IF YOU DIDN'T BRING JERKY, WHAT DID I JUST EAT?
Author: Bill Heavey
Publisher: RUNNING PRESS, Nov 2007
Misadventures in Hunting, Fishing, & the Wilds of Suburbia. Heavey is a master at blending humor & pathos. Funny, warmhearted, & supremely entertaining, this book is an uproarious addition to the literature of the outdoors. 6x9 Inches; 288 pgs.
Misadventures in Hunting, Fishing, and the Wilds of Suburbia
For nearly a decade, Bill Heavey, an outdoorsman marooned in suburbia, has written the Sportsmans Life column on the back page of Field & Stream, where he does for hunting & fishing what David Feherty does for golf & Lewis Grizzard did for the South. His work is adored by readersone proclaims him the greatest sportswriter who has ever walked the planet, & another recently wrote in to nominate him for president of the United States in 2008& his peers have recognized his work with two prestigious National Magazine Award nominations. If You Didnt Bring Jerky, What Did I Just Eat? is the first collection of Heaveys sidesplitting observations on life as a hardcore (but often hapless) outdoorsman. Whether hes hunting cougars in the southwest desert, scheming to make his five-year-old daughter fall in love with fishing, or chronicling his fathers slow decline through the lens of the numerous dogs hes owned over seventy-five years, Heavey is a master at blending humor & pathos& wide-ranging outdoor enthusiasms that run the gamut from elite to ordinaryinto a poignant & potent cocktail. Funny, warmhearted, & supremely entertaining, this book is an uproarious addition to the literature of the outdoors.
From The Bonehead:
Saying bonefishing in the Bahamas to the average flyfisherman is a little like saying naked touch football with Jessica Simpson to the average adolescent male. The eyes glaze over, the face assumes a dreamy expression, & drool may begin to form. Having just returned from three days of this exact experience (fishing, not the other one), I can report that it was indeed memorable.
From Dog Years:
My fathers mind is slipping away, cell by cell, & as the architecture fragments & falls, he often speaks of dogs. George didnt come home last night, he says when I come over for Sunday dinner. I kiss him & sit at the foot of the bed he can no longer leave unaided. He lies back against the pillows, staring anxiously at the faint cracks in the ceiling plaster, as if he might find an answer there if only he could remember the question.
Its okay, Dad, I lie. George was at the front door when I showed up. Hes asleep in the basement right now. George, the first dog our family had, died 35 years ago.
Well, thats good, he says.
This, Ive learned, is how the mind unravels. . .