BOB KORNEGAY: A letter to Luther

Dear Friend Luther,

I have not received word from you directly, but gossip conveys that you have lately been dissatisfied with my literary efforts. A reliable source informs me that you are miffed over my giving such subjects as duck hunting, deer hunting, and trophy bass fishing so much attention in my recent columns and feature articles. You have even begun surreptitiously urging others (being afraid, I suppose, to confront me yourself) to call me up and say nasty things on your behalf.

That reminds me of my wife, who asks me to phone someone and then stands over my shoulder to command, “Tell him to…” or “Tell her I said…” Rather aggravating, wouldn’t you say?

Well, Luther, if I were Cletus Monroe, a man given to vociferous outbursts of wild profanity, I would hereby turn this week’s column from black and white to the deepest blue with the cursing someone so inclined might lay upon you. But I shall not, being the dignified sporting gentleman I am.

Are you aware, dear Luther, that there are 52 weeks in a year? Potential glitches notwithstanding, that translates into, I believe, 52 outdoors columns (among other journalistic masterpieces) I must annually produce. In those, I might be able to devote but three or four to the subject matter you seem to prefer. After those essays, articles, etc., what else am I to write about save deer, ducks, bass, and other areas most outdoorsmen find somewhat interesting? Quail, hogs, and sharks, perhaps? Please recall that you have no interest in those wildlife species either.

You see, my friend (and I truly hate to burst your very constricted bubble), there is just so much an outdoor scribe can write concerning your outdoor-interest areas. Frankly, four-inch bream, six-inch catfish and the pursuit thereof do not command a lot of readers’ attention these days. Granted, such subject matter is pertinent every now and then when the angler in question is a pre-pubescent youngster striking a cherubic pose on a creek bank while grinning broadly and proudly with his equally pre-pubescent fish. That’s cute human interest, after all.

But, Luther, you, like me, are now an official senior citizen. You are no longer pre-pubescent (I hope) and Lord knows it’s been a long time since you were remotely cherubic. As for any grin that might manifest itself in a well-taken photograph, the gap-toothed smile of a peach-flavored snuff dipper is not exactly what most editors consider a publish-worthy image. This is not to mention the purple face caused from your holding in a rather “ample” breadbasket.

And what might we use for a caption if such an illustration were possible? “Here is Luther with a three-finger bream?” Followed by next week’s, “Here is Luther with a six-inch catfish?” Maybe, “Here is Luther extracting a hook from his finger?”

Even if I did consent to give more play to the subjects you have in mind, is there any guarantee you could supply the material needed for a truly gripping story? Don’t I recall, for instance, the last time you and I fished together?

If memory serves, Luther, you caught exactly, er, nothing that trip. Not even one fish the size of which you profess to be so fond. Nada, Zip, Zero, Zilch. What’s the caption in that event? “Here is Luther with a bare hook?” Or maybe, “Here is Luther untangling his line which he wrapped around a tree limb after missing yet another three-finger bream which is the biggest fish he ever catches when he is lucky enough to catch a fish at all?”

So there, Mr. Critic. Perhaps that’ll teach you to think before you once again raise the ire of such a great and respected outdoor scribe. Never suspected you’d make it into print this way, I bet.

And by the way, old buddy, just one more thing. If you’ll remember to charge the battery, I need to borrow your boat this weekend.

Your’n,

Bob

Email outdoors columnist Bob Kornegay at [email protected].