January 2024 Bass Fishing Forecast

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A New Year's Fishing Trip He'll Remember for a Long Time

Back in the day, when he had to run a business five days a week, veteran bass angler Charlie Hartley often took advantage of the break between Christmas and New Year's to go someplace warm(er) and fish. It was one of those things he looked forward to all year. There's one such trip that he'll likely never forget.

Charlie had decided to go to Lake Murray and do a little prefishing for an upcoming Megabucks tournament. After four or five days in a campground, it turned really cold. As he explained, a motel was out of Charlie's reach back then.

"It was the kind of cold that penetrates to the bone," he said. "The wind was blowing, the sky was overcast, and no one with a lick of sense was out on the water. It was so bad I actually thought about going home, but thinking was about as far as it went, though."

He already was at the lake, and he knew if he expected to do anything in the upcoming Megabucks, he had to spend as much time as possible learning the lake.

"I looked my map over to see if I could find somewhere to fish out of the wind," said Charlie. "There was this place the locals called The Bass Motel back in a bay. How could a guy pass up a name like that?"

After launching, he ran there and decided to go small and light on his tackle. He tied a No. 5 Shad Rap onto a spinning rod and went to work. It didn't take long before he found a short weed line out of the wind and started casting parallel to it. Almost immediately, he caught a 3-and-a-half-pound largemouth. With spirits high, he continued fishing The Bass Motel.

It wasn't too awful long before Charlie thought he had snagged a stump.

"My lure stopped, and even when I pulled back on the rod with both hands, nothing happened," explained Charlie. "Frustrated, I started to move my boat forward to see if I could get my Shad Rap back. That's when I realized it was moving sideways.

"Now, I'm not the smartest guy on the planet," he continued, "but I do know that stumps don't move...only fish. In truth, however, I thought it was probably a striper. They'd just been introduced into Murray, and I didn't figure I had hooked a bass big enough I couldn't move it. However, I was wrong.

"When she came alongside the boat, she was so big she looked like a monster...a largemouth that had some sort of genetic mutation. Her head was massive, and she was about as deep as she was long. I could see that her gills were flared, her mouth was wide open, and my tiny crankbait was way back in her mouth.

"Somehow, my line held, and I managed to get her into the boat. She weighed 9 pounds 15 ounces on my handheld scales. That's a New Year's Day I'll never forget. It's a good fishing lesson, too. Fish every chance you get, no matter the conditions. You never know."

I Didn't Realize How Many People Dread and/or Hate New Year's...

That is, until I was surfing the Internet tonight. There are many folks, who, for a very wide variety of reasons, would just as soon see this particular holiday disappear...for good.

And I also learned that, in at least one respect, I must have been living a sheltered life all these past 80 years, 'cause I honestly cannot recall ever having heard of any superstitions connected to New Year's. As it turns out, however, several have sprouted up over the centuries in relation to this particular holiday. Following are some of the ones I found:

Get a midnight kiss. It may seem like kissing someone at midnight is a way to show your excitement for the new year. But actually, it's thought that if you kiss someone you love as the clock strikes midnight, those sentiments will continue for the next 12 months.

Eat 12 grapes (no more, no less) at midnight. This food superstition originated in Spain and is meant to bring you luck for the year ahead. Just eat 12 grapes at midnight--one for every month--or put them on a skewer and serve as a fun New Year's Eve cocktail garnish.

Keep some extra cash in your wallet. Want to enter a year full of financial prosperity? Then make a run to the ATM, so you can fill your wallet with cash. Also, don't loan out any money on New Year's Eve or New Year's Day, and don't start the year with any stupid debts, or you could set a precedent for the months ahead.

Fill up those cupboards. Check and see which grocery stores are open on New Year's Eve, because it's considered bad luck to start the new year with bare cupboards (signaling poverty and hardship).

Open those doors at midnight. Actually, do it just before midnight, so you can let the old year out and welcome the new one. (It doesn't have to be for long...even those who believe in this superstition can get cold).

Don't clean the house. If you're concerned about "sweeping" or "washing" away any luck coming your way, don't do any cleaning--including dishes and laundry.

Fill up on collard greens and black-eyed peas. If you want to keep with Southern tradition, eating black-eyed peas and collard greens on New Year's Day supposedly will bring good luck and prosperity, respectively, in the months ahead.

Avoid shedding tears. Save your tears for another day, because crying on New Year's Day could set a year of sadness in motion.

Skip eating lobster, even if it's calling your name. Many cultures believe that eating lobsters before midnight is bad luck, because they move backward, therefore setting you up for a year of setbacks.

Don't leave the house...until someone enters from the outside first. And who that person is supposedly will say a lot about the luck you'll have in the new year. (In Scotland, the first person in your home also has to bring you a gift.)

Eat herring. Whether you like your herring pickled or fresh, eating it in some form at midnight is considered good luck in Germany and Sweden.

Make some noise. You may love buying noisemakers and fireworks to set off at midnight, but did you know the tradition originated from a superstition that making loud noise at midnight would scare away evil spirits and omens?

Beware eating chicken. Similarly to lobster, chicken also is a superstitious food to eat on New Year's Eve, because chickens have wings, and all your luck could fly away.

Carry an empty suitcase around. It can just be around your house for a few minutes, but in Colombia, it's seen as setting yourself up for adventures in the new year.

Were you born on New Year's Day? Then superstition says you'll automatically be lucky throughout your whole life, even more so if you're born at midnight.

After a holiday season of making merry, exchanging gifts, and perhaps indulging in a Christmas dessert or two (or, let's face it, maybe several), a new year brings the chance to start fresh. When the clock strikes 12 midnight on December 31, you'll want to give yourself the best chance possible of making 2024 your best year yet.

Drop-ping in on New Year's Eve

It's been estimated that thousands, perhaps even millions of people gather in Times Square and in front of their TV screens each New Year's Eve to watch the iconic ball drop. This tradition was started in 1907 by New York Times owner Adolph Ochs to spotlight the newspaper's new headquarters. It's been celebrated each year since.

New York, however, is not the only city to host such an event. Other U.S. cities also ring in the New Year with some kind of drop.

One of the, if not the latest city to get in on this act is St. Paul, Minn. The Midway Saloon there, owned by David Tolchiner, adopted a giant fishing bobber to drop at midnight last year for the first time. This bobber stands 6 feet tall and measures 16 feet around. Said the owner, "We just wanted to find something that represented Minnesota best."

