a dead-tree branch, but one that's decorated with more than 1,200 fishing lures they've collected while paddling local waterways.

Included in their travels are lakes in the area, as well as whole river systems, including the North Landing and Lafayette Rivers. These kayakers leave no stone unturned during their excursions. They diligently check out every creek and take a look around every bend along the way.

The real kicker here is that neither of these kayakers fish. Hence, they found themselves with this ballooning collection of fishing lures but no idea what to do with them...until, that is, they came up with the idea of hanging all their finds on a year-round holiday tree (see accompanying photo).

This project wasn't borne until a couple of years ago, when one of the kayakers suffered a concussion and couldn't do much more than float around on her kayak. She began noticing how many fishing lures were tangled in overhanging tree branches as a result of anglers' errant casts. Once she was ready to get back in full action, she persuaded her kayak partner to begin seriously looking for lures.

The kayakers admitted it "at first was a silly thing," but added that it "then became a hobby." Now they call it "an obsession." Both came to realize how dangerous the lures and lines tangled in the trees are to birds.

One of them devised a lure-snaring contraption to aid their efforts. It consists of a water bottle with the top cut off, attached by a paint-roller handle to an expandable metal pole. A noose of sorts, attached by a strong rubber band and controlled by a long string, traps the lure in the bottle when the holder jerks the string. The kayakers also carry a saw, hook, scissors, pliers, and grabbers on their kayak trips to better reach out-of-the-way lures.

Along with traditional shiny lures, these kayakers have found unusual and expensive ones, too. There also are some that resemble mice, ducks, birds, and frogs. Rounding out their finds are some battery-powered bobbers that light up.

So how would a fisherman react if he/she were lucky enough to get a sneak peek at this collection? Well, as a matter of fact, a few have seen it, and according to the kayakers, "There's always one they'd really like to have."

The one warning these kayakers have for anyone else who may be thinking about starting a similar collection of their own is, "Stay away from overhead utilities and power lines. No pretty piece of plastic is worth a life."

Sounds like good advice to me.

Another version of this article appeared in the Coastal Journal under the byline of Mary Reid Barrow. Here's a link to that earlier version: https://pilotonline.com/life/wildlife-nature/coastal-journal/article_1154a1c4-02e7-11e9-af5c-a3072c56b6ae.html.

A Review of the 2018 Season

The year began on a down note, with the loss of one of our own. Duane Kessel (right) slipped away quietly from us Jan. 29, 2018, at the age of 57. I would eventually learn that he succumbed to heart problems, which he had been battling without our knowledge for quite some time.

It would be a gross understatement if I were to say we all truly miss Duane's infectious joviality, as well as his fondness for fried chicken. We all still joke about the fact that, while his tournament partner, Bobby Moore, would be up on the front deck of his boat catching bass after bass, you often would find Duane perched on the rear pedestal, with the fishin' rod resting in his lap while he licked his fingers and flicked chicken bones over the side. I never really could figure out which thing Duane liked more: fishin' or eatin' chicken. Suffice it to say he did both well.

The 2018 season ended up being marred by a host of other unfortunate events. For example, we learned that our long-time buddy Al Napier (left) is locked in combat with pancreatic cancer. Despite this malady, Al kept fishing all season long, up to and including our two-day season-ending Classic tournament. At the same time, he also maintained his participation in Region 7 events.

He may not always have felt like it, but that never stopped Al from spending those 8-hour days on the water, just like all the rest of us. That's what being a "real trooper" is all about. Whether fishing with his son, Chris, or his regular tournament partner, Wayne Hayes, Al was there chunkin' and windin' alongside all the rest of us throughout all of 2018. My hat's off to Al. I seriously doubt I could have demonstrated his kind of dedication in the same circumstances.

The binnacle list doesn't end there, either. During the summer months, Bobby Moore had some problems with blood clots, and as if those weren't enough, he subsequently took a tumble at the marina. The result: some broken ribs and a hairline fracture of one ankle.

Angler of the Year, Dave Anderson (right), then experienced a bout with kidney stones, which kept him out of the 2018 Classic but allowed him to claim AOY honors with a new record-breaking total of 185.77 lbs.

And the list of casualties didn't end until Day 1 of the Classic, when competitor Jim Wilder slipped and fell on the Pungo Ferry ramp while in the process of recovering his boat. He messed up his leg and back to the point where he couldn't make muster on Day 2.

Another positive event during 2018, in addition to Dave's record-setting AOY title, was a new all-time single-day total weight. The team of (from left) Eddie Sapp and Stan Krason brought a 23.87-lb. five-bass limit to the scales on April 28, anchored by a 6.48-lb. bass.

While their big fish was a beauty, it came in behind the 7.68-pounder caught exactly one week earlier by the team of Eric Killian (right) and Jim Crist. Actually, Eric caught the fish but preferred they both be credited with winning the seasonal-lunker award. Incidentally, their fish marked another all-time record catch for our tournament series.

