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Editor’s Note: Last week, I questioned readers of the the Oklahoman’s outdoors page for their most memorable Christmas tales about a special gift or hunting or fishing trip. the following Christmas tales are both funny and poignant.
A Christmas duck hunt to remember
I’ll never forget a certain Christmas duck hunt in a slough along the Arkansas River near Spiro. I tripped in some brambles and fell, face first, into a patch of stickups.
My left nostril happened to align perfectly, and the force of my fall rammed one of the stobs deep up my nose. I rose, tears spraying from my eyes, a broken stick protruding from my schnoz, and began the slow inch-by-inch extraction.
In spite of the medical episode that ensued, it’s a holiday story now laughingly remembered by my in-laws as “Season’s Bleedings.”
Steve Wagner, Norman
A ‘key’ rite of passage
It was 1985, and I was a high school sophomore with a groundbreaking new driver’s license. I was bit with the hunting bug a couple of years before that, and my new leisure activity quickly became an obsession.
My dad didn’t hunt much after starting a family but regardless was still a fantastic teacher and mentor to me. the year before that, he joined a small lease outside my hometown of Stillwater with a couple of his friends strictly so he would have a place to take me.
But as all teenagers stretch their wings a small, I was also of the age where I was longing for my independence. Dad was fantastic about taking me, but I still felt like a small kid instead of the adult I so much wanted to be considered as.
I admit I was a small taken back when the only Christmas present that year for me was a white envelope with my name on it. I’ll never forget when I opened it up and found a folded legal size document.
It was the hunting lease agreement and it listed ME as full partner lessee. and there inside the letter was even my very own gate key!
I’m still to this day filled with emotion thinking about that moment. It was without a doubt one of those pivotal moments in life that changes everything.
Without saying a word, my parents were demonstrating to me that I had earned a key rite of passage — in their eyes I was now an adult (or close to it anyway).
For many years after that, I continued to get a white envelope for Christmas. Lease partners came and went, but I stayed on that lease for nearly 20 years, taking my first deer on it and honing my hunting skills with each passing season. I learned invaluable lessons about ethics, sportsmanship and about being a responsible steward of the land.
I’ll forever be grateful to my parents for the measure of faith and trust they expressed for me that Christmas. It was one that truly changed my life.
Todd Craighead, host of the Outdoor Oklahoma television show
Excellent things come to those that wait
My wife Gail was quite the tomboy. so much so that I imagine the character “Scout” in to Kill a Mockingbird as what Gail was like at an early age.
When Gail was 5 years ancient, the only thing she wanted for Christmas was a Red Ryder BB gun. but she received a pair of pearl earrings instead.
Gail was so upset at not getting the Red Ryder that she threw the pearl earrings out of the car window while the family was driving to Grandpa’s that afternoon.
Small did she know that the BB gun was wrapped and waiting for her at Grandpa’s. She finally got the BB gun toward the end of March.
Mike Shutrump, Yukon
Rabbits for Christmas
This time of year always reminds me of a Christmas many years ago when I was in the military. I was stationed a long way from home with not enough leave or money to go anywhere, much less home to my family.
Most everyone else was gone for Christmas except for one buddy and me, both of us expecting to ship out for Southeast Asia any day. we were feeling sorry for ourselves and being avid hunters, started thinking about how good fried rabbit would taste.
The more we thought about it, the more homesick we got. Getting fried rabbit through the chow hall would be a joke. but the base did have a rec office where we could check out gear for our own use.
Our plan was to get a couple of AR7 rifles (over-and-under survival guns with a 22 Hornet on top and a .410 on bottom), a Coleman stove and assorted camp cook gear, then shoot a brace of rabbits for Christmas dinner.
We would bring them back to the barracks, fry ‘em up and eat like kings! the only snag was the best hunting was right in the final glide path of B52s and F4s (huge bombers and jet fighters). the area was off limits. It was lousy with cottontails, but MPs patrolled it on a regular basis.
Being young and fresh out of escape-and-evasion training, my buddy and I decided the extra challenge of avoiding MPs would add even more flavor to the adventure. but as the first patrol came by that Christmas Eve, I’ve never been so frightened in my life.