Meanwhile, Wylie Walleye, a 20-foot-long, 600-pound fiberglass walleye is being polished up and readied for its big New Year's Eve drop in Port Clinton, Ohio. This event, also known as Walleye Madness at Midnight, has been held annually since the late '90s, even in 2020 as a livestreamed virtual event. As in past years, thousands are expected to fill downtown Port Clinton for the evening.

And the Hard Rock Cafe on Beale Street in Memphis, Tenn., rings in the New Year with its annual guitar drop. The 10-foot Gibson guitar is dropped more than 100 feet as part of a televised event, which incudes live music performances for a crowd of more than 50,000 revelers.

Not to be outdone are these random other cities:
     * Prescott, AZ with a cowboy boot drop
     * Raleigh, NC with a giant acorn drop
     * Mobile, AL with an electric moon pie drop
     * Atlanta, GA with a peach drop
     * Yarmouth, ME with a clam drop
     * Boise, ID with a giant potato drop
     * Bethlehem, PA with a giant peep drop
     * Eastover, NC with an oversized flea drop
     * Prairie du Chien, WI with a real (dead) carp drop
     * Bartlesville, OK with an olive drop
     * Panama City Beach, FL with a beach ball drop
     * Eastport, ME with a sardine drop
     * Mechanicsburg, PA with a wrench drop
     * Havre de Grace, MD with a duck decoy drop
     * Flagstaff, AZ with a pinecone drop
     * Manhattan, KS with an apple drop
     * Plymouth, WI with a chunk of cheese drop
     * Key West, FL with a drag queen in a red high heel drop
     * Lebanon, PA with 200 pounds of bologna drop
     * Princess Anne, MD with a Marshall the muskrat drop
     * Mt. Olive, NC with a pickle drop
     * Frederick, MD with a key drop
     * Temecula, CA with a bunch of grapes drop
     * Nashville, TN with a music note drop
     * Miami, FL with an orange wearing sunglasses drop
     * Vincennes, IN with a giant watermelon drop
     * Akron, PA with a shoe drop

A Hydrogen-Powered Outboard? Looks Like It's Coming

As a matter of fact, a prototype is set to debut at the Feb. 14-18, 2024 International Boat Show in Miami, Fla.

According to a Dec. 11, 2023 marine-technology piece written by C. C. Weiss, Yamaha Motor already has pushed to the front of the pack in developing hydrogen engines for automobiles and off-highway off-roaders, and now it's looking to launch its hydrogen-combustion program into the water.

A potentially critical piece of its greater carbon-neutrality program, Yamaha's new hydrogen-outboard prototype previews a cleaner future for boaters and marine consumers.

Long before government and industry were rapidly prodding along cleaner, more carbon-neutral vehicles, Yamaha was experimenting with everything from transforming electric motorcycles to methanol fuel cells. Its ingenuity hasn't slowed over time, either. In recent years, it's explored a water-powered motorcycle, a steerable electric marine drive and swappable bike batteries. And it's been hard at work on a 5.0 liter V8 hydrogen-combustion engine for none other than Toyota, possibly hydrogen's most well-known proponent.

Yamaha realizes that different products and markets will demand different clean-energy approaches. It believes the water resistance involved in boating, along with the widely varying needs of segments that include commercial fishing and personal recreation, make the low-power density of battery-electric systems impractical for many marine applications--not news if you follow the limited ranges and use cases of the average electric boat.

Yamaha has no plans of ignoring all-electric solutions but will pursue them as part of its greater multi-pronged approach that also will include carbon-neutral synthetic fuels, fuel cells, and hydrogen engines. Like Yamaha's land-based hydrogen-engine counterparts, the H2 outboard will create motive combustion without CO2 emissions, while allowing the company to apply technologies it's mastered over decades of gasoline and diesel-engine design.

Yamaha hasn't released any additional specs or background information on the design of the hydrogen outboard but presumably will reveal more in Miami. The company also plans to showcase its latest autonomous boat-docking technology and biofuel breakthroughs at the show.

Remember When Brakes on Boats Were Just a Joke? Well, They Ain't No Mo'

Can't speak for anyone besides yours truly, but there were a few times in my distant past (before I turned wuss, that is) when I came haulin' round a blind corner in the middle of winter and ran smack dab into the middle of some hunters' decoys. Fortunately, they always bought my humble apologies. However, given the climate we live in today, I likely would have some serious doubts whether apologies would suffice in those situations now.

All that aside, though, I was doing some Google research this morning when I purely accidental-like came across something that really grabbed my attention. These particular critters are called SeeLite See-Brakes 2.0. My first thought after seeing a picture of 'em, along with the price tag, went something like this: "SeeLite See-Brakes--See Yo' Money Disappear." My second thought was, "Boy, I sure wish my ol' fishin' buddy Jack Green was still alive to see this."

Ya see, Jack was a senior member in one of the first bass clubs I ever joined up in Northern Virginia. He drove an old aluminum, stick-steering rig and was one of the nicest guys you could ever want to know. Jack only had one problem that gave me pause for concern. On any given morning when the sun was just comin' up over the horizon, if it got to hittin' the back of Jack's neck at just the right angle and long enough, he just might doze off, all the while with his hand on the throttle. On far more than one occasion, when I was his backseater, and we'd be approaching one of those bridges across Lake Anna, I would have to tap Jack on the ol' noggin' with one of my rods, just to make sure he still was awake.

But, I'm getting off the subject again.

As detailed in the online info about these See-Brakes, they are designed to give live sonar fishermen the ultimate tool in boat control. This is an all-in-one control system that allows you to mount 30- or 40-pound trolling motors on your existing shallow-water anchors to provide "brakes" in deep water. More importantly, they "will stop your boat at a moment's notice," according to the advertisement. "Never again worry about spooking a fish due to having to stop your boat with your bow-mounted trolling motor. This prevents backwashing the fish, while never taking your eye off of your target."

The system comes 100 percent plug and play, utilizing a custom control box that allows the user to control speed and offers a "soft start" feature to protect your shallow-water anchors.

"We include a stomp switch with lever for those high-wind days, along with an adjustable dial, so you can perfectly dial in your speed on your trolling motors," the advertisement further says. "Will include all brackets, hardware, wire, control box, speed-adjust dial, stomp switch, surge protector, connectors, etc., that you will need to install. These need to be hooked up to a 12vdc battery ONLY. They are sold as a pair."

