Brenda Layman's Blog
Posted by Brenda Layman
With just four days left until Christmas, you may suddenly realize that you need another gift for someone. Don’t panic. It’s possible to acquire a last-minute gift for an outdoor enthusiast and have it under the tree in an hour or less.
I have experience with this scenario. It was Christmas in the early 1970’s, and my boyfriend at the time was an avid hunter. We had agreed to exchange record albums for Christmas. He showed up at my door with a large, flat package and, to my dismay, a second box, wrapped up in holiday paper and smelling of perfume. My dad witnessed the moment, and took me aside. “Stall him,” he whispered. Then he grabbed his jacket and slipped out the back door. I put the presents under the tree and told the young man that I wanted him to have some cookies I had baked, which he happily accepted. We sat in the kitchen and munched Santa-shaped sugar cookies. In the meantime, my dad returned, sneaked in the back door, and lounged casually into the kitchen a few minutes later.
“Aren’t you kids going to open your gifts?” he asked, giving me a meaningful look. We went to the living room and I saw the flat, square package I had carefully wrapped, but there was another present with it. Having no idea what the mystery box contained, I handed both packages to my boyfriend. He liked the album, but he LOVED the second gift. It was a pocket hand warmer. My dad had ducked out to the hardware store, bought the hand warmer, rushed home, wrapped it, and slipped it under the tree -- all in less than one hour.
Here are some suggestions for inexpensive gifts that go from the store to under the Christmas tree in less than one hour.
Hand warmer
Thermos bottle
Compartmentalized plastic box
Pocket knife
Carabiner clip
Bandannas
Wool blend socks
Trail mix
Fishing or hunting magazine (Order a subscription, then wrap up the latest copy.)
Invitation to accompany you to an outdoors expo or boat show – your treat.
I hope one or more of these last-minute ideas works for you. Just be sure to have some cookies ready if you have to stall ‘em.
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Posted by Brenda Layman
Have you ever noticed how hard it is not to think about fishing?
Mark and I attended a swanky Christmas party. It was so swanky that Mark actually wore a tie and I dressed up like a lady in a cocktail suit, nylons, and fancy, pointy shoes. The temperature was just above freezing, and it was raining hard, with those little bits of ice in among the raindrops that sting when they blow into your face. Mark let me out at the door and then parked the truck. This struck me as somewhat humorous, since he has often enough waded rivers and fished in the rain with me. One evening in particular, we stood knee-deep in wet grass and fished a farm pond in the rain. Bass were rising like crazy, striking at anything and everything we offered. I even tried a red and blue popper that someone had given me. Nothing ever went for that popper, not even bluegill in June, but those bass lunged for it. I think I could have tied on a shirt button with a hook taped on and landed a bass with it. It was one of those fishing occasions that stand out among all the others, when you know that everything converged just at that place and time to make something incredible happen. We fished like that for about an hour, with rain water running down our backs in rivulets under our jackets and the fish practically leaping out of the pond after our flies.
I snapped out of my reverie and stepped daintily into the restaurant like someone who wouldn’t think of slopping around in the rain after fish.
Inside, it was one of those elegant places with lots of polished wood and curvy lines, and globe-shaped minimalist light fixtures hanging here and there. The party was upstairs, in a room that featured a curved ceiling with overhead beams that reminded me of the ribs of a canoe. A small musical ensemble was performing jazzy Christmas tunes over in the corner. The singer had a smooth, mellow voice, and as she crooned the lyrics to “Santa Baby” I noticed that she was wearing earrings that resembled a matched pair of spinner baits. People cruised around the dining room, and a lot of them schooled up near the bar.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the last fish I’d caught. It was a sucker, foul-hooked when I was nymphing the Mohican for brown trout. I’d already caught a little brownie on a surface fly, but when they stopped rising, I’d gone to the nymph. Why hadn’t I quit while I was ahead? Now, I would be ending 2009 with a sucker for my last catch of the year. This knowledge had begun to wear on me, and as I said, everything had a way of reminding me of fishing. Even the glitz and glamour of the holiday event couldn't erase feeling that the year just wouldn't end on the right note if that sucker was my final catch. I vowed to give it one more try.
