Wilson Post Blogs

By JOHN L. SLOAN
They had many names when I was growing up. We called them specs, short for speckled perch. Bream perch and chinquapins and shell crackers were bluegill in some areas. The names just varied depending on what variety of perch we were catching. What I am referring to are fish we call crappie and bluegills here. Over most of the South, they are just referred to as perch.

Now you talk about fun to catch, mister, I mean to tell you they are. Dave Thornhill called me a few days ago and the talk reminded me of how much fun I use to have catching bluegill on Center Hill. The method I used was dissimilar to the way he catches bluegill.

New Orleans Saints quarterback Drew Brees joined the thousands who showed up to mourn and honor the life of Junior Seau with a paddle out on surfboards in the ocean in front of Seau’s Oceanside home.

They chanted Seau’s number, the 55 that was on his jersey throughout his 20 years with the Chargers, Dolphins and Patroits.

Seau died in his house after a self-inflicted gunshot wound to his chest. Two days earlier he had played in a charity golf tournament where he was the jovial, accommodating Junior Seau fans instantly connected with and loved.

The family is growing close to making a decision that would allow researchers at Boston University’s School of Medicine to study the impact that multiple concussions have on NFL players’ brains.

Seau is the third former NFL player to commit suicide in recent years. Researchers suspect a link between concussions and depression and dementia/Alzheimer’s disease.

By RAY POPE 

It’s always nice to run into old friends from the Elsie Quarterman Glade Festival, formally known as the Wildflower Pilgramage. This was my 38th year of doing programs on birds and owls. Many of the people who worked on the first one are still active.

My friend Ron Zurawski, who is the State Geologist, has been to all of the geology programs but one, and that was when his wife Angie gave birth to their daughter Melody Zurawski. Melody is going to college in Utah, and I really miss her coming to my Owl Prowl. While having dinner with the Zurawski's, Melody called and asked me if I would give her an Owl hoot for old time’s sake, which I was happy to do.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
A few  weeks ago, I was asked to write another column of nostalgic fiction. The person commented on how much “Sharp as a Memory”, jogged his memory. It has taken until this week to get the story “sitiated” in my head and transmitted to my fingers. This is partially fiction, partially fact. You may decide which is which.

Now we will see what the Nashville Predators are made of.

They find themselves on the short end of a 2-0 deficit in the best-of-seven series with Phoenix.

Losing the first two games of the series wasn’t easy for the Preds. They just made it look that way.

They managed to lose the first game in overtime after outplaying the Coyotes all over the stat sheet. In a must-win Game 2, the Preds left their defense at the team hotel as they allowed Phoenix to score five goals in a series in which hockey analysts predicted would be a low-scoring affair due to outstanding credentials of both teams’ goalies.

It has been a real trying weekend. Wanda Walker's dad passed away this past Wednesday night, and I have been at the funeral home most of the weekend. Please keep her and her family in your prayers.

I finally got my paws on some chicken feathers to attract the Tree Swallows to my nesting box. I had racked my brain, trying to locate some, then it came to me as to where I could find them. I was calling my good friend, Haskell Evans, who is a farmer and also sells produce at the farmers market, to ask what his favorite tomato was. Pink Girl and Bradleys were number one and number two on his list. I also remembered that he sold fresh country eggs and put two and two together, which added up to having chickens and, of course, feathers.

Besides religion, politics and sex there’s one more hot button issue that should be added to that list of taboo topics never discussed in mixed company. Not war. Not equal pay. Not even the latest shocking elimination on Dancing with the Stars. Nope, it’s breastfeeding. I understand that because this word actually includes part of the female anatomy some would argue it falls under the ‘sex’ category but trust me it’s shouldn’t.

When my oldest child was born, I had every intention of doing things the ‘right’ way. No television, strict feeding and sleeping schedule, classical music piped in the nursery daily, cloth diapers and because all the books and medical research proved that breastfeeding would make my little genius even smarter and healthier, I would breastfeed for at least a year. After six months and 6 brand new razor sharp teeth emerged, I decided to quit.

So Kentucky’s national championship team scattered to the winds after hoisting the trophy.