The advertisement also points out that the version 2.0 has all new upper and lower brackets, marine-grade tinned wires all around, higher amp-rated control box, trolling-motor-wire-connection outside of box, and new stomp switches. The trolling motors in the kit are either two 30-pound, 12vdc or two 40-pound, 12vdc MinnKota Enduras, complerely built out and ready to install on your Power Pole Blades, Power Pole Sportsman IIs, MinnKota Raptors, or Power Pole Pro Series IIs.

Oh...almost forgot...the price tag on all this is a "cool" $1,450.

Incidentally, a little further research revealed that crappie fishermen are getting in on this latest advancement, too. Saw where one fella and his son have been using "crappie brakes" on their boat since they got Livescope back in 2019. Seems they were frustrated like everyone else running over fish before they could catch 'em.

Said Pa, "We sure got some funny looks and comments when we first started showing up at the ramp with our twin trolling motors on the back. When my son won the 2021 Wally Marshall Expo," Pa continued, "he made a video for Bass Tank, talking about how he mounted them on his boat. Since then, they've been popping up everywhere...with a few companies making really nice setups now," he concluded.

On the Last Day of School Before Christmas

By Tony Campolo

It seems there was a lady named Jean Thompson, and when she stood in front of her fifth-grade class on the very first day of school in the fall, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her pupils and said that she loved them all the same, that she would treat them all alike. And that was impossible because there, in front of her, slumped in his seat on the third row, was a boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't play well with the other children, that his clothes were unkempt, and that he constantly needed a bath. Add to it the fact Teddy was unpleasant. As the school year went by, it got to the point that she actually would take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold "X"s, and then marking an "F" at the top of the paper...biggest of all.

Because Teddy was a sullen little boy, nobody else seemed to enjoy him, either. Now at the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's records and, because of things, put off Teddy's until the absolute last. But when she opened his file, she was in for a surprise.

His first-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright, inquisitive child, with a ready laugh. He does work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around."

His second-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student and is well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness, and life at home must be a struggle."

His third-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy continues to work hard, but his mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest, and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken.

Teddy's fourth-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class. He is tardy and could become a problem."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem, but Christmas was coming fast. It was all she could do, with the school play and all, until the day before the holidays began, and she suddenly was forced to focus on Teddy Stoddard on that last day before the vacation would begin. Her children brought her presents, all in gay ribbon and bright paper, except for Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper of a scissored grocery bag.

Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents, and some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet, with some of the stones missing and a bottle that was one-quarter full of cologne. She stifled the laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and she dabbed some of the perfume behind the other wrist.

At the end of the day, as the other children joyously raced from the room, Teddy Stoddard stayed behind, just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to." As soon as Teddy left, Mrs. Thompson knelt at her desk and there, after the last day of school before Christmas, she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading and writing and speaking. Instead, she began to teach children, paying particular attention to one they all called "Teddy."

As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded, and on days that there would be an important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne. By the end of the year, he had become one of the smartest children in the class and...well, he also had become the "pet" of the teacher, who once had vowed to love all of her children exactly the same.

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that of all the teachers he'd had in elementary school, she was his favorite.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. And then he wrote that, as he finished high school, third in his class, she still was his favorite teacher of all time.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, that he'd stayed in school and would graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson she still was his favorite teacher.

Then four more years passed, and yet another letter came. This time, he explained that, after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she still was his favorite teacher, but that now his name was a little longer. And the letter was signed, "Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D."

The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said that...well, he'd met this girl and was to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago, and he was wondering...well, if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the pew usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Most people overlook a child's heart when it is buried under pain. Take the time to give a wounded child your love, and he will learn to love the world. Love is very powerful. Use its power wisely, and someone will be the better for it.

Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

After reading this, I couldn't help feeling that a hearty AMEN! was in order. Hope you'll join me.

Big Wheel Truckstop

Author Unknown

In September 1960, I woke up one morning with six hungry babies and just 75 cents in my pocket. Their father was gone. The boys ranged in age from three months to seven years; their sister was two. Their dad never had been much more than a presence they feared. Whenever they heard his tires crunch on the gravel driveway, they would scramble to hide under their beds. He did manage to leave $15 a week to buy groceries.

Now that he had decided to leave, there would be no more beatings, but no food either. If there was a welfare system in effect in southern Indiana at that time, I certainly knew nothing about it. I scrubbed the kids until they looked brand new and then put on my best homemade dress. I loaded them into the rusty old '51 Chevy and drove off to find a job.

The seven of us went to every factory, store and restaurant in our small town. No luck. The kids stayed crammed into the car and tried to be quiet while I tried to convince whomever would listen that I was willing to learn or do anything. I had to have a job. Still no luck.

The last place we went to, just a few miles out of town, was an old Root Beer Barrel drive-in that had been converted to a truckstop. It was called the Big Wheel.

An old lady named Granny owned the place, and she peeked out the window from time to time at all those kids. She needed someone on the graveyard shift, 11 at night until seven in the morning. She paid 65 cents an hour, and I could start that night. I raced home and called the teenager down the street that baby-sat for people. I bargained with her to come and sleep on my soft for a dollar a night. She could arrive with her pajamas on, and the kids already would be asleep. This seemed like a good arrangement to her, so we made a deal.

That night, when the little ones and I knelt to say our prayers, we all thanked God for finding Mommy a job. And so I started at the Big Wheel. When I got home in the mornings, I woke up the baby-sitter and sent her home with one dollar of my top money--fully half of what I averaged every night.

As the weeks went by, heating bills added a strain on my meager wage. The tires on the old Chevy had the consistency of penny balloons and began to leak. I had to fill them with air on the way to work and again every morning before I could go home. One bleak fall morning, I dragged myself to the car to go home and found four tires in the back seat...new tires! There was no note, no nothing, just those beautiful brand new tires. Had angels taken up residence in Indiana? I wondered.

I made a deal with the local service station. In exchange for his mounting the new tires, I would clean up his office. I remember it took me a lot longer to scrub his floor than it did for him to do the tires.

I now was working six nights, instead of five, and it still wasn't enough. Christmas was coming, and I knew there would be no money for toys for the kids. I found a can of red paint and started repairing and painting some old toys. Then I hid them in the basement so there would be something for Santa to deliver on Christmas morning. Clothes were a worry, too. I was sewing patches on top of patches on the boys' pants, and soon they would be too far gone to repair.