I just knew I was going to spend Christmas in the stockade, all because of the memory of fried rabbit. but when the day ended we still had our freedom — along with fried rabbit and all the trimmings.
To this day it was the best Christmas dinner I ever ate.
Gary Giudice, Norman
Dreaming of a boat
When I was about 6 years ancient, I was already dreaming about having a boat.
For Christmas that year my mom and dad got me a two-man yellow rubber raft. It was a dream come right.
I slept in it the first few nights, and my mom still has the pictures. I got to paddle around the farm pond and fish all I wanted to.
Edwin Evers, professional bass angler from Talala
No one shot their eye out
My story starts before Christmas 1963. all I wanted as an 8-year-ancient that year was a Daisy 1894 BB gun and a hunting knife so I could be like all the other cowboys I watched on TV. I am sure I bugged my mom and dad to no end.
Well, on Christmas morning at around 2:30 a.m. small Jim was under the tree holding his new Daisy 1894 and knife. Small did I know that Santa’s helpers had just climbed back into bed and had heard me under the tree.
When Mom came into the room, I was hiding behind my Dad’s huge chair, holding on for dear life to my new 1894 and knife. Mom agreed to let me take the 1894 and knife back to bed if I wouldn’t wake up my two older sisters. since I had the two items I wanted, I agreed.
I learned as I got older that Mom had spent the rest of that night laying awake in bed, frightened that I was going to roll over on the knife and hurt myself.
I must say, I shot the heck out of that 1894, so much so that I sent it back to Daisy three different times. each time Daisy sent me a new 1894 which I still have. the knife, I have no thought where it went. I just know my two kids both shot my ancient 1894.
Jim Treadaway, Woodward
A Christmas beagle not named Snoopy
My most memorable Christmas gift of all time is an simple one. It came fully assembled with four legs and greeted me with magical disbelief 29 years ago.
It was December 25, 1982. I was 12, a barely legal hunter, fresh off proudly passing my hunter safety course exam — a rite of passage indeed for any outdoor obsessed youngster.
I had a single shot H&R 20-gauge and a passion for hunting rabbits with my dad that would have made Elmer Fudd proud. there was one thing missing: a dog. Specifically, a beagle to root the rabbits out of the briar patches and thick brush.
As a somewhat shy, respectful, understanding only child, I did my best to graciously accept the certainty, that while I had pleaded my heart for a hunting dog, there was no way Mom and Dad were going to get me a dog — let alone a curious, not always the brightest breed in the world, beagle.
We already had a Siberian Husky. so I was certain that another dog wasn’t in the works. but still I could dream.
And really, isn’t that what the magic of Christmas is all about? the biblically connected subconscious belief, even in my young mind, that in some miraculous fashion — a beagle pup might really come walking in with its white-tipped tail wagging on Christmas morning.
And such was the case there on Christmas morning, 1982. the last non-miraculous gift got unwrapped and I faked my way through a ‘thanks for the gifts – that was fantastic’ – while they knew what I was really thinking – that a new clock radio pales in comparison to what I really wanted … a beagle pup.
Then, just as the last fake expression of joy left my face – Christmas came– in the form of a four-legged, nose-to-the-ground female beagle pup we later named Daisy.
Fact is, she never was a fantastic hunter, but nearly 30 years later, she still serves as my greatest Christmas gift ever.
Alan McGuckin, Lake Skiatook
The Easter bunny might have been next
Christmas Eve day, 1992, my nephew and I were hunting for deer near my brother-in-law’s house. I had just entered the small patch of woods when a 4-point buck jumped up in front of me.
Using a Model 1100 Remington 12 gauge loaded with No. 1 buckshot, I fired two shots. I hit him solid in the shoulder. at least I thought I did. He ran toward the house, crossing a small field and fell dead in the side yard.
The relatives heard the shots and looked out the windows and saw the deer run and fall. They immediately exited the house, looking at the deer and then me as I came walking toward it.