The weekend after the party, in spite of temperatures hovering just above freezing, a constant drizzle, and icy patches on the ground, Mark and I returned to the Mohican to seek one last trout. It had been raining all night, and the water was high, fast, and the color of the crayon labeled, “burnt sienna.” There was a man fishing the stream already. As we stood there looking at the ice-bordered stream, I said, “Well, that guy is still fishing, so they must be biting.” The man promptly waded to shore, walked to his truck, and drove away.
We put on our waders, jackets, and hats, rigged up our rods, tied on a couple of flies that Mark had made the week before, and waded out into the fast, muddy water. We cast as well as we could, given the fact that our cold leaders refused to uncoil properly and a chill breeze had picked up, steadily forcing the icy mist into every crevice of our clothing. Nothing was happening, fish-wise, but I didn’t want to give up. As long as there is a line out, there is a chance, right? My hands were so cold I could barely feel them. After a bit, I saw Mark wading toward me. His ears were red, and his breath was clearly visible in the cold air. He regarded me as I stood there shivering, sniffling, and trying not to be knocked off my feet by the raging current.
“You know,” he said, “that sucker was snagged, not legally caught. That makes your last fish caught the brown trout.”
We peeled off the neoprenes, hopped in the truck, and sped down the road to the nearest town, where Mark got a cup of coffee and I got hot chocolate. For the record, I ended 2009 with a brown trout, caught on a surface fly.
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Posted by Brenda Layman
My plan for today was to go Christmas shopping. I was going to drive across town to the super-duper shopping area and spend the day buying gifts for my family and friends. I had several things on my list, but I was also looking forward to the general festive nature of it all – the tinsel and lights, Bing Crosby warbling holiday tunes, silver bells, toys in every store, as the shoppers rush home with their presents – the whole yuletide scene. Maybe it would even snow a little, I thought.
I was still sipping coffee when my husband, Mark, called. He wanted to warn me that heavy precipitation was predicted for the afternoon, and it would be rain, not snow. There would be no crystalline flakes to provide the proper Christmas shopping atmosphere, but cold rain was on the way.
I decided against fighting the traffic to get across town in a downpour, but figured I could still do some shopping locally. My expedition would begin at the nearby discount store. The first item on my list was Fluffy Socks, and they had to be fluffy. The store had socks, but they were of the thin variety. No one in my family likes thin socks. There were bins and bins of other items priced at only one dollar, but no one on my gift list has need of a notepad decorated with big-eyed kitties, or a holiday tin of off-brand gummy candies, or any of the other dozens of fairly useless items in those bins.
On to the next mega-discount store. The item I was after, which should have been in the sporting goods department, wasn’t. In fact, the sports who shop that sporting goods department don’t seem to do much in the way of sports beyond competitive beer-drinking. There were plenty of beer mugs emblazoned with leaping bass and staring deer, but those were not items on my list. From the looks of the untouched display, they aren’t on anyone else’s either.
Toys, I decided, had to be a good bet. Children still get toys for Christmas, right? I needed a toy to put under the tree for my grand-niece, so I wandered over to the toy aisle. I thought I might find a nice box of building blocks. Great-aunt Ancient discovered that current toys are almost universally electronic. Apparently, today’s tots just like to press buttons and watch lights blink while music plays. These toys are described as “educational.” After hunting diligently through the shelves, I found a plaything that consists of a small hammer and some balls to whack and send down a maze of ramps. Whacking things may not be considered educational, but that is what my children liked to do when they were young, so I bought it.
Hurray! The mega-discount store had fluffy socks! And the next store, a real outdoor outfitter, had the other item on my list, which I cannot describe here because my husband reads this blog. I drove home as the first cold raindrops plunked against my windshield. The radio was on, and Bing Crosby’s voice began to croon, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas.” A car with a Christmas tree on top passed me in the other lane, as I rushed home with my presents. It’s starting to look a lot like Christmas.
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Posted by Brenda Layman
“Anybody have a knife?” Mark asked. It was Thanksgiving, and my husband wanted to cut open a couple of tennis balls to slip over the legs of a relative’s walker to protect our nephew’s shiny wooden floors. Our nephew and his wife had redecorated recently, and the wood floors gleamed under the party of friends and family who had gathered for the celebration. Thirteen adults and one child were present, and, as it turned out, I was the only one who was carrying a knife.
I fetched it from my purse and handed it to Mark. It’s not a big knife, but not a tiny one. It has a three-inch, folding blade, a corkscrew, a screwdriver, and a can opener. It’s just the thing for fishing, picnicking, and general outdoor utility. Mark went to work on the tennis balls.