On Christmas Eve, the usual customers were drinking coffee in the Big Wheel. There were the truckers, Less, Frank and Jim, and a state trooper named Joe. A few musicians were hanging around after a gig at the Legion, and they were dropping nickels in the pinball machine. The regulars all just sat around and talked through the wee hours of the morning and then left to get home before the sun came up.

When it was time for me to go home at seven o'clock on Christmas morning, I hurried to the car. I was hoping the kids wouldn't wake up before I managed to get home and get the presents from the basement and place them under the tree. (We had cut down a small cedar tree by the side of the road down by the dump.) It still was dark, and I couldn't see much, but there appeared to be some dark shadows in the car--or was that just a trick of the night? Something certainly looked different, but it was hard to tell what.

When I reached the car, I peered warily into one of the side windows. Then my jaw dropped in amazement. My old battered Chevy was filled full to the top with boxes of all shapes and sizes. I quickly opened the driver's side door, scrambled inside, and knelt in the front, facing the back seat.

Reaching back, I pulled off the lid of the top box. Inside was a whole case of little blue jeans, sizes 2 thru 10! I looked inside another box, which was full of shirts to go with the jeans. Then I peeked inside some of the other boxes. There was candy and nuts and bananas and bags of groceries, along with an enormous ham for baking, canned vegetables, and potatoes. There also was pudding and Jell-O and cookies, pie filling, and flour. There was a whole bag of laundry supplies and cleaning items. And there were five toy trucks and one beautiful doll.

As I drove back through empty streets as the sun slowly rose on the most amazing Christmas Day of my life, I was sobbing with gratitude. And I never will forget the joy on the faces of my little ones that precious morning.

Yes, there were angels in Indiana that long-ago December. And they all hung out at the Big Wheel Truckstop.

My Holiday Wish To All, Both Near & Far

 Let ne also wish everyone "good health" this coming year. I had been sailing right along..."as free as a breeze," you might say...until this issue with my gall bladder reared its ugly head. Then, and only then, did I stop long enough to realize that I had been taking this important matter of my health for granted...not exactly a smart thing to do, especially given my age.

Fortunately, the surgery last week appears to have been successful, and I'm moving ahead, but hopefully with more attention to those details that always should be front and center in our daily lives.

In any event, have a happy, healthy 2024...and many more to come, too.

A Christmas Adventure

Author Unknown

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so.

It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" She snorted..."Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad! Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its door, Grandma handed me $10, which was a bundle in those days.

"Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything by myself.

The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments, I just stood there confused, clutching that $10 bill, wondering what to buy, and whom on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, and the people who went to my church.

I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all of us kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he didn't have a good coat. I fingered the $10 bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat.

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it and looked real warm. He would like that.

"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my $10 down.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby."

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially, one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept quietly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.

Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his door, and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together, we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally, it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes.

That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were--ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside it of $19.95.

May you always have LOVE to share, HEALTH to spare, and FRIENDS that care.

Christmas Day in the Morning

By Pearl S. Buck

He woke up suddenly and completely! It was 4 o'clock, the hour at which his father always had called him, as a youth, go get up and help with the milking. It was strange how the habits of his youth still clung to him after 50 years. His father had been dead for 30 years, and yet he awakened at 4 o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go back to sleep, but this morning, it was Christmas. He did not even try to sleep.

"Why did he feel so awake tonight?" he wondered. He slipped back in time ever so easily nowadays. He was 15 years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father, although he had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast, and he needs his sleep. If you could just see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up. I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he took his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something inside him made him realize that his father loved him. He never had thought of it before, taking it for granted...the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children. They had no time for such things. There always was so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, even tho' stumbling blindly with sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut tight, but he got up.

And then, on the night before Christmas that year, when he was 15, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and the mince pies his mother made. His sister sewed presents, and his mother and father always bought something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.

That Christmas he was 15, he wished he had a better present for his father. As usual, he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking about it the night before Christmas. He looked out his attic window, where the stars were bright.

"Dad," he once had asked when he was a little boy, "what is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn, the shepherds had come... .

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift, too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than 4 o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean them up, and then when his father went to start the milking, he'd see it was all done...and he'd know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he mustn't sleep too soundly.

He must have awakened 20 times that night, scratching a match each time to look at his old watch--midnight, half past one, then two o'clock. At a quarter to three, he got up and put on his clothes, then crept downstairs, being careful of the creaky ol' boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.

He never had milked alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty this day...they'd be standing in the milk-house filled.

"What the... !" he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he ever had known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else...a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure it latched. Back in his room, he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, before he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing, then the door opened.

"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw right," he said sleepily.

The door closed, and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes, his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body. The minutes were endless...10, 15, he didn't know how many...then he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened, and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad."

His father was laughing a queer sobbing sort of laugh.

"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing beside his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!"

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark, and they couldn't see each other's faces.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing... ."

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know--I do want to be good." The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to do. His heart was bursting with love. He got up and pulled on his clothes again, and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh, what a Christmas, and how his heart nearly had burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had gotten up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I've ever had, and I'll remember it, son, every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live." They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone...that blessed Christmas dawn when, with only the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell how much he loved her. It had been a long time since he really had told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life...the ability to love. Love was still alive in him...it still was.

It suddenly occurred to him that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He would write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife with "My dearest love."

Such a happy, happy Christmas!

On a Happier Note...

My recovery appears to be going well. That tortuous tool, otherwise known as a catheter, got removed this past Monday at Sentara Princess Anne. Fortunately, I had a very empathetic young lady who quickly explained that, while she was a "one pull gal," I should only feel a very brief moment of displeasure before the procedure was completed. And she was exactly right.

Upon arriving home afterward, I went straight to the shower and have been feeling better ever since. The second day after surgery proved to be the day I felt the most discomfort in my chest area. Since then, I've only cringed a couple of times...once while bending over to put socks on and tie my shoes, and the second time yesterday when I folded my hands over my chest a bit harder than I should have. Also have to go easy on my bellybutton, which housed the surgeon's camera, 'cause it still has the appearance of a war zone.

Have been watching what I eat...with a bottle of Mylanta parked nearby, just in case. Thus far, the only thing that seems to have caused a small problem was the fresh squash we had one day. Everything else has been agreeable. Have only given up (temporarily, I hope) one habit I've had for some time now, and that is having a glass of Coke, Dr. Pepper or A&W Root Beer with my daily dinner. Instead, I've been drinking at least four full glasses of water (which I've never done before) per day, along with some low-fat milk, which I haven't done since my early Navy days.