I further want to mention that the overall average weight through 17 qualifying tournaments and the 2018 Classic continued an upward trend. Last year's average weight of 2.17 pounds bowed to the all-new high of 2.27 lbs.

Last but not least, I would like to thank all those who competed this year. Let me further thank everyone who helped me out with the myriad tournament details throughout the year. And Leslie Schaible, in case you happen to read this post, please know you're welcome back to assist with the record-keeping during all of the 2019 tournament weigh-ins...if you're so inclined.

My thanks also extend to Steve Winfree for hosting the vast majority of our 2018 events there at West Neck. In a few instances, we were forced to launch and recover out of Pungo Ferry, but those events were the exception to the rule.

Hopefully, I've not overlooked anyone. If I did, please know it purely was by accident, and I beg your forgiveness. To all of you, I say Merry Christmas! and Happy New Year! Look forward to seeing all of you again, starting in March 2019. In the meantime, stay safe.

For the Week Ending Sunday, Dec. 23, 2018

Tuesday, Dec. 18 (from Ron)...Fished upper North Landing from 4:30 to 5:30 p.m. in hopes of catching some stripers but only found one bass to avoid the skunk. Had several hits on Zoom U Vibe worms but couldn't get a hookset. The one I did manage to catch fell victim to the Heddon Spook. He swiped at it several times before committing wholeheartedly.

Friday, Dec. 21 (from Ron)...Fished Milldam on the 19th and upper North Landing on the 20th but was skunked both days. Tried Tecumseh today from 2 to 5 p.m. and found a bite about 4 p.m. Caught three bass and a nice slime dart. All fell to the XTS Minnow. Threw some other lures, but they were only interested in the XTS. The fat bass had an odd stunted head, but that didn't deter his pole-bending ability! Didn't bring the scale because it hasn't been working. Maybe Santa will bring me a new one?

Looks Like This Angler Is "Down Hard" 'Til the Spring Thaw

Found this photo in the latest issue of Jay Kumar's BassBlaster. The scenery here is Balsam Lake, Wisconsin, where folks are going through some hard times. If I were this owner, think I'd probably have my boat mechanic take a "hard" look at this motor before heading to open water after the thaw.

A Message for One and All

"The joy of brightening other lives,

bearing each other's burdens,

easing each other's loads,

and supplanting empty hearts and lives with generous gifts

becomes for us the magic of the holidays."

--W. C. Jones

Thank you for your friendship over the past year.

Wishing you and your families a very blessed Holiday season

and a wonderful New Year.

He Calls It a "Skunk Funk"

Hadn't heard from Ron in quite a spell. That changed this evening, though.

"Been outta town for two weeks," he explained. "Was looking forward to fishing again, as the ponds in Kentucky and Indiana were iced over. Made trips Dec. 1 and 2 but got skunked both times.

"Fished HRBT last night from 8 to 11 p.m and got skunked again. Weird...this has been the worst year for stripers.

"Decided to get back to my roots today. Launched at Munden Point this morning and made my way to Milldam Creek, where I fished from 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. The morning crossing was a hoot, as the fog had visibility down to about 50 feet. Threw everything in the arsenal, but once again, nothing would come out and play. I logged another skunk, which was rather odd, because there were a lot of baitfish moving about.

"As I was getting ready for crossing the river back to Munden Point, I heard a large boat transiting, so I decided to wait 'til it passed. Glad I did, too, 'cause the wake was huge! I listened carefully for anything else, and then fast as I could (about 4.4 mph), zipped across to the launch site. Visibility was down to about 20 feet.

"It's really been tough. Figure it can only improve."

Update: The "funk" is broken. Fished Tecumseh today (Sunday) from 1000 to about 1300. Close to noon, they started biting, or I finally found 'em. Landed three small bass to 13 inches and three slime darts (pickerel)  to 22 inches. Micro spinnerbait and XTS were the ticket. Missed one bass on the XTS but followed up with a plastic worm, and sure enough, he hit it.

Nice to avoid the skunk.  Weather was nice enough until about 1230, when the winds picked up,  then it got chilly and very choppy.

When I Realized the True Meaning of Christmas

The annual Christmas Eve service at church had just ended. Jeff, his wife, and 15-month-old daughter, Hannah, were the first ones out of the service. They were standing in the fellowship hall when the minister asked Jeff if he would mind pouring the hot apple cider that was on the kitchen stove into a punch bowl and putting it on the table.

"We asked another church member to keep an eye on Hannah while we went into the kitchen," said Jeff. "I had poured the cider into the punch bowl and was carrying it to the table when the bowl suddenly shattered from the heat of the cider. What I didn't realize was that my daughter unknowingly had started walking toward me."

The church member who was watching Hannah had grabbed her just as the bowl shattered but not in time to prevent some of the hot cider from spilling on her.

"Upon hearing the most God-awful screaming you could imagine, I immediately turned to see that it was coming from my daughter, who also was grabbing at her hands," said Jeff. "I picked her up and ran her to the sink, where I began running cold water over her hands. When we rolled up her sleeves, the skin from her little arms began to peel. At this point, we ran to the car and drove her to the hospital as fast as we could go.

