I think it is a sign of old age remembering stuff. I’m not sure because I have trouble remembering stuff. But I remember my 1990 Chevy pickup truck well.

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I can remember like yesterday the first time I came to the end of a standing cornfield as a driver and witnessed what seemed like hundreds of pheasants take flight. Some today would trade sighting a dozen whitetail does for that experience. And obviously I remember the fall of my 11th year when I graduated to toter, and was presented with an Iver Johnson 16 Ga., single shot shotgun. But the learning process went on from there. We could hunt until 5 p.m. each day, and I was allowed to hunt alone with my beagle, so I’d jump off the school bus about 3 p.m., run in the house to change, grab the shotgun and my five shotgun shells, and dash across the street into the standing corn. If, when I needed more shells, I hadn’t added a combination of rabbits and pheasants adding up to three to the family table, I got a lecture. “Boy”—I’m sure if he were alive today at 65, I’d still be called Boy – “Those shells cost good money. Stop wasting them.”

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Back when we were still communicating with wet blankets over a wood fire at the tops of hills, I had a journalism professor that said, writers block is akin to a surgeon having cutting block. If you are trained to write, you simply write. Hell, that makes this column, when I have no idea of what I’m about to write about, a piece of cake, or maybe I’ll just do surgery on myself.

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