“Nice knife,” someone said. “Is that what you use for hunting and stuff?” Mark looked gently amused. “No, this is Brenda’s. My hunting knife is much bigger, and it has a leather sheath. This is just a little, folding knife.” They looked at me, astonished.
When I was growing up, every man and boy, and quite a few women and girls, carried knives. We carried them in our pockets all the time. We took them to school. We took them everywhere. I remember when a boy named Steve wanted new leather boots, but his dad said he couldn’t get them until his old shoes wore out. Steve sat in the back of the classroom and whittled away with his pocket knife at the soles of his shoes until both of them had nice, natural-looking holes in them. The next day he came to school in new leather boots.
My cousins and I all got little, folding pocket knives when we were about eight years old. Almost invariably, we cut ourselves a few times before we learned how to handle them. No one thought this dangerous or odd; it was just a rite of passage.
My dad had an endless supply of small knives. As a manager at the steel mill, he was constantly visited by salesmen, and they always gave away small tokens with the company name on them. He would bring the little knives home and say, “Got something from a peddler,” and toss them in his top dresser drawer. I still have a few of those little knives around.
He had two favorite knives. The one he carried in his pocket was a beautiful folding knife with bone on the handle. He kept it sharp and clean, and used it for everything from cutting duct tape to cleaning fish and squirrels. He also had his army dagger from WWII, and he practiced throwing it at a target in the back yard, just so he wouldn’t forget how. When I was a teenager, he taught me how to throw it. I impressed my friend, Alan, one day when he offered to let me throw his knife. I sank that blade about an inch deep into the target board. “Ain’t nobody goin’ to mess with you!” Alan commented, pulling his knife out of the target.
My son gave his groomsmen small Swiss Army knives when he got married, and his cousin, the same nephew who hosted Thanksgiving, carried his on his keychain for years. Then, it was confiscated by security at an airport. He was sad to lose it, but he had no choice. It was relinquish the knife or miss the flight. Christmas is coming, and my nephew will be coming over to our house. Maybe I’ll give him a new pocket knife.
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Posted by Brenda Layman
One thing about fishing is that, for those who love it, it never loses its appeal.
I had a new pair of neoprene waders to break in last weekend, so Mark and I took off for the Mohican River on a cold November Sunday to see if we could catch some Ohio trout. The waders were great for keeping me warm in the frigid water, and I got used to the bulky boot feet pretty quickly. It took me a little longer to get used to casting a tiny trout fly on a 4 weight, as I had spent most of the summer with my 5 weight in hand, throwing streamers to rock bass and smallmouth. After several attempts, I got the hang of it enough to put the fly where I wanted it and get a good mend and drift most of the time.
A couple of guys were fishing downstream a little way, and they were nice enough to give us a bit of advice about the area. Fly fishermen are generally nice folks, in my experience, as long as you respect their space and don't get too nosy about what fly they're using.
We moved upstream a bit. The day was beautiful. It wasn't the kind of day that usually means good fishing, and there were no visible rises on the river, but it was the kind of day that people enjoy. The sun was shining, and there was a light breeze, gentle enough not to interfere much with casting. Geese passed overhead, and squirrels rustled among the dead leaves, industriously gathering food and preparing cozy nests for winter's approaching chill. It was one of those days when you don't much care whether or not you actually catch fish, because you are outdoors, in the river, with a rod in your hand, and all is right with the world. Catching fish would top it off splendidly, but you are not greedy. You're content to enjoy the day as the gift that it is. You become poetic or philosophical, depending upon which kind of fisherman you happen to be. I have decided that all of us are one of these types or the other.
I cast, mended, and watched my fly drift along. Then, there it was -- that flash that means a trout has taken the fly, the flash we watch for, poised to wait just the fraction of a second long enough, then set the hook. Fish on! No matter how many times this happens, it is always miraculous. The joy of floating a bit of fur and feathers atop a cold river current, then connecting with a wild creature that lives its life in that river, pulling it gently into the light and marvelling over its beauty before releasing it, never gets old. The thrill is there, whether the trout are rising like crazy, taking every other cast, or whether hours of fishing bring only one fish to the hand The little brown trout lay shining in the net. I removed the tiny fly from its jaw and watched as the lovely creature swam away. On top of everything, a fish. I was supremely happy. That's the thing about fishing.
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