SPORTING LIFE

It was one of those cold, gray, wet late winter days that reinforced the groundhog’s prediction of six more weeks of bad weather. I was up in the roost, the little apartment over our garage where I go to write or go through damp duck hunting gear in preparation for storing it until next season. It’s also a great place to make plans for hunting, fishing or camping trips. On this day, though, I was just sorting through some old journals that I began many years ago.

There was a little female cardinal huddled on a dogwood branch right outside the window next to my desk. If the window had been open, I could have reached out and touched the little bird. Her feathers were puffed up as if she had on a fluffy down vest. She looked in at me with one eye closed as if to say, “Man, it’s cold out here.” I watched for a couple of minutes until she flew away, and then I picked up one of my journals.

I started keeping hunting diaries, sometimes daily, sometimes weekly, back in the late ’70s. It was the same time I started a newspaper, and during the unpropitious years of the Carter recession, I was constantly trying to generate enough revenue in advertising to pay the folks working for me. One of the first journals I started was right in the middle of those tumultuous times when every work week was a struggle. One entry reads: “January 20, George came by and wanted to know how business was doing. I told him to keep his fingers crossed that I would have the bank payment next week.” George was my banker at Wachovia, before they were taken over by Wells Fargo during their own hard times. The loan was on money I had borrowed to help start the paper. Interest, 8 percent, floating. Before the loan was settled, I was paying 21 percent to my good friend George and Wachovia Bank.

I chuckled to myself. “Reminder, never borrow money to start a newspaper.” The newspaper remained viable, along with other ancillary businesses, for 17 years before it was sold and I escaped the responsibility of a weekly payroll.

The journals I started during that period mostly pertained to hunting, fishing and camping experiences, dates, weather and other observations. Brief and to the point.

The missives are stacked in the bookcase in no particular order, so I glanced briefly at the year and moved on. One thing I discovered was that my years always started in March, not January. The seasons for hunting, fishing and camping described my yearly doings. A good example: March was the planning month, a time to put away hunting gear and get ready for fishing. Spring would be turkey hunting and camping, hiking and more fishing. In the summer, July and August brought along more laid-back camping and fishing. September, October, November, December, January and February were for bird hunting, duck hunting and late fall surf fishing. Then comes March and the cycle starts again.

Some of the journals have more entries than others, and some are right eloquent in describing the events of the day, such as “Shot three Canada geese while Bryan was parking the truck.” Or, “Bryan stepped in over his waders in the marsh at Hester’s. As he was falling, he hollered, ‘I’m going in.’” Hester’s duck hunting club at Mattamuskeet is one of the finest in the country. We hunted there numerous times and got a lot of fun out of Bryan Pennington, a good hunting buddy.

Another entry was set in motion by my good friend and sidekick John Vernon. It read, “When we paddled up the river to the location of the Haw River blind, it was gone.” Off and on the summer before the fall duck season, John and I had built the finest duck blind on the lake. A major rainstorm, right before legal duck shooting, washed the blind downriver and we never saw it again. We still laugh about that, vowing never to waste time on a permanent blind again.

I continued to browse, and remembering the recent snow, pulled out the one from January 2000. That was the month of what became known as the great blizzard. According to the notes I made, over 28 inches of snow fell. And that led to the first ever bulldog edition of The Pilot.

Moore County was a disaster. The snow started early that afternoon, forecast to be only 4 to 5 inches. Publisher David Woronoff and I met at lunch when the snow first started falling, and he decided to let the employees go home early before it got too deep. Little did we know that the weather people had totally missed it. That night we were smothered in sleet, ice and snow.

The writing in the journal continued, “Pine trees down everywhere, had a hard time getting to the office.” I was the only one at the paper who had a four-wheel drive vehicle, and after trying different routes, I found one that wasn’t blocked by fallen trees. David also made it, along with a few other much-needed employees. He decided to put out a bulldog edition (old newspaper jargon meaning a rare and very infrequent publication, usually before the regular printing). It detailed the disastrous results of the storm.

Our carriers couldn’t deliver the paper, so we split up the county. Dennis, our circulation director, took the area toward Pinehurst. David, Southern Pines and nearby hotels and motels. I did the same toward Aberdeen, and we hand-delivered the four-page section. I ended that episode of the journal, “No power for 6 days.”

The journals rolled right along until last year. My grandfather always told me there were no bad times in life. It just depended on how you interpreted them. I believed that until 2024. For me, there is no redeeming factor in that annum.

One bad time after another followed me that year. First, a knee replacement. A good call in the end, but recovery time was longer than I anticipated. My brother passed away after a lingering deadly disease, then I was diagnosed in late summer with a debilitating aliment that would lay me low for several months and put a crimp in my lifestyle.

It turns out that my granddad was right, though. After I changed my attitude about my sickness and began looking at it like an adventure, things started to fall in place.

I met wonderful folks, health care professionals and patients. The health care industry deserves a feature all its own, and someday I plan to write that story. The patients, what can I say? Never before have I run across such optimism and value of life.

A great example was the afternoon we were leaving after an appointment. Linda was outside the hospital getting the car from valet parking, and I was sitting on a bench inside the lobby. A wheelchair rolled up beside me with a shrunken old man holding on with some apprehension. He and I talked. He was from New Zealand and was getting ready to head home on a morning plane. He had a wonderful smile, and after a short conversation, he and his caregiver headed for the sliding door. I wished him well.

“No worries,” he said. “Me and Jesus be mates.”

On the last page at the end of the empty journal I had designated for 2024, I added the caption. “To Be Continued.”