My goal is to get back to eating and drinking the usual stuff as much as normal if possible, figuring that some things may take longer than others to work with my new digestive system. Might even get lucky enough to match what the gal who removed my catheter told me about her diet. She, too, is without a gall bladder...has been for a few years now...but eats anything she wants, including Mexican food when she has a hankering for it.

Bottom line: I'm feeling good...but that could be short-lived if I don't get rid of this past week's growth of whiskers. As a matter of fact, I earlier promised the wife these would disappear today, so had better bring this to a close and get up close and personal with my shaver in front of a mirror. Don't plan any further updates unless there's some kind of unexpected snafu.

And finally, to all those who have expressed concern for me, please know I sincerely appreciate all the support. It truly does help in these situations.

Waiting for That Christmas Feeling of Old

By Elizabeth English

Herman and I finally locked our store and dragged ourselves home. It was 11 p.m. Christmas Eve. We'd sold almost all of our toys, and all of the layaways, except for one package, had been picked up. The person who had put down a dollar on that last package never appeared.

Early Christmas morning, our 12-year-old son, Tom, Herman and I were out under the tree, opening up gifts, but there was something humdrum about this Christmas. Tom was grown up, and I missed his childish exuberance of past years. As soon as breakfast was over, he left to visit friends, and Herman disappeared into the bedroom, mumbling "I'm going back to sleep."

So, there I was alone. It was nearly 9 a.m. Sleet mixed with snow cut the air outside. "Sure glad I don't have to go out on a day like today," I thought to myself. And then it began--something I'd never experienced before--a strange, persistent urge. "Go to the store," it seemed to say. "That's crazy," I said to myself. "No one opens shop on Christmas Day."

For an hour, I fought that strange feeling. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I got dressed, put on my wool coat, placed my hat on my head, followed by my galoshes, scarf and gloves. Once outside, the wind cut right through me, and sleet stung my cheeks. I felt ridiculous. I had no business being out in the bitter chill.

The store was just ahead. In front of it stood two little boys huddled together, poorly dressed, and half frozen. One was about nine, the other six. "What in the world?" I wondered.

"Here she comes!" yelled the older one. "See, I told you she would come," he said. The younger one's face was wet with tears, but when he saw me, his eyes opened wide, and his sobbing stopped.

"What are you two children doing out here?" I scolded, hurrying them into the store.

"We've been waiting on you," replied the older. "My little brother, Jimmy, didn't get any Christmas. We want to buy some skates. That's what he wants."

I looked at the three dollars in his hand and at their expectant faces. Then I looked around the store. "I'm sorry," I said, "but we have no ska... ." Then my eye caught sight of the layaway shelf with its lone package. Could it be? I walked over and unwrapped the package. Miracle of miracles, there was a pair of skates.

Jimmy reached for them. "Lord," I said silently, "let them be his size. And miracle added upon miracle, they were his size. When the older boy finished tying the laces and saw that the skates fit perfectly, he stood up and presented the dollars to me.

"No, I'm not going to take your money," I told him. "I want you to have these skates and use your money to get some gloves for your hands." What I saw in Jimmy's eyes was like a blessing. It was pure joy, and it was beautiful. My low spirits rose.

As I locked the door, I turned to the older brother and said, "How lucky that I happened to come along when I did. How did you boys know I would come?"

I wasn't prepared for his reply. His gaze was steady, and he answered me softly. "I knew you would come. I asked Jesus to send you."

The tingles in my spine weren't from the cold. I knew God had planned this. As we waved good-bye, I returned home to a brighter Christmas than I had left.

The Man Who Missed Christmas

By J. Edgar Park

It was Christmas Eve, and, as usual, George Mason was the last to leave the office. He walked over to a massive safe, spun the dials, and swung the heavy door open. Making sure the door would not close on him, he stepped inside.

A square of white cardboard was taped just above the topmost row of strongboxes. On the card, a few words were written. George Mason stared at those words, remembering the events of exactly one year earlier, when he had entered this self-same vault. And then, behind his back, slowly, noiselessly, the ponderous door swung shut. He was trapped--entombed in the sudden and terrifying dark.

He hurled himself at the unyielding door, his hoarse cry sounding like an explosion. Through his mind flashed all the stories he had heard of men found suffocated in time vaults. No clock controlled this mechanism; the safe would remain locked until it was opened from the outside...tomorrow morning.

Then realization hit him. No one would come tomorrow--tomorrow was Christmas.

Once more, he flung himself at the door, shouting wildly, until he sank on his knees from exhaustion. Silence came, high-pitched, singing silence that seemed deafening. More than 36 hours would pass before anyone came--36 hours in a steel box three feet wide, eight feet long, and seven feet high. Would the oxygen last? Perspiring and breathing heavily, he felt his way around the floor. Then, in the far right-hand corner, just above the door, he found a small circular opening. Quickly, he thrust his finger into it and felt, faint but unmistakable, a cool current of air.

The tension release was so sudden that he burst into tears. But at last, he sat up. Surely he would not have to stay trapped for the full 36 hours. Somebody would miss him. But who? He was unmarried and lived alone. The maid who cleaned his apartment was just a servant; he always had treated her as such. He had been invited to spend Christmas Eve with his brother's family, but the children got on his nerves and expected presents.

A friend had asked him to go to a home for elderly people on Christmas Day and play the piano--George Mason was a good musician. But he had made some excuse or other. He had intended just to sit at home, listening to some new recordings he was giving himself.

George Mason dug his nails into the palms of his hands until the pain balanced the misery in his mind. Nobody would come and let him out...nobody, nobody, nobody.

Miserably, the whole of Christmas Day went by, as well as the succeeding night.

On the morning after Christmas, the head clerk came into the office at the usual time, opened the safe, then went into his private office.

No one saw George Mason stagger out into the corridor, run to the water cooler, and drink great gulps of water. No one paid any attention to him as he left and took a taxi home.

Then he shaved, changed his wrinkled clothes, ate breakfast, and returned to his office, where his employees greeted him casually.

That day, he met several acquaintances and talked to his own brother. Grimly, the truth closed in on George Mason. He had vanished from human society during the great festival of brotherhood. No one had missed him at all.

Reluctantly, George Mason began to think about the true meaning of Christmas. Was it possible that he had been blind with selfishness, indifference and pride all these years? Was not giving, after all, the essence of Christmas because it marked the time God gave His son to the world?

