BACKROADS AND BOBTAILS
FORGETTING: THE STORY OF MY LIFE
by Bob Kornegay

When a person has a penchant for forgetting, age and infirmity cannot always be blamed. Forgetting things has been a mainstay of my life for as long as I can (shall I say it?)remember.

From the age when my parents somehow got the weird notion that I was old enough to assume some measure of responsibility, I have sought to prove there is nothing worth remembering that cannot be forgotten. I'm always, for example, forgetting where I left my truck keys. My doctor says this is a minor thing. The big deal, he says, is when I start forgetting what the keys are for. Not yet, thank goodness.

I once walked out of a department store changing room having forgotten my pants, the pair I took in to try on as well as the ones I took off. I've told that story here before, and it's no less humiliating now.

Writing things down is not helpful, so don't bother suggesting it. I've tried it. My lists are always first on my lists of things to remember and, alas, I never do.

Where forgetfulness and the outdoor life is concerned, I don't own a single piece of sporting equipment I have not, at one time or another, left behind.

Where hunting is concerned, can there be anything more frustrating than embarking on a hunt without one's gun? You bet. Try suddenly discovering, in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, that you left your bullets back at camp. It isn't wise, friends, to sneak within 35 yards of a large black bear with an unloaded rifle.

During a south Georgia deer hunt, the humiliation is the same, but at least there's the consolation that an 8-point buck isn't likely to eat you for breakfast. On the other hand, should you forget to tighten the cap on your bottle of doein heat buck lure and it spills in your pocket.. Well, never mind that image.

During dove season, I normally forget that an early fall day in the South is not normally cool and crisp, no matter how the writers of classic outdoor prose describe it. Invariably, I wind up shucking my camouflage coveralls to find I've donned a blaze orange tee shirt underneath. I have two options. I can die from heatstroke or be shot by irate fellow hunters as I spook birds for miles around.

It gets no better on fishing trips. When I leave my home state, I invariably forget to purchase nonresident fishing licenses. When this happens, of course, every conservation officer in whatever state is attending an on-the-job convention on whatever lake I have chosen to fish.

I'm also bad to forget ice. Just imagine a limit of bluegills crammed into an iceless box on the hottest day in July. The resulting fumes asphyxiate small animals and cause women, children, and other innocent creatures to flee in horror as I approach the dock.

Once, on a trot lining excursion, I forgot the bait shad I had stored in my freezer. Did you ever divide a can of Vienna sausages into pieces small enough to bait 150 trot line hooks?

I once missed hunting season altogether when the combination to my gun safe slipped my mind until April. My chest waders leak like a sieve because I never remember not to store them tightly folded. One year, as a young parent, I went out during "Take A Kid Fishing Week" and forgot my son.

Fortunately, my forgetfulness has never caused me nor anyone else any really serious problems, and I don't right now foresee that it ever will. However, I continue to live in terror over the possibility that the time may come when I venture out and once again forget that most vital outdoor necessity of all: biodegradable toilet tissue.

You'll best understand that concern if you've ever forgotten what poison ivy leaves look like.