So what?

All five starters – three freshmen, two sophomores – declared for the upcoming NBA Draft. That included National Player of the Year Anthony Davis.

Cats Coach John Calipari never shed a tear. Instead, he was a proud papa at their press conference, in which he participated.

Conversely, Coach Cal realizes it is today’s system and embraces it. While he says he doesn’t like the NBA rule that prohibits a player to declare for the draft until they turn 19, Calipari is miles ahead of the curve on college coaches who have not adjusted to the rule.

Calipari is King of One and Done. He sells recruits a ticket to the NBA after one year. It is not a recruiting ploy. He backs it up. Calipari pushes the baby birds out of the nest and watches them fly.

I always thought college basketball coaches had a screw loose.

See Billy Gillispie. He lost the best job in the business, Kentucky, because he had a habitual drinking problem.

Or Bruce Pearl, whose bright future at Tennessee came crashing down after he told NCAA investigators he did not recognize some people in a picture they showed him. Not only did Pearl fail to identify one of his assistant coaches, he could not identify his own house. Cheatin’ and lyin’ don’t pay. 

Another fall from grace case was Louisville’s Rick Pitino, who came close to the firing line after his sexual fling with a woman in a Louisville restaurant. It made headlines all over the country. The female went to prison, but Slick Rick managed to keep his job at the expense of his reputation.

I believe their football-coaching brethren may be catching up in the demolition derby.

Another weekend has come and gone, and my little friend next door has gotten a year older. Birthday wishes goes out to Andrew Boyd, son of Ashley Boyd, who just turned 4 years old on the April 15. It is very easy to remember his birthday because it comes on tax day each year. I hope you got yours filed.

Sitting outside this morning there were a couple of Tree Swallows checking out one of my extra Bluebird houses that was put out just for that particular species. Most of the time they are flying up above the large hay field out back, soaring back and forth with the Purple Martins, as they do their thing to decrease the insect population. That sure beats the old mosquito wagon that we older kids used to chase after on our bicycles, just to ride in the fog. Maybe, just maybe, that might account for some of my brain damage and memory loss.

From down in Central America and the southern United States, where they spend the winter, another harbinger of spring returns to Tennessee and on up to northern Alaska and Canada. The Tree Swallow (Iridoprocne bicolor) is one of the earliest of morning singers, uttering its sweet, liquid twitter as they take to the air. Now you know why they call the internet website "Twitter" after the constant twittering.

By June mated pairs have moved into tree cavities and bird boxes as far north as Alaska. The birds favor a home site in an open field where water is close by. I have that one covered. The nest is constructed with dry grass where they pile a lining of feathers, often arranging them where they will curl over the clutch of four to six white eggs. I do believe that 14 days in, the magic number in which most songbirds eggs will hatch after, she sets the clutch and another 14 till they leave the nest.

Delta wings give this bird speed and agility in flight. The Tree Swallow also has a diet that not only consists of insects, but also will dine on vegetable food and bayberries along with other fruits. Its colors consist of a snow-white breast and a dark blue back. I hope the picture I finally took will reproduce in the newspaper where you will get the full effect of its color. There should be plenty of Mulberries to tickle their palate in the coming weeks, unless the starlings strip it clean first.

Sheila Smith sent me a new picture of her Bluebird family. The tiny mouths are a bright yellow-red which prompt mom and dad to want to poke food into it. One egg did not hatch, but the parent birds leave it be to help provide support for the other hatchlings.

Dotty Kim called me this past Sunday describing to me a new bird in her yard. She perfectly gave me a description of a White-Crowned Sparrow. Dotty has really improved on her bird identification since she has moved out in the country. In the old days, she just rolled out to my house and asked, "what am I looking at?”

Here is another reminder to attend my upcoming bird program on Saturday, April 28, at 7 a.m., and later at dark-thirty an Owl Prowl. The timing is perfect to see a bunch of our Warblers and other song birds on their way north to their breeding ground. For those of you that are feeding black oil sunflower seed, keep your eyes out for Rose-breasted Grosbeak.