All through the year that followed, with little hesitant deeds of kindness, with small, unnoticed acts of unselfishness, George Mason tried to prepare himself... .

Now, once more, it was Christmas Eve.

Slowly, he backed out of the safe and closed it. He touched its grim steel face lightly, almost affectionately, and left the office.

There he goes now in his black overcoat and hat, the same George Mason as a year ago...or is it? He walks a few blocks, then flags a taxi, anxious not to be late. His nephews are expecting him to help them trim the tree. Afterwards, he is taking his brother and sister-in-law to a Christmas play. Why is he so happy? Why does this jostling against others, laden as he is with bundles, exhilarate and delight him?

Perhaps the card has something to do with it...the card he taped inside his office safe last New Year's Day. On the card is written, in George Mason's own hand: "To love people, to be indispensable somewhere, that is the purpose of life. That is the secret of happiness."

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

(Following is one of the many Navy versions available online.)

'Twas the night before Christmas, compartments were still,

The sailors were sleeping, as most sailors will.

The ditty bags hung by the lockers with care,

In hopes that St. Nickolas soon would be there.

The Chief in his skivvies, hopped into his rack,

Having just come from town and a quick midnight snack.

When out on the deck, there arose such a roar,

I ran to the porthole to find out the score.

I stuck out my head and started to shout,

"Just what in the world is this noise all about?"

A moon made for boondocking showed with a glow,

It was downright cold out, 'bout seven below.

What I saw out there looked like those Mardi Gras floats,

'Twas a Captain's gig drawn by white Navy goats.

In the boat was a man who seemed quiet and moody,

I knew in an instant St. Nick had the duty.

As quickly as Monday, his billy goats came,

He whistled and shouted and called them by name.

"Now Perry, now Farragut, Dewey and Jones,

What's the matter, John Paul, got lead in your bones?

A little to starb'rd, now hold it up short,

No fluffing off now, or you'll go on report!"

He was wearing dress "reds" that fit like a charm,

His hash marks they covered the length of his arm.

The gifts to be issued were all in his pack,

The gedunk was ready to leave on each rack.

His eyes they were watering, his nose caked with ice,

He wiped it with canvas, then sneezed once or twice.

He opened his mouth and started to yawn,

It looked like the sun coming up with the dawn.

The stump of a pipe, he held tight in his teeth,

And took a small nip from a bottle beneath.

He wasn't so big, but he must have been strong,

I figured he'd been in SEALs early and long.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old Tar,

Who said, "Evenin', Matey, here have a cigar."

 

He filled every seabag with presents galore,

And left us all leave papers, right by the door.

"Merry Christmas!" he said, as he drove out on his way,

"Now I'll finish my rounds and sack in for the day."

My After-Action Report

Good news is: the surgery went as expected. However, things headed south soon afterward, starting with the realization that someone had failed to notice the entry in my medical record that I have an enlarged prostate. And turns out, the anesthesia they had chosen for me just happened to be one that caused it to get even larger. To put it bluntly, my pee therefore was trapped between a rock and a hard place...and going nowhere anytime soon.

Gotta believe at least some of you already have figured out what that development meant for me. Does the word "catheter" ring any bells? Yep, and I don't mean just one...but two. They initially started with one of the smallest they had, which I, kid you not, had me screaming to the top of my lungs. About 40 minutes later, when all the initial backup had been relieved and the first catheter had been removed (with more pain than the installation), it was discovered that I still was unable to pee on my own...no matter how hard I tried. Within a very few minutes, the RN and the surgeon had decided to equip me with a "longer lasting" catheter that made installment of the first one feel like a walk in the park. And I don't mind telling you that the walls of Sentara Princess Anne shook this second time.

The RN had forewarned me, though. He even went so far as to say, "If you feel that you must sock me, please do so...cause it won't be the first time, nor will it be the last either."

Suffice it to say I resisted hitting the RN, and he indeed was grateful. After thanking me, he went back to the process of getting me admitted. And as soon as a room became available, I was whisked away for what would be an overnight stay. Then, the next morning, one of my surgeon's assistants came to visit me and to discuss my options. I opted for going home with my catheter and calling the surgeon on Monday about getting my catheter removed.

Unfortunately, my problems did not end there. Once home, blood soon started showing up in the bag strapped to the side of my leg...and I don't mean just a little. I immediately called the charge nurse from my overnight stay to ask for her advice. She was the only person I could find available on short notice.

Her words to me were simple: Dump that first bag with the blood, but if a second one shows up, get your butt to the emergency room. The second bag was the same as the first, so last night found me heading to the emergency room. Once there, staff were quick to take me in and get a sample of the blood from my bag for analysis. The diagnosis...albeit not welcome...was no surprise, since the earlier RN had forewarned me what could happen with catheters. In short, I have an infection in my bladder.

I was given a shot of antibiotic and had a prescription phoned into my local pharmacy...which had turned up yet another problem. Seems there was a problem with billing that had delayed delivery of the prescription, so now I am sitting...perhaps for as long as 3 more hours...waiting to receive the prescription to retard the blood that once again is showing up in my bag.

As I've said so many times, "When it rains, it pours. If there's something that can go wrong, it will."

And I just learned of yet another problem: The only leg bag I have appears to be leaking, while my wife is out doing some other things for me. Ain't I the lucky one!!!

All that being said, I ask that any of you who would like to talk with me on the phone to please give me a few days to get on an even keel again. My ship simply is not very seaworthy at the moment. Hope you understand.  

Well, Tomorrow Is My D-Day (of Sorts)

The "battle plan" has been drawn up, and the "invasion" will go down about 8 a.m. or thereabouts. Some readers know what I'm making reference to, but for the benefit of those who don't, I'm heading to Sentara Princess Anne in the morning for Dr. Jenkins to perform gall bladder surgery.

My Dewey's tournament partner will drop us off at the main entrance about 7 o'clock, then I'll get signed in, the anesthesiologist will do his or her job, and I'll be turned over to the doctor for what is called a laparoscopic cholecystectomy.

I've been told that I should be ready for the trip home at or about noon, if all goes well...as opposed to the old-fashioned open surgery, which entailed a three-to-five-day stay in the hospital. Post op is scheduled two weeks down the road, and I'm not supposed to do anything strenuous for about three or four weeks...in other words, no fishing! That recuperation period has pretty much remained the same from the days of yore.

