Hold the drumstick, pass the memories

In grade school, my teachers made sure we knew about those very first settlers and the hardships they faced when they landed in what is now New England. The teachers made us dress in period costumes and take part in plays depicting the difficult times our ancestors went through.

We continue to celebrate the plight of the rag-tag minions of pioneers who reportedly were recipients of native graciousness.

For some, today means a time when families get together and have a communal feast. But I wonder just how many out there are really thankful for their place in life.

I never would have imagined 40-plus years ago I would be making my living writing and broadcasting topics pertaining to fishing and hunting.

Having done a long stint in network radio news broadcasting, making the transition to outdoor broadcasting was relatively easy for me. I have my late father to thank for that.

I have been with the Daily Herald for about 20 years, writing outdoors columns. I have my wife, Charlotte, to thank for that move. She encouraged me to expand in to print, and I did just that when former outdoors writer Jim Cook assumed other duties.

And as luck would have it, I have been fortunate to also write for quite a few other travel and outdoor magazines with national readerships. I have close friends to thank for that segment of my outdoors career. They were there to encourage.

But the core of all this should really focus on my parents, especially my late father, Irv.

With the same camera he carried in the jungles of New Guinea during WWII, he took snapshots of me at 4, holding one of his fishing rods while I struggled to also hold up a small bass, all the while smiling for the lens.

The great journey continued with countless trips to northern Ontario, northern Minnesota, northern Wisconsin, Kentucky, south Florida, east Texas and scads of other fishing locales.

When I was 9, he gently placed his treasured, double-barrel Parker shotgun in my hands and taught me the difference between a rooster and hen pheasant. When the rooster jumped up to fly away, he urged me to take the shot. Nothing else ever tasted as good as my first pheasant.

I am extremely thankful for Irv's patience when the heavy Dacron line morphed into the proverbial bird's nest on the Pflueger casting reel.

"I'll show you how to cast without getting a backlash," he quietly suggested in the boat. And probably my biggest "thank you" for dad has to do with him coming safely home from the war -- otherwise I wouldn't be here.

I have three grown daughters, with two of them living close by. Melissa, my middle offspring, is as eager to go fishing today as she was when she was 4. I am very thankful for that kind of connection and her willingness to put up with my schtick and old-fashioned ways.

And to you dear readers, thank you for following me on this journey for a lot of years. I appreciate your support.