We would love to hear from you as to what’s lurking about in your neighborhood and at your feeders. You can e-mail Karen Franklin at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it or write me at 606 Fairview Avenue, Lebanon, TN., 37087, or e-mail me at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it

By JOHN L. SLOAN
We have had several of them, those hot spring days when things are all green and the sun gets hot about 10:30. The bass, you figure, should have moved up from the deep water. So you start in tight with a white fluke and a Pop-R. Not much. The sun is just filtering through the trees in the back of the first creek. Somewhere, a turkey gobbles. Where was he yesterday when we had a gun in hand?

We change to a GitZit on a 1/8 ounce head. Nothing. They do not want the spinner bait or worm.

Frustration is starting to set in and you tell Big Bird maybe we should have gone turkey hunting. Only one option left. I hate it. I hate throwing them and I really hate retrieving one. However, they do catch fish, crankbaits. They catch fish when nothing else works.

I woke up early this past Saturday morning and peeped out the kitchen window to see what was lurking about at my bird feeding station. There were about eight or ten individuals of two different varieties of Doves feeding on the bare spot where I put out millet on the ground. The place where my old van was parked keeps the area bare and makes it easier for my ground scratchers to locate their food.

I have not killed a turkey, only went for a few minutes one time. So, I will tell you this story.

Haunted? -- I guess just about anything can be haunted. Usually, when you think of haunted, you think of a house. But I know a lake that is haunted. I can’t tell you where it is, I am sworn to secrecy. However, it is haunted. I can tell you the story just way it came about. See, the thing is, for some reason, I seem to be attracted to places that have, I guess you say, strange occurrences-lakes, houses, canyons etc. Maybe I attract the unusual. This is about a lake, perhaps a haunted lake. Some call it Nock-e-nut. I have never known why.

It is full of crappie and bream and bass, this haunted lake stuck on an island in the middle of a swamp. It is hard to get to, as are most lakes with large fish populations. The island is several hundred acres in size, the lake in the middle, maybe 100-acres. I have fished the lake several times. It is a favorite spring lake for crappie or specs as they are called down there. I went some years ago, went just for the bass fishing. It was planned we would fish Mound Bayou, Saline and maybe Little Larto. Instead, we went to the haunted lake. Here is how it came about.

As much as a number of fans have relished Tiger Woods’ personal and professional demise, the golf world needs him.

Woods is the Babe Ruth, the Muhammad Ali of golf. He set the golf world on fire when he won his first of four green jackets, symbolic of the Masters champion. He was 21 years old and smothered the field by a whopping 12 strokes.

For years he dominated the game. When he showed up on the first tee, everyone else was playing for second. Some players publicly acknowledged it to be true.

After accruing 14 major titles, Woods’ house of cards fell on top of him like an avalanche. He was labeled an adulterer. His marriage dissolved. He lost valuable face time with his two young children. He was mocked by late-night comedians.

He is now 36 years old, beset in recent years by a variety of health issues. His knee. His Achilles. His head.

He parted ways with longtime caddie, Steve Williams. He split with swing coach Hank Haney, whose book on Woods was recently released and paints him in some unflattering lights. There is a pornographic movie released early this week that features three or four of the girls Tiger allegedly cheated on his wife with. They reveal more of whom the real Tiger Woods was, far from the Teflon-coated image constructed by his close circle of management and PR types.

He seemed rejuvenated three weeks ago when he won on the Tour for the first time since 2009, winning the Arnold Palmer Invitational by five strokes. Was this the real Tiger? Or was it fool’s gold?

Augusta National will go a long way in deciding the answer to those questions this week. It can bring even the best golfers in the world to their knees.

Woods has not won a major since the 2008 U. S. Open, which he won basically on one leg at Torrey Pines.

Woods enters a comfort zone at Augusta. It is his favorite course in the world. He knows the greens and danger spots equally well. His game appeared sound coming into this week, but golf is a sport that provides unexplained surprises just when you think you have it conquered.

The Masters champion must hold up through the final nine holes on Sunday. Even the best have tripped and fallen on their way to the green jacket ceremony. Greg Norman felt Augusta National’s wrath two years in a row.

