Lynn mentioned his childhood memories and it got me to thinking. When I was a little kid we lived on a dryland farm in the 4-Corners area. There was a small pond that had been built by the Anasazi and improved by the pioneers. It drained a large area of caprock and would be full in the spring. It would go dry sometimes in the late summer but the frogs would always be there the next spring. We bent straight pins and tied them to yarn and the yarn to a willow. We would "bait" with a little piece of red cloth. Dangle it in front of a frog and it would snarf it up. Sorta like fly fishing for frogs. We did try our fishing rods with baitholder hooks that we used to catch mountain trout. But the barbs made it hard to get the frogs off and it was strictly catch and release. We preferred the barbless pins.
One time we went to a bigger pond on my grandfather's west forty. The whole family went along and we had a frog-leg fry over a campfire. They were delicious, and yes, they tasted like chicken.
When we moved to irrigated country when I was in fifth grade we had a pond and a big irrigation ditch with plenty of frogs. I graduated to hunting them then. I still remember the copper glint of the BB as it flew through the bright sun toward it's target. I had to aim low and to the left, so I could clearly see the frog as it floated on the surface of the pond or rested on the bank of the ditch. One time I took one of my victims home and put it in my underwear drawer (why did we do dumb things like that when we were young?). Anyway, the next time I opened the drawer the frog had come back to life! That was just about the last time I engaged in senseless killing like that.
One time we went to a bigger pond on my grandfather's west forty. The whole family went along and we had a frog-leg fry over a campfire. They were delicious, and yes, they tasted like chicken.
When we moved to irrigated country when I was in fifth grade we had a pond and a big irrigation ditch with plenty of frogs. I graduated to hunting them then. I still remember the copper glint of the BB as it flew through the bright sun toward it's target. I had to aim low and to the left, so I could clearly see the frog as it floated on the surface of the pond or rested on the bank of the ditch. One time I took one of my victims home and put it in my underwear drawer (why did we do dumb things like that when we were young?). Anyway, the next time I opened the drawer the frog had come back to life! That was just about the last time I engaged in senseless killing like that.
The older I get the more I would rather be considered a good man than a good fisherman.