One of my small nephews said, “Mama, look! Uncle Harry has killed Rudolph!” everyone laughed.
I have never hunted again since that day. I turned to fishing, all the time. and with my luck I will probably run over Flipper while boating to a fishing spot.
Harry Potts, Ozark, Ala.
More than just a piece of plastic
My family was in the midst of opening presents and the calamity of a typical Christmas morning. Buried amidst the pile of shredded wrapping paper and bows was the smallest, yet last of the gifts – MINE!
I tore through the wrapping paper like I was a child again only to be brought back to reality by what my eyes beheld – a Bass Pro Shops gift card. my kids howled with laughter, wishing me a Merry Christmas and hours of fun with my piece of plastic, with the misunderstanding that a gift was useless unless it had batteries in it.
I was thankful for the gift card, content in putting it into my pocket and spending valuable time with my wife and kids the rest of Christmas Day.
Months pass and I forgot that I even had my gift card. It was summer and warm evenings brought opportunities to get outside and fish farm ponds around Oklahoma, the best time to place that simplistic piece of plastic to use.
With minimal convincing, my son Mason deemed it necessary we head to Bass Pro Shops to pick up new tackle to ensure successful fishing. we spent what seemed like an eternity in Oklahoma City looking at the essentials that every father and son should have in their tackle boxes.
We scoured over aisles and aisles of Biffle O’s, Hula Poppers, floating Rapalas, Jitterbugs and plastic worms in every color of the rainbow. each different lure brought a memory of mine to light, potentially helping my son know the depth of how largemouth bass can change a person’s life forever.
Cool June winds one evening brought an opportunity for Mason and me to get out and place our new lures to the proverbial test. we had access to our friends’ aluminum boat, so we took full advantage of the fishing endeavor.
As we motored out to our first spot on the pond, my son questioned, “What should we fish, Dad?” I gave him the autonomy he so desired at age 7 and answered, “The water is warm, so the bass will be more active than spring. What do you reckon, son?”
We had recently read a feature in the Sunday Oklahoman about the Biffle O and its tournament successes. the Biffle O it was. having never fished the lure, Mason assertively convinced me to follow his lead.
The poor bass had never seen anything like that lure. we lost count of the fish we caught and released! As the sun began to set that evening, I introduced my son to the art of top water plugs. we both tied on Hula Poppers and cast toward the weed edges near the bank.
I was in the midst of explaining to Mason about letting the motion rings dissipate away from the popper when the unimaginable happened — WHAM! the water exploded from below and a monster bass flew out of the water higher than the edge of the boat!
We both momentarily froze in disbelief before coming to our senses. I set the hook as he ran with the Hula Popper and handed my rod to my son. “Your turn Mason,” I told him.
Mason grabbed the rod and held on for his dear life. “Keep your rod tip up, up, up! That bass is going to make a run under the boat,” I exclaimed. the monster shot under the boat as my son kept fighting.
With one last pass, the bass blasted out of the water again revealing its imposing yellow eyes and shook the Hula Popper right out of its mouth into the boat.
It came to rest right between my son and me. we both stared at each other in utter disbelief. after what seemed like an eternity of silence, we simultaneously erupted into laughter.
It was at that moment that I realized how special that gift card from my wife really was. That simple small gift card had transformed itself into the greatest Christmas present a father could ever question for — a priceless moment with his son that would undoubtedly last forever.
Blaine Matray, Blanchard
Christmas birds and bass
Christmas and the outdoors have always been a part of my life. Our family tradition has always been to open presents and have all the family together for Christmas dinner that night. Obviously, that left Christmas Day to hunt and fish.
At 10 or 11 years ancient, I was ancient enough to carry a shotgun. all of those early Christmas days were spent with my dad and uncles walking miles behind pointers and shooting quail.
In those days, you could only hunt quail on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday plus any holiday. Christmas was always an “open day” for quail. That’s where I learned to wing shoot.
We had lots of quail in Oklahoma back then, and I can remember lots of Christmas’s with a 5-gallon bucket full of bobwhites.