The Australian could not stop a 46-year-old Jack Nicklaus from getting his sixth green jacket as Nicklaus caught fire on the back nine on Sunday to win the 1986 Masters. Norman returned the following year, only to lose in a playoff when homegrown and raised Larry Mize sank an improbable chip-shot on the 11^th hole in a playoff, leaving Norman in shock.

Based primarily on resume and the recent win at Bay Hill, Woods has been installed by Las Vegas wiseguys as the favorite in this impressive world-class field.

Eyes will be on young Irishman Greg McIlroy to see if he can overcome a monumental Masters meltdown a year ago. They always wonder which Phil Mickelson will show up. Names such as Lee Westwood and Luke Donald are expected to be on the daily leaderboards that dot the course.

But the story will be Tiger Woods. Whether he succeeds or falls short, it is his story we all want to read.

Contact Sports Columnist Joe Biddle at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it .

For the second year in a row, Kentucky has made it to the last weekend.

I think this is the best chance the Cats have had for Coach John Calipari to win it all in the one-and-done era.

Kentucky starts three freshmen and two juniors. They have a bell cow in freshman Anthony Davis, who is the national player of the year after two semesters in college.

Although Calipari has seen two previous Final Four schools (Massachusetts, Memphis) he coached have to vacate NCAA Tournament achievements, Calipari has never been charged with any major NCAA rules violations.

By RAY POPE

Don't you just love this weather? I now find the best seat in the house is in my backyard, where you can get lost, just listening to all the birds flirting with each other. Where are the Purple Martins? There was only one male visiting my yard today. On any given day during the spring, there are several wheeling and soaring about in the large hay field behind the house. The pair of Martins that I saw last week must live farther north, because I haven't seen them since. A few years ago, when I went to Canada to spend a few days with my grandsons, there were several places there with active Purple Martin condos. I guess as long as there are flying insects, the Martins will follow.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Don’t be misled. I can if I want to. Some, upon hearing of my lack of burning desire to turkey hunt may think I don’t know how. In fact, I do. I’m no expert like Wade Bourne or my good friends Alex Rutledge or Eddie Salter. I’m certainly not as good as Carroll, “Big Daddy” Whitener but I know how to kill a gobbler if I want to. The season opened four days ago.

It is hard to get a lot of passion up when you can’t get in your driveway because it is blocked by wild turkeys. When your backyard is full of birds with beards, sitting in the dark waiting for one gobble while still in the tree doesn’t hold much allure. As your truck gets white highlights from the hen sitting on the branch over your driveway, the urge to kill may be high but the desire to hunt is not.

But I can kill a turkey if I want to.

My NCAA Tournament bracket was really bad after the first two rounds. How bad was it? It was so bad that when I tried to feed it to the shredder, the machine rejected it.

While the state of Ohio placed four teams in the tournament field, they are sending all four teams to the Sweet 16. That is playing some hoop.

Ohio State, Xavier, Cincinnati and Ohio all advanced to the next round.

Tennessee did not fare as well. Far from it.

By JOHN L. SLOAN
Jack Taylor knows where it was. Russ Jackson knew it well. Joyce Jackson hated it because it was “spooky”. I spent a lot of time there, caught many fish, and killed many deer, made many memories. It is gone now, crowded with houses. Probably the UFO’s are gone.

This is the story of two of us, camped back in the hardwoods of Humphries County in a clearing we created with constant use over a few years. We camped this time for four days, Uncle Lester and me and we had great meals and the best campfires ever. Oh, we caught a lot of fish, too.

Next week we have to start chasing gobblers. For now, let us think about old men camped on hidden lakes. Let us think about just enjoying nature and not worrying about full stringers and such.

Maybe Bud Adams can’t help himself.

And you can’t teach an old dog, new tricks.

The Titans owner didn’t learn from his last misguided order. That missive was for the Titans to take Texas quarterback Vince Young with their first round pick of the 2006 NFL Draft.

Bud may have been the only one in the Titans building that wanted to take Young. The head coach didn’t want him. The offensive coordinator didn’t want him. The general manager didn’t want him.

That didn’t matter to Bud.