"Once at the emergency room, we discovered that she had some burns on her head and foot, as well as her arm. The doctors and nurses put cold compresses all over her and decided that she was burned over about 12.5 percent of her body. At that point, they decided to move her to Shriner's Burn Hospital in Boston.

"After an ambulance ride, we arrived at Shriner's, where a team of two nurses and a doctor cared for Hannah. They determined that she had first-degree burns on her head and face, second-degree burns on her arm and foot, and third-degree burns on her arm. They gave us the option of spending the night or returning home and coming back in the morning. We decided she would rest better at home and to come back in the morning. It was now that I realized nothing else mattered...not the presents, not the travel plans...only my family mattered."

Christmas morning arrived, and Hannah awoke as if nothing had happened.

"I am still amazed these two years later at how tough my little girl is," said Jeff. "How many times have I complained endlessly about a sunburn?

"We returned to Shriner's on a daily basis for about a month for dressing changes and wound checks, and then the visits went to once a week, once a month, and then every couple of months. Fortunately, the burns healed on their own, and no surgery was required. She does have some scarring on her left arm.

"Shriner's is an amazing place. All of their care is absolutely free of charge; they operate solely on donations.

"I still get teary-eyed thinking or talking about that event to this day, but I feel truly blessed...blessed that someone in church moved her just in time, or she would have been showered by the hot cider...blessed that it wasn't much worse...blessed to live close to some of the greatest medical care in the world...blessed to have such a special little girl. And finally, blessed in that I came to realize the true meaning of Christmas. It's all about family and friends, not stuff.

"Count your blessings," concluded Jeff. "Merry Christmas!"

VDGIF Proposal Suggests Higher Boat Registration and Titling Fees

Before you start planning how to spend every last dime of those pay raises set to hit your paychecks the first of the year (if you're lucky enough to have one coming at all), I recommend you take note of a proposal VDGIF has put forth.

Seems these folks need some help making ends meet, too, or as they explained it, "to provide services adequately at the high standard of support that has come to be expected by all those who enjoy boating in Virginia."

As outlined in their Proposed Regulation Amendment 4VAC15-380-120, they want to raise all certificate of registration and titling fees by $5. The new certificate of registration fees would be as follows:

     * For a motorboat under 16 feet, $32
     * For a motorboat 16 feet to less than 20 feet, $36
     * For a motorboat 20 feet to less than 40 feet, $42
     * For a motorboat 40 feet and over, $50
     * For first 10 actively registered motorboats by the same owner, $32
     * For more than 10 actively registered motorboats by the same owner, $26
     * For a duplicate certificate of registration and/or decal, $14

Here are the new certificate of title fees that would apply:

     * Original title, $10
     * Duplicate title, $7
     * Change of motor on title, $7
     * Record supplemental lien on previously titled watercraft, $10

To submit your comments about this proposal in person, attend the 9 a.m., Jan. 24, 2019 meeting of the board, which will be held at 7870 Villa Park Drive, Suite 400, Henrico, VA 23228. You also can postal-mail your comments to the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries, Attn: Policy Analyst and Regulatory Coordinator, P.O. Box 90778, Henrico, VA 23228, or email them to regcomments@dgif.virginia.gov. If using this latter online system, though, you first have to identify yourself by accessing this link: https://www.dgif.virginia.gov/regulations/public-comment-user-details/ and completing the fields provided. Be advised, however, that all comments submitted other than at the Jan. 24, 2019 meeting must be received no later than 5 p.m. on Dec. 31, 2018.

Reprinted from The Outdoor Report, produced by VDGIF.

Cold-Water Paddling and Fishing Safety

Story and Photos

By Outdoor Writer

Bruce Ingram

The most dangerous incident of my paddling career occurred on the James River when a friend and I overturned in his canoe. Earlier, my water-temperature gauge had registered 54 degrees, and the air temperature was 65 degrees. When I fell in, I felt as if a sledge hammer had struck my chest, and my buddy and I struggled to swim to shore--losing most of our gear.

That day, the air and water temperature combined measured 119 degrees--within the danger zone, says Stacey Brown, boating safety program manager for the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries (VDGIF). She adds that although many variables exist concerning when the risk of hypothermia becomes more acute, generally, if the air and water temperatures together are 120 degrees or below, wet suits are recommended for paddlers. Another major factor, continues Brown, has to do with the amount of time someone is subject to the cold water and air temperatures.

Obviously, one of the most basic acts any paddler can accomplish is to always wear a life jacket. But in my many decades of floating and wade fishing Virginia's rivers and streams, I would wager that most paddlers I have observed, whatever the season, from the dog days of summer to the frigid waters of winter, were not wearing life jackets. Many, in fact, did not even have them in their craft or were just using them as seat cushions.