Just know that I plan to keep doing some blog posts throughout my recuperation. How much I do, though, will depend on how I feel. I also intend to spend time walking, as the doctor already has indicated will be in my best interests. With any luck, I should be back at "full tilt" (whatever that means for an 80-year-old is anyone's guess) by mid-January. Until then, please know that y'all have my best wishes for the holidays.

A Brother Like That

By Dan Clark

A friend of mine named Paul received a new car from his brother as a pre-Christmas present. On Christmas Eve, when Paul came out of his office, a street urchin was walking around the shiny new car, admiring it.

"Is this your car, mister?" he asked.

Paul nodded and said, "My brother gave it to me for Christmas."

The boy looked astounded. "You mean your brother gave it to you, and it didn't cost you anything? Gosh, I wish... ."

He hesitated, and Paul immediately knew (or so he thought) what he was going to wish. He was going to wish he had a brother like that. But what the lad said jarred Paul...all the way down to his heels.

"I wish," the boy went on, "that I could be a brother like that."

Paul looked at the boy in astonishment, then impulsively added, "Would you like a ride in my new car?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love that!"

After a short ride, the urchin turned and, with his eyes aglow, said, "Mister, would you mind driving in front of my house?"

Paul smiled a little. He thought he knew what the lad wanted. He wanted to show his neighbors that he could ride home in a big automobile. But Paul was wrong again.

"Will you stop right where those steps are?" the boy asked. He ran up the steps. Then, in a little while, Paul heard him coming back, but he was not coming fast. He was carrying his little polio-crippled brother. He sat down on the bottom step, then sort of squeezed up right against him and pointed to the car.

"There she is, Buddy, just like I told you upstairs. His brother gave it to him for Christmas, and it didn't cost him a cent, and someday, I'm gonna give you one just like it. Then you can see for yourself all the pretty things in the Christmas windows that I've been trying to tell you about."

Paul got out and lifted the little lad into the front seat of the car. The shining-eyed older brother climbed in beside him, and the three of them began a memorable holiday ride.

That Christmas Eve, Paul learned what Jesus meant when he said, "It is more blessed to give... ."

St. Nick's Final Sleigh Ride

'Twas the night before Christmas and one thing was clear--

That old Yuletide spirit no longer was here;

Inflation was rising; the crime rate was tripling,

The fuel bills were up, and our mortgage was crippling.

I opened a beer, as I watched TV,

Where Donny sang "O Holy Night" to Marie;

the kids were in bed, getting sleep like they should,

Or else they were stoned, which almost was as good.

While Ma, with her ballpoint, was making a fuss,

'Bout folks we'd send cards to, who'd sent none to us;

"Those ingrates," she thundered, "and pounded her first,

Next year, you can bet they'll be crossed off our list!"

When out in the yard came a deafening blare,

'Twas our burglar alarm, and I hollered, "Who's there?"

I turned on the searchlight, which lit up the night,

And, armed with my handgun, beheld a strange sight.

Some red-suited clown, with a white beard immense,

Was caught in our eight-foot electrified fence;

He called out, "I'm Santa! I bring you no malice!"

Said I, "If you're Santa, I'm Telly Savalas!"

But, lo, as his presence grew clear to me,

I saw in the glare that it just might be he;

Called off our Doberman clawing his sleigh,

And, frisking him twice, said, "I think he's OK."

I led him inside, where he slumped in a chair,

And he poured out the following tale of despair;

"On Christmas eves past, I was jolly and chuckling,

But now, 'neath the pressures, I fear I'm buckling."

"You'll note I've arrived with no reindeer this year,

And without them, my sleigh is much harder to steer;

Although I would like to continue to use them,

The wildlife officials believe I abuse them."

To add to my problem, Ralph Nader dropped by,

And told me my sleigh was unsafe in the sky;

I now must wear seatbelts, despite my objections,

And bring in the sleigh twice a year for inspections.

Last April, my workers came forth with demands,

And I soon had a general strike on my hands;

I couldn't afford to pay unionized elves,

So the missus and I did the work ourselves.

And then, later on, came additional trouble--

An avalanche left my fine workshop in rubble;

My Allstate insurance was worthless, because

They had shrewdly slipped in a "no avalanche" clause.

And after that came an IRS audit,

The government claimed I was out to defraud it;

They finally nailed me for 65 grand,

Which I paid through the sale of my house and my land.

And yet I persist, though it gives me a scare,

Flying blind through the blanket of smog in the air;

Not to mention the hunters who fill me with dread,

Taking shots at my sleigh as I pass overhead.

My torn-up red suit and these bruises and swellings,

I got fighting muggers in multiple dwellings;

And if you should ask why I'm glowing tonight,

It's from flying too close to a nuclear site.

He rose from his chair, and he heaved a great sigh,

And I couldn't help but notice a tear in his eye;

"I've tried," he declared, "to reverse each defeat,

But I fear that today, I've become obsolete."

He slumped out the door and returned to his sleigh,

And these last words he spoke as he went on his way;

"No longer can I do the job that's required,

If anyone asks, just say Santa's retired."

An Angler's Christmas

As "butchered" (author's word choice, not mine)

By Dr. Todd Larson

'Twas the night before Christmas, and all across the lake,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a snake;

The stockings were hung in the cabin with care,

In hopes they'd be filled with bugs made of deer hair.

This angler was nestled all snug in his bed,

While visions of Pfluegers danced in my head;

Shakespeares and Heddons, both old and brand new,

All served to disrupt my long winter's snooze.

When down on the dock, there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter;

Worried about my Big O's in mint silver flash,

I tore open the door to investigate the splash.

The light reflecting from the nearly full moon,

Gave the luster of midday to my Dardevle spoons;

When, what to my shock down the hill should appear,

But a Skeeter bass boat filled with reindeer!

And a portly old fisherman, so lively and quick,

I saw it was the angler we knew as St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his reindeer disembarked,

And he whistled and shouted, their names he did hark:

"Now, Bagley! Now, Paw Paw! Now, Norman and Zebco!

On Arnold, On Rebel! On Jamison and Nebco!

To the top of the steps, to the end of the dock!

Then on to the shore, my grazing herd flock!"

As dry flies that before the stiffest breeze fly,

When they meet with the wind and blow in the sky;

So along the dock the bounders they flew,

Followed by the boat full of tackle, and St. Nicholas, too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the shore,

Their prancing and pawing and reindeer-like roar;

As I drew in my breath, and was turning around,

Up the steps St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in B.A.S.S. gear from head to foot,

And his Ranger boat cap was blackened with soot;

A bundle of rods he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a trout bum just opening his pack.