When we moved to Lake Tenkiller as a teenager, a lot of Christmas days were spent crappie fishing. I did most of that from the bank. Living there allowed me to know how to get to all the good bluff areas where we had planted cedar trees for crappie and bass structure.
I remember one Christmas day a few years later when Jerry Rhoton — the guy who invented the “Small Tubby” crank bait sold by Storm — and I bass fished all day in sub-freezing weather. It was in the low teens all day.
I had an aluminum boat with a 20hp Mercury motor. we had no live well, so we stringered all our bass! we caught about a dozen that day on jig and eel and slow rolled spinnerbaits. It was before catch and release so we kept ‘em all.
Amusing thing was, every time we moved to a new spot, the bass would freeze solid in the bottom of that aluminum boat. When we place the stringer back in the water, the bass would come back alive!
Jerry took the bass home to Tulsa in the back of his pickup. Again, they froze solid in the two hour drive only to come back alive when he thawed ‘em out in the sink!
Outdoors television personality Jimmy Houston, Cookson
The joy is in the hunt
My like for the fantastic outdoors began at age 3 or 4 on a red-dirt country lane east of Amber when my grandfather invited me on a gorgeous spring day to walk with him to the pasture to bring in the cows for the evening milk.
I stuck my hand into his while we walked and he talked. at the bottom of the hill where the lane ended was a pink budding tree at the edge of the pasture.
Suddenly and without warning, a covey of birds flushed a few feet from us. I recall initial panic, followed by exhilaration when Grandpa told me they were “just birds.”
That gorgeous late afternoon and the wild speedy birds furnished a memorable joy that still comes to mind during hunts. a few years later, during a week in early November, my dad talked of an upcoming duck hunt at Chickasha Lake, north of my hometown of Verden.
Three of his farmer buddies had built a duck hunting blind and were to be there early Saturday morning before the sun rose. It sounded like a terribly exciting adventure. I got a “we’ll see” to my request to go and just watch.
I was 13 years ancient. By Friday, dad had wearily relented as a result of my constant nagging to be taken along. It was a cold morning and we dressed for it.
Dad brought a thermos of coffee and a borrowed shotgun and we were off. When we found the blind, his buddies, with their wooden decoys already floating on the lake, were settling into the baled hay blind that easily accommodated the four hunters and small me.
They drank coffee and Dad told tales of adventures past. I remember the excitement. As first light approached, Jack McClain and Andrew Handke advised of the timing of the beginning of the shoot and offered their opinions on how the ducks could best be taken. I was hooked.
Christmas was coming. I talked to the family of future hunts with my own shotgun, implying not so subtlety that a gun would make a fantastic Christmas present for a teenager.
Dad answered only that Winchester had a new lightweight, fiberglass barrel gun. I offered to pay half the cost from my paper route earnings (nearly three months work. however my parents, particularly my mother, were unresponsive to my pleas, suggesting not this Christmas but maybe in a few years.
Some afternoons after I completed my daily paper route, I stopped at the grain elevator where dad worked. I loved talking with the farmers who dropped by to spit and whittle.
One such afternoon, a few days after the duck hunt, Garvin McComas, the local game ranger, was seated among the spitters or the whittlers (I am not sure) in the outer offices where they congregated.
He became the victim of my quest to become a bird hunter. I had lots of questions but was disappointed that he did not give me the secret of shooting birds in flight.
Instead, he talked of gun safety – when to load and shoot and how to safely cross a fence with a shotgun.
Christmas 1959 was a happy one and I still hunt with my most treasured Christmas present: a Model 59, 12-gauge Winchester, three-shot automatic with fiberglass and steel barrel and gold trigger guard.
The fiberglass outer barrel is field worn but I have refinished the stock many times, often annually in the early years.
The gun has accompanied me for many years during ever exhilarating joys of quail or pheasant on the rise and the satisfaction of days spent in the field – sometimes with my younger brother Don, sometimes with my buddies and sometimes with my dog and sometimes just alone with the beauty of the pasture, the day and the thrill of the hunt.
Today, there are not many quail in the southwestern Oklahoma pastures and it seems more often that there are none. but the sport still holds for me the anticipation that I might flush a quail and that I might even hit it.