"Wearing a life jacket is the best way to ensure your trip doesn't end in tragedy," emphasizes Brown. "It would be nice if people thought of their life jackets as gear, just like with other sports, rather than required equipment."

Brown offers the following additional recommendations:

     * Carry your whistle or other sound-producing device in case you do need to summon help.

     * Be proficient in reboarding your canoe, kayak, raft, or other craft, especially if you are in a lake or larger river where getting to the shore to reboard would be difficult. If you end up in the cold water, you start to lose dexterity of movement fairly quickly.

     * Paddle with a buddy--not only for more fun but in case of an emergency.

     * Evenly pack your boat to have an even keel (so to speak) and to help mitigate the chances of overturning.

     * Let someone on dry land know where you are going and when you plan to return. In other words, share your float plan.

     * Check the weather before and during the trip. During the excursion, be aware of changing or increasing winds and/or cloud buildup.

     * Be honest about your skills. Know your limitations. For example, planning a long trip of many miles or hours during unfavorable water temperatures or forecasts could be risky for many floaters.

In the angling realm, there's nothing I would rather do than float and fish the Old Dominion's many outstanding rivers, but I know that my continuing to enjoy this pastime involves making wise decisions. Please consider making these safety tips part of your game plan.

Reprinted from The Outdoor Report, which is produced by the Virginia Department of Game and Inland Fisheries.

My Christmas Eve

(Retired State Trooper Bob Welsh tells a story of his highway patrol days.)

The hour is late, should go to bed,

Near midnight, I believe,

But memories keep me wide awake

This snowy Christmas Eve.

Yes, memories of my kids moved on,

Each has their separate life,

And how the holidays have changed,

Since angels took my wife.

The toys, the food, the Christmas cheer,

My wife would bear the load,

'Cause I would work most holidays,

State trooper on the road.

Just sitting in my easy chair,

So many years retired,

I reminisce on times gone by,

On all that has transpired.

Of all the many happenings,

That seem to come to light,

A multitude of them occurred,

Right on this very night.

A drunken woman in a wreck,

Who died on Christmas Eve,

Leaves memories of a tragic case,

Most people can't believe.

I had to drive where she lived,

To tell her next of kin,

Found the rundown mobile home,

She had been living in.

The person answering the door,

I still recall today,

A little girl 'bout 4 years old,

She said, "I'm Sue McCay."

I asked her if her dad was home,

And felt the longest pause,

She said, "My daddy ran away,"

You must be Santa Claus.

My mommy said you'd come tonight,

If I just stayed in bed,

And bring a pretty doll for me,

Is what my mommy said.

I broke the law that Christmas Eve,

Did not call child care,

They'd merely put her in a room,

And that I couldn't bear.

I picked her up and took her home,

My wife tucked her in bed,

And wrapped a pretty doll for her,

Just like her mommy said.

Adopted by a loving home,

And soon they moved away,

I won't forget that Christmas Eve,

And little Sue McCay.

Another bitter Christmas Eve,

A blizzard to behold,

Had left a family in a ditch,

Just trapped there in the cold.

By grace of God, I spotted them,

All cold and gaunt with fright,

Drove them to a motel room,

To safely spend the night.

One Christmas Eve, a homeless man,

All shivering and wet,

Was trying hard to get a ride,

I'm sure he'd never get.

I picked him up and drove him,

To a diner on the hill,

To warm his bones and left him,

With a five-dollar bill.

Strange how when you're all alone,

With memories you recall,

You think of everything you've done,

And was it worth it all?

I think about my God, my job,

My children, and my wife,

Would I do it all the same,

Could I relive my life?

Then comes a knock upon my door,

This late! Who could it be?

A neighbor or a Santa Claus,

Come to visit me?

The figure standing in the cold,

Gives me a sudden fright,

A trooper with that solemn look,

Dear God, who's died tonight?

I'm flashin' back through bygone years,

And how I'd often stood,

On someone's porch to bring them news,

And it was never good.

Is this how life gets back at me,

For misery I've induced?

Where pain I've caused some other folks,

Has now come home to roost.

But looking in the trooper's eyes,

My mind is in a whirl,

I see a pleasant countenance,

The trooper is a girl.

She smiled and reached to shake my hand,

And silence wasn't broke,

Until a tear rolled down her cheek,

And then she softly spoke.

I'm sure you don't remember me,

But thought I'd stop and say,

"God bless you on Christmas Eve,

"I'm Trooper Sue McCay."

My Christmas Miracle

(Reprint of a story by Taylor Caldwell.)

My truest Christmas began on a rainy spring day in the bleakest year of my life. Recently divorced, I was in my 20s, had no job, and was on my way downtown to go the rounds of the employment offices. I had no umbrella, for my old one had fallen apart, and I could not afford another one. I sat down in the streetcar, and there against the seat was a beautiful silk umbrella with a silver handle inlaid with gold and flecks of bright enamel. I had never seen anything so lovely.