But his eyes, they twinkled, his smile was so merry!

His hooks were all sharp, his reels were so cherry!

His Orvis fly rod was as lithe as a bow,

And his hand-tied streamer whiter than snow;

A piece of his leader he held tight in his teeth,

And the rest of his line lay coiled like a wreath.

St. Nick the Angler adjusted his belly,

And it flubbered around like a worm made of jelly;

But despite his big girth, he could handle a rod,

And he had taken his share, in spite of his bod;

He slipped in the house with nary a word,

As I stared in disbelief at his grazing deer herd.

St. Nick got to work, and with a nod of his face,

He gave his approval of my piscatorial cache;

He spoke not a word, and went straight to his work,

Filling the stockings with baits made to jerk;

Arbogasts, Helins, Spoonplugs, and Skinners,

Bass Pro, Cabelas, and multi-blade spinners;

The stockings were soon just bursting with treasure,

And he threw in a Winston, just for good measure.

Then laying his finger aside of his head,

He gave me a nod, and down the steps he fled;

Into his boat he jumped, with its promo decals,

And he puttered off out of sight to fish with his pals.

But I heard him exclaim, as he trolled out of sight,

"Good fishing to all, and to all anglers, a good night!"

If All Else Fails, Go Old School on Tough Winter Fishing

If you don't think we're living in a world where more is always better, just take a look at all the current technology that goes into the bass boats of today. While you're at it, make sure you take a good look at the price tags on 'em, too. I warn you in advance, though: That sticker shock may be more than your ticker can stand.

It's nothing short of amazing when you consider the considerable forward progress of the bass-fishing industry. Despite all this progress, however, there still are times when it pays to keep things simple...old school, if you will. Winter is one of those times when old school can spell a world of difference in your fishing success.

As Wired2Fish writer Walker Smith explained, "It's pretty frustrating to me when I think of how few anglers actually use monofilament fishing line these days. When I was learning to bass fish, that's all we had, and I didn't know the difference. But these days, with all the new line types on the market (and they all have a place, might I add), don't overlook some good ol' monofilament the next time you're winter bass fishing with reaction baits.

"When I refer to reaction baits, I'm not necessarily talking about soft plastics and other bottom-contact offerings. Instead, I'm referring to flat-sided crankbaits, small jerkbaits, lipless crankbaits, and things of that nature. Essentially, I guess I'm talking about anything with treble hooks."

Smith strongly recommends using some type of monofilament with reaction baits because it has more stretch.

"And, yes," he said, I know we've had it pounded into our brains in recent years that stretch is a bad characteristic for fishing line. However, I absolutely beg to differ, especially in the winter months. There are two main reasons for my theory on this.

"First of all, winter bass rarely will inhale your treble-hooked reaction baits. Their metabolism is slow right now, so they're not going to go crazy and chase your bait down and try to swallow it whole. Maybe this will happen every now and again, but it's certainly not the norm. This lethargic behavior underlines the importance of the added stretch that monofilament line offers. The aforementioned stretch creates a very small but important delay between the time the bass eats your reaction bait and the time you detect said bite and set the hook. Although it may be a split-second delay, this can make an incredible difference for your hookup ratio.

"My second reason for this theory closely coincides with what we just discussed. That slight delay between the actual bite and angler detection is magnified this time of year because the mouth of a bass is very hard and tough in cold water. I don't know if you've ever paid attention to it, but the next time you catch a cold-water bass, feel the skin around its mouth and compare it to the skin of a warm-water bass. These winter bass have very firm mouths, which make it much more difficult for a thin-wire treble hook to penetrate. This, of course, results in a worse hookup ratio. That small amount of stretch that monofilament offers, however, allows the bass to 'get' the bait a lot better, which also helps the angler execute a more solid hookset."

Smith also feels that choosing the right fishing-reel gear ratio is important for many reasons.

"The current trend among manufacturers," he said, "seems to be all about high-speed reels. This is a great option most of the year, but using a low gear-ratio bass-fishing reel can pay enormous dividends for bass anglers throughout the winter months.

"Just as we discussed the bass being lethargic and lazy this time of year," he continued, "their prey is acting the exact same way. Shad and other types of baitfish aren't scooting around and acting a fool right now; they're just like us these days. It's cold and nasty outside, so we tend to move a little slower. The baitfish are doing the exact same thing.

"To mimic this natural lazy behavior of their prey, I strongly suggest using a low-gear-ratio reel, ranging from 5.1:1 to 5.4:1. To best understand what this means, the spool of a reel with a gear ratio of 5.1:1 is going to spin 5.1 times with each handle turn. Compared to most reels on the market these days, that's a much slower retrieve, which perfectly fits the underwater behavior of all winter-time fish."

For Smith, flat-sided crankbaits are a great way to catch cold-water bass, and these low-gear-ratio reels are the way to go with this technique.

"I like to feel every single wobble throughout the retrieve," he said. "I almost want it to move as slowly as a Texas-rigged worm this time of year. So although speed is a big marketing deal right now, don't you dare toss or sell those lower-gear-ratio reels."

Smith also warns against getting too dependent on your electronics in tough fishing conditions.

"I can't tell you how many times I've had a tough day of winter bass fishing and leaned on my electronics way too hard for the rest of the day," he said. "I'll start getting spun out, and before I know it, I've spent 45 minutes on my electronics, without making a single cast. If I stare at a screen for 45 minutes without actually fishing, that's about 90 casts...and 90 opportunities I've missed to catch a bass."

Smith believes that the "pinging" of a transducer absolutely can spook fish in shallow water.

"I've gone down shallow banks a lot of times with my electronics on and not had a single bite throughout the best stretch," he explained. "My gut would tell me there still were fish in this area, though, so I'd circle back around and fish the same stretch again...with my electronics turned off. Sure enough, I would catch fish on that second pass. So whenever I start struggling with getting a bite in winter, one of the first things I do is shut off my electronics. Whether it's a mental thing to avoid wasting a bunch of time staring at a screen, or it's a noise deal with my transducers...I totally believe it helps."

In conclusion, Smith said, "Next time you start struggling to catch winter bass, don't get spun out and start trying a bunch of crazy stuff. Instead, take a deep breath and go a little old school on 'em. Keeping it simple can make all the difference in the world for a bass angler."