The success of hunting and the joy of the outdoors is not in the downed game, though satisfying, but in the hunt.
Wayne Dabney, Chickasha
The gift that kept on giving
As dawn broke on Christmas morning in 1974, two brothers – ages 16 and 14 – mumbled and stumbled down the stairs to a large breakfast spread as was our family tradition.
Past the age of believing in Santa Claus, these two teens still held fantastic expectations for Christmas because their parents had always made sure that even in tighter times, Christmas was a fantastic celebration of the birth of Christ and also a fantastic time to be in this family.
As the sleep was wiped from their eyes, fog cleared from their brains, even the eggs, ham, waffles and homemade biscuits and sausage gravy could not hold their complete attention.
As was always the case, the stockings that had hung on the fireplace mantel for a month, void of anything but air, were now bursting at the seams with goodies left by the “huge man” who we now knew was mom.
We knew that there would be socks, briefs, Hershey’s Kisses and a suction tipped dart pistol. These were the standards for stocking stuffing from my youth through present times. like I said, TRADITION.
My baby sister, who knew there really was a Santa, couldn’t sit still, so I left my second helping of biscuits and gravy with a sausage and moseyed to the living room for the unveiling.
Stockings first, that’s the rule, so we dug through the plentiful bounty that Santa hung by the chimney with care. thanks were given to Santa, while looking at mom, for all the fantastic stuff we really needed.
Now for the pinnacle, the apex, the ultimate, the zenith, the piece de resistance, we turned our attention to “The Tree.”
Mounds of boxes and bags deftly wrapped in paper covered with silver bells and images of Christmas trees, ornaments and tinsel.
The youngest, my sister, began to move the gifts from under and around the tree to the family. Dad got one that was long and tubular. Mom got one very small but wrapped by someone very good.
My sister was making a haul. her pile grew exponentially. She would stack, and I use that word liberally, her gifts two at a time. all the while my small brother and I sat empty handed, shooting each other with our dart guns.
Then, from the near abyss of giftless depression, I heard my sister say, here’s two for Bob and Bill. My ears perked, my heart leapt, my depression evaporated into a cloud of exhilaration.
The two identically wrapped boxes were about the size of a shoe box but we could instantly tell it was a good gift because my sister was having problems carrying them to us.
They were heavy, very heavy. my mind raced through all the things that could be lurking behind the red paper sporadically showing Christmas trees topped with snow.
My sister passed out the remaining gifts but I didn’t notice because my mind was really enwrapped in solving the mystery of the small, heavy box. another tradition was to hold all the gifts until the last one was passed out, which we did that year as well.
When dad gave thanks to God, and of course Santa, my mind couldn’t focus on the prayer for waiting for Amen. As soon as my father closed the Christmas prayer, my mother very quickly blurted, “Boys save the heavy ones for last.”
I was crushed. Obviously this gift held fantastic value to my folks because the look from dad cemented the thought that mom’s request was really a command.
We dug in and opened various gifts all fantastic in their own right, but my mind was glued to the small, heavy box.
Finally after what felt like years had passed, dad gave us the “thumbs up” which was the sign to proceed with the unveiling of the small, heavy box.
The events that transpired in the next few seconds are a bit fuzzy and if I were honest, I probably was a small bit disappointed in the gift.
But my parents had huge smiles on their faces and I loved them so very much that I place on a happy face and jumped up to hug both of them. but the climax of the gift in 1974 was a small disheartening because of expectations of the small, heavy box.
As the years have advanced, that small, heavy box became the greatest Christmas gift I have ever gotten. It was so fantastic, that for my son’s fourth Christmas he got the same small, heavy box.
In the box, taped to a red brick, was a Oklahoma lifetime hunting and fishing license – the gift that I have used every year since.
That gift cost my parents $125, a fortune in 1974, but its worth to me can be measured in the thousands and thousands of dollars.
That gift is truly the gift that kept on giving and if the Lord is willing, will continue to give for many more years.
Bob Lillard, Duncan
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