I examined the handle and saw a name engraved among the golden scrolls. The usual procedure would have been to turn in the umbrella to the conductor, but on impulse, I decided to take it with me and find the owner myself. I got off the streetcar in a downpour and thankfully opened the umbrella to protect myself. Then I searched a telephone book for the name on the umbrella and found it. I called, and a lady answered.

Yes, she said in surprise, that was her umbrella, which her parents, now dead, had given her for a birthday present. But, she added, it had been stolen from her locker at school (she was a teacher) more than a year before. She was so excited that I forgot I was looking for a job and went directly to her small house. She took the umbrella, and her eyes filled with tears.

The teacher wanted to give me a reward, but though $20 was all I had in the world, her happiness at retrieving this special possession was such that to have accepted money would have spoiled something. We talked for a while, and I must have given her my address. I don't remember.

The next six months were wretched. I was able to obtain only temporary employment here and there, for a small salary, though this was what they now call the Roaring 20s. But I put aside 25 or 50 cents when I could afford it for my little girl's Christmas presents. (It took me six months to save $8.) My last job ended the day before Christmas, my $30 rent was soon due, and I had $15 to my name, which Peggy and I would need for food. She was home from her convent boarding school and was excitedly looking forward to her gifts the next day, which I had already purchased. I had bought her a small tree, and we were going to decorate it that night.

The stormy air was full of the sound of Christmas merriment as I walked from the streetcar to my small apartment. Bells rang and children shouted in the bitter dusk of the evening, and windows were lighted and everyone was running and laughing. But there would be no Christmas for me, I knew, no gifts, no remembrance whatsoever. As I struggled through the snowdrifts, I just about reached the lowest point in my life. Unless a miracle happened, I would be homeless in January, foodless, jobless. I had prayed steadily for weeks, and there had been no answer, but this coldness and darkness, this harsh air, this abandonment. God and men had completely forgotten me. I felt old as death, and as lonely. What has to become of us?

I looked in my mailbox. There were only bills in it, a sheaf of them, and two white envelopes, which I was sure contained more bills. I went up three dusty flights of stairs, and I cried, shivering in my thin coat. But I made myself smile so I could greet my little daughter with a pretense of happiness. She opened the door for me and threw herself in my arms, screaming joyously and demanding that we decorate the tree immediately.

Peggy was not yet 6 years old and had been alone all day while I worked. She had set our kitchen table for our evening meal, proudly, and put pans out and the three cans of food, which would be our dinner. For some reason, when I looked at those pans and cans, I felt broken-hearted. We would have only hamburgers for our Christmas dinner tomorrow, and gelatin. I stood in the cold little kitchen, and misery overwhelmed me. For the first time in my life, I doubted the existence of God and His mercy, and the coldness in my heart was colder than ice.

The doorbell rang, and Peggy ran fleetly to answer it, calling that it must be Santa Claus. Then I heard a man talking heartily to her and went to the door. He was a delivery man, and his arms were full of big parcels, and he was laughing at my child's frenzied joy and her dancing. This is a mistake, I said, but he read the name on the pacels, and they were for me. When he had gone, I could only stare at the boxes. Peggy and I sat on the floor and opened them. A huge doll, three times the size of the one I had bought for her. Gloves. Candy. A beautiful leather purse. Incredible! I looked for the name of the sender. It was the teacher, the address simply read California, where she had moved.

Our dinner that night was the most delicious I had ever eaten. I could only pray to myself, "Thank you, Father." I forgot I had no money for the rent and only $15 in my purse and no job. My child and I ate and laughed together in happiness. Then we decorated the little tree and marveled at it. I put Peggy to bed and set up her gifts around the tree, and a sweet peace flooded me like a benediction. I had some hope again. I could even examine the sheaf of bills without cringing. Then I opened the two white envelopes. One contained a check for $30 from a company I had worked for briefly in the summer. It was, said a note, my Christmas bonus...my rent!

The other envelope was an offer of a permanent position with the government--to begin two days after Christmas. I sat with the letter in my hand and the check on the table before me, and I think that was the most joyful moment of my life up to that time.

The church bells began to ring. I hurriedly looked at my child, who was sleeping blissfully, and ran down to the street. Everywhere, people were walking to church to celebrate the birth of the Saviour. People smiled at me, and I smiled back. The storm had stopped, the sky was pure and glittering with stars.

The Lord is born! sang the bells to the crystal night and the laughing darkness. Someone began to sing, "Oh come, all ye faithful...!" I joined in and sang with the strangers all about me.

I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all. And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone...not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.

Janet Miriam Holland Taylor Caldwell (Sept. 7, 1900 - Aug. 30, 1985) was a prolific and best-selling American author.

A Christmas To Be Long Remembered

(Don't know if this is a true story, or just a product of someone's imagination. In any event, I could not find an author's name, so will just present the facts as I found them.)

As a joke, my brother used to hang a pair of pantyhose over his fireplace before Christmas. He said all he wanted was for Santa to fill them. What they say about Santa checking the list twice must be true, because every Christmas morning, although Jay's kids' stockings overflowed, his poor pantyhose hung sadly empty.

One year, I decided to make this dream come true. I put on sunglasses and went in search of an inflatable love doll. They don't sell those things at Wal-Mart. I had to go to an adult bookstore downtown. If you've never been in an X-rated store, don't go. You'll only confuse yourself. I was there an hour, saying things like, "What does this do?" "You're kidding me!" "Who would buy that?"

Finally, I made it to the inflatable doll section. I wanted to buy a standard, uncomplicated doll that also could substitute as a passenger in my truck, so I could use the carpool lane during rush hour. Finding what I wanted was difficult. Love dolls come in many different models. The top of the line, according to the side of the box, could do things I'd only seen in a book on animal husbandry. I settled for "Lovable Louise." She was at the bottom of the price scale. To call Louise a "doll" took a huge leap of imagination.

On Christmas Eve, with the help of an old bicycle pump, Louise came to life. My sister-in-law was in on the plan and let me in during the wee morning hours, long after Santa had come and gone. I filled the dangling pantyhose with Louise's pliant legs and bottom. I also ate some cookies and drank what remained of a glass of milk on a nearby tray. I then went home and giggled for a couple of hours.

The next morning, my brother called to say that Santa had been to his house and left a present that had made him VERY happy but had left the dog confused. She would bark, start to walk away, then come back and bark some more. We all agreed that Louse should remain in her pantyhose, so the rest of the family could admire her when they came over for the traditional Christmas dinner.

My grandmother noticed Louise the moment she walked in the door. "What the h-e-double hockey sticks is that?" she asked. My brother quickly explained, "It's a doll." "Who would play with something like that?" Granny snapped. I didn't say a word. "Where are her clothes?" Granny continued. "Boy, that turkey sure smells nice, Gran," Jay said, trying to steer her into the dining room. But Granny was relentless.

My grandfather, a delightful old man with poor eyesight, sidled up to me and said, "Hey, who's the naked gal by the fireplace?" I told him she was Jay's friend. A few minutes later, I noticed Grandpa by the mantel, talking to Louise--not just talking but actually flirting.

The dinner went well. We all were making the usual small talk until, suddenly, Louise made a noise that sounded a lot like my father in the bathroom in the morning. Then she lurched from the pantyhose, flew around the room twice, and fell in a heap in front of the sofa.

The cat screamed. I passed cranberry sauce through my nose, and Grandpa ran across the room, fell to his knees, and began administering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. My brother fell back over his chair and wet his pants, and Granny threw down her napkin, stomped out of the room, and went outside to sit in the car.

It was indeed a Christmas to treasure and remember.

Later, in my brother's garage, we conducted a thorough examination to determine the cause of Louise's collapse. We discovered Louise had suffered from a hot ember to the back of her right thigh. Thanks to a wonder drug called duct tape, we restored her to perfect health.

Louise went on to star in several bachelor-party movies. And I think Grandpa still calls her whenever he can get out of the house.

Christmas at the Gas Station

It's a story, yes...a perfect one, though, for the season, so enjoy it, and have a very Merry Christmas. Unfortunately, we don't have the author's name. I can tell you, however, that this story was handed to me by my wife. "Thanks, Love." It's a keeper, for sure.

The old man sat in his gas station on a cold Christmas Eve. He hadn't been anywhere in years, since his wife had passed away. It was just another day to him. He didn't hate Christmas, he just couldn't find a reason to celebrate. He was sitting there looking at the snow that had been falling for the last hour and wondering what it was all about when the door opened and a homeless man stepped through.

Instead of throwing the man out, Old George, as he was known by his customers, told the man to come and sit by the heater and warm up.

"Thank you, but I don't mean to intrude," said the stranger. "I see you're busy; I'll just go."

"Not without something hot in your belly," replied George. He turned and opened a wide-mouth Thermos and handed it to the stranger. "It ain't much, but it's hot and tasty...stew...made it myself. When you're done, there's coffee, and it's fresh."

Just at that moment, there was a ding of the driveway bell. "Excuse me, be right back," George said. In the driveway was an old '53 Chevy.

"My wife is with child, and my car is broken," quickly explained the panicky driver, as steam rolled out of the front of his car. "Can you help me, Mister?" he asked with a deep Spanish accent.

George opened the hood. It was bad. The block appeared to be cracked from the cold. The car was dead. "You ain't going anywhere in this thing," George said, as he turned away.

"But, Mister, please help," again asked the panicky driver.

The door of the office closed behind George as he went inside. He walked to the office wall and got the keys to his old truck and went back outside. He then walked around the building, opened the garage, started the truck, and drove it around to where the couple were waiting. "Here, take my truck," he said. "She ain't the best thing you ever looked at, but she runs real good."

George helped put the woman in the truck and watched as it sped off into the night. He then turned and walked back inside the office. "Glad I gave 'em the truck; their tires were shot, too," he said. "The ones on my ol' truck are brand new," added George, thinking he was talking to the stranger. However, the man had gone. The Thermos was on the desk, empty, with a used coffee cup beside it. "Well, at least he got something in his belly," George thought, before turning around and going back outside to see if he could get the old Chevy to start.

It cranked ever so slowly but finally started, so George pulled it into the garage where the truck had been. He figured he would tinker with it for something to do, since he didn't have any customers. He soon discovered the block wasn't cracked after all. The problem was just a cracked bottom hose on the radiator. "Well, shoot, I can fix this," he said to himself. So he put on a new one, then turned his attention to the worn out tires. Knowing they wouldn't last the winter, either, he decided to replace them with the snow treads off his late wife's old Lincoln. They were like new, and he wasn't going to drive the car anyway.

As he was working, George heard shots being fired. He ran outside and found an officer lying on the cold ground beside his police car. Bleeding from the left shoulder, the officer moaned, "Please help me."

George helped the officer inside and went to work on him, using the training he had received as an Army medic. He knew the wound needed attention. To stop the bleeding, he grabbed clean shop towels the uniform company had left there earlier that morning. He bound them with duct tape, saying, "Hey, they say duct tape can fix anything," to try and make the officer feel at ease.

Then George started looking for something to help with the officer's pain. All he had were the pills he used for his back. "Those ought to work," he thought. So he gave the officer a cup of water, along with the pills, and said, "You hang in there. I'm going to get you an ambulance."

The phone was dead, but he figured maybe he could get one of the officer's buddies on the talk box in the police car. He went outside only to find that a bullet had gone into the dashboard, destroying the two-way radio.

Returning inside, George found the officer sitting up. "Thanks," said the officer. "You could have left me there. The guy who shot me is still in the area."

Sitting down beside the officer, George said, "I would never leave an injured man in the Army, and I ain't gonna leave you." He then pulled back the bandage to check the bleeding and noted that it looked worse than it actually was. "Bullet passed right through ya," he said. "Good thing it missed the important stuff. I think, with time, you're gonna be right as rain."

George got up to pour a cup of coffee, asking the officer, "How do you take it?"

"None for me," said the officer.

"Oh, yer gonna drink this," said George. "Best in the city. Too bad I don't have some donuts."

The officer laughed and winced at the same time, just moments before the front door of the office flew open and in burst a young man with a gun. "Give me all your cash! Do it now!" the young man barked. His hand was shaking, and George could tell that he never had done anything like this before.

"That's the guy who shot me!" exclaimed the officer.

"Son, why are you doing this?" George asked. "You need to put the cannon away. Somebody else might get hurt."

The confused young man shot back, "Shut up old man, or I'll shoot you, too. Now give me the cash!"

The cop now was reaching for his gun, but George stopped him, saying, "Put that thing away. We got one too many in here now. Turning his attention then to the young man, George said, "Son, it's Christmas Eve. If you need money, here, take this. It ain't much, but it's all I got. Now put that pea shooter away."

As George handed the young man $150, he reached for the barrel of the gun at the same time. The young man released his grip, fell to his knees, and began to cry. "I'm not very good at this, am I? All I wanted was to buy something for my wife and son," he went on. "I've lost my job, my rent is due, and my car got repossessed last week."

George handed the gun to the officer before continuing his conversation with the young man. "Son," he said, "we all get in a bit of squeeze now and then. The road gets hard sometimes, but we make it through the best we can."

Getting the young man to his feet, George seated him on a chair across from the officer. "Sometimes we do stupid things," he said, before handing the young man a cup of coffee. "Being stupid is one of the things that makes us human. Coming in here with a gun ain't the answer. Now sit there, get warm, and we'll sort this thing out."

The young man looked over at the cop and said, "Sorry I shot you. It just went off. I'm sorry, officer."

"Shut up and drink your coffee," the officer responded.

George could hear the sounds of sirens outside. A police car and an ambulance skidded to a halt, and two cops came through the door with guns drawn. "Chuck, you OK?" one asked.

"Not bad for a guy who took a bullet. How did you find me?" asked the injured officer.

"GPS locator in the car" came the response. "Best thing since sliced bread. Who did this?" asked the other cop as he approached the young man.

"I don't know," replied the injured officer. "The guy ran off into the dark. Just dropped his gun and ran."

George and the young man both looked puzzled at each other.

The one cop then asked George if the young man sitting there worked for him, and George replied, "Yep. Just hired him this morning. Boy lost his job."

When the paramedics came in to load the wounded officer on a stretcher, the young man leaned over and asked him, "Why?"

The reply he got was "Merry Christmas, boy...and you, too, George, and thanks for everything."

"Well, looks like you got one doozy of a break there," said George. "That ought to solve some of your problems."

George then went into the back room and came out with a box. He pulled out a ring box and handed it to the young man, saying, "Here you go...something for the little woman. I don't think Martha would mind. She said it would come in handy some day."

The young man looked inside to find the biggest diamond ring he ever had seen. "I can't take this," he said. "It means something to you."

"And now it means something to you," George responded. "I have my memories...that's all I need." George reached into the box again, retrieving a toy airplane, car and truck. An oil company had left them for him to sell. "These are for that little man of yours."

The young man began to cry again as he handed back the $150 that the old man had handed him earlier.

"And what are you supposed to buy Christmas dinner with?" George asked. "You keep that, too. Now git home to your family."

The young man turned, with tears streaming down his face. "I'll be here in the morning for work, if that job offer is still good."

"Nope. I'm closed Christmas Day," said George. "See ya the day after."

George then turned around to find that the stranger had returned. "Where'd you come from? I thought you had left."

"I have been here. I have always been here," said the stranger. "You say you don't celebrate Christmas. Why?"

"Well, after my wife passed away, I just couldn't see what all the bother was. Puttin' up a tree and all seemed a waste of a good pine tree. Bakin' cookies like I used to with Martha just wasn't the same by myself, and besides, I was gettin' a little chubby."

The stranger put his hand on George's shoulder. "But you do celebrate the holiday, George. You gave me food and drink and warmed me when I was cold and hungry. The woman with child will bear a son, and he will become a great doctor. The officer you helped will go on to save 19 people from being killed by terrorists. The young man who tried to rob you will make you a rich man and not take any for himself. That is the spirit of the season, and you keep it as good as any man."

George was taken aback by all this stranger had said. "And how do you know all this?" he asked.

"Trust me, George. I have the inside track on this sort of thing. And when your days are done, you will be with Martha again." The stranger then moved toward the door. "If you will excuse me, George, I have to go now. I have to go home, where there is a big celebration planned."

George watched as the old leather jacket and the torn pants the stranger was wearing turned into a white robe, and a golden light began to fill the room.

"You see, George, it's my birthday. Merry Christmas."

George's mouth dropped open as this man...well, he just clean disappeared before his eyes. Merry Christmas indeed!

How Much Is "Too Much" When It Comes to Fishing Tackle?

I would suspect we all have our own ideas about an answer to that question. One popular response I found in some online forums was phraseology similar to this: "When it exceeds the number of pairs of shoes, plus clothing and jewelry that my significant other has...and the chances of that E-V-E-R happening are slim and none."

What triggered this particular topic was a comment I read from a fella bassin' bro who, unfortunately, got caught "with his knickers down," in a manner of speaking. Seems he was out in the garage one day going through his boat. And he just happened to have every last one of his many tackle boxes out on the deck when his wife happened by.

"When she was done asking just how insane I was, she started counting," said our bassin' brother. "In my own defense, I won't at this time...and probably never will...divulge just how many boxes I carry in my boat, or have on the shelf. Neither will I discuss the pegboard full of bags, packages, and so on.

"My initial thinking was that I'm a long ways from having too much. But after some additional consideration, I realized I might be mistaken. After all, I am a big boy, and my boat only has a 150 on it...so maybe I am carrying too much? I came to that conclusion after remembering my experience with the new Champion I recently bought. I got all indignant 'cuz the rear compartments were sooo small.

"I know they say the fancy new baits are really designed to catch the fisherman and not the fish. I have to be honest--that fact describes me. Is it really so bad, though, that I have to leave the lifevests behind 'cuz I just don't have room for them? Just kidding!!!"

Let's face it. Many of us are in the same boat as this gent. We have a difficult time parting with things. "There's always a chance I'll need that particular whatchamacallit at some point in the future or be able to repurpose it" is how we justify keeping the item...especially a piece of fishing gear.

The overall result is that we end up with a large collection of what some people love to refer to as a pile of junk. Rods with broken guides...reels that have lost the war against corrosion...old tackleboxes..cracked coolers...an old outboard that can't be fixed--you get the idea. I even read about one fella who said he kept an old broken-down boat around because he just couldn't bring himself to trash it.

Now comes my little moment of truth. Throughout most of my time in the Navy, as well as my Civil Service employment, I carried a briefcase back and forth to work. The one I had when I retired for good eight years ago was and still is in pretty good shape, so I've kept it close by, figuring that it very well might come in handy somewhere down the road. As it turns out, I was recently able to "repurpose" it from holding paperwork, a small umbrella, assorted medicines, etc. to serving as storage space for all the reels I just got back from being serviced. Works perfectly, too, if I do say so myself.

For some time now, I've been keeping 18 rod-and-reel combos ready for use but decided that number represented gross overkill, especially for a fella my age. I now am going to operate with only 7 combos ready for use, with the 11 other reels neatly tucked away in individual plastic bags in my old briefcase. Beats the heck out of buying a new "reel case," per se, and it works every bit as good.

Now, all I have to do is start finding ways to put the stuff in all those tackleboxes and hanging on the walls in my garage to good use. Got a feeling, though, that I don't have enough years left on Earth to accomplish that feat, given the number of years it has taken me to accumulate this much. I'm taking the stance that it's not "too much," so why should I try to hurry? Everyone who agrees with that idea give me a "heck yeah!"