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The PT TShirt Launch Party

Posted on July 09, 2013 by AUTHOR (edit in theme settings) | 1 comment

 It's Time for The PT TShirt Launch Party .... Time to Honor Price the way he would love!

Tuesday, July 16th, 2013

The Palace Saloon

1303 Jackson Bluff Road, Tallahassee

7 pm

Cash bar after the first keg is gone!

All pre-order tshirts will be available for pick-up at the party (or can be shipped).  Extra tees will be available for purchase and are still available online.  http://wmlambandson.com/collections/brand-new/products/pt-tshirt

20% of all proceeds from the tshirts are being donated to a foundation set up to fund an artificial reef in Price's name.

We have already raised over $1000 !!!

To Honor, For Honor, With Honor ......

Any questions please contact Margaret, 850-566-1798.

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May we all live like Price Thornal ....

Posted on June 25, 2013 by AUTHOR (edit in theme settings) | 18 comments

On Good Friday this year the city of Tallahassee became a little town once again with the news of the tragic death of Price Thornal.  As a freshman at Ole Miss, Price was on his way home to Tallahassee to spend Easter weekend with his family at the beach when he was killed in a car accident.  As word spread about the accident it was quite evident that PT was everybody's friend.   Many of our college ambassadors were close friends with Price and devastated.  One was supposed to be in the car with Price.   Within hours Facebook was on fire with everyone we knew, both young and old, praying for the Thornals.  Everyone was in shock .... this one hit home.

 

Wm Lamb & Son was contacted before the funeral even took place, asking if we would consider doing a tshirt to honor him.  He was a fan of Wm Lamb & Son and he would have loved that they said.  Price's funeral was held on the Monday after Easter and over 1500 folks lined the church, including most of his SAE fraternity brothers from Oxford that had made the trip.  The day after his funeral we met with a handful of his closest friends at his favorite oyster bar to talk about Price and see what they had in mind.

These young adults, all freshmen in college at various schools had all come home to celebrate Price, were back to just being kids as they began talking about their friend ..... They missed him so badly and were still in shock.   Listening to them talk about Price was amazing.  There was just something about this boy  ..... the things that we kept hearing were "he never met a stranger", "he was everyone's friend", "he always had a smile on his face ..... and a big smile at that".  Price loved America, Price loved brotherhood, Price loved his friends and his family with everything he had and Price knew and loved God.  He wasn't perfect by any means .... and they weren't trying to paint him in that light.  But what Price was seems to be a lover of life and if he was your friend, he was your best friend.  In the end it doesn't get much better than that.

So over the next few weeks a picture was painted .... a watercolor  ..... of Price looking out to the water at St. Teresa beach, his home away from home  .... his blue boat with the American flag up front ..... a cooler in one hand and a rod in the other ..... his hat on backwards ..... and a quote that he had tweeted out "Live your life so that the fear of death will never enter your heart."  Truly how Price lived and how he will always be remembered. 

The PT shirt is NOW ON PRE-SALE thru July 4th.  Get your order in to ensure you get yours.  All shirts will be ready July 15th when we plan on launching the PT Shirt with a celebration Wm Lamb & Son style with music and friends.  These are Comfort Colors white pocket tees with the watercolor of PT on the back.   Stay tuned for more information on the Launch Party.    20% of all the PT tshirt sales will be donated to Price's Point Foundation to create an artificial reef in Price's name, just as he would have wanted.

So may we all live as Price lived .... looking out on the water with a cold drink in our hand, God and America,  our friends and our family all in our hearts .... he would like that.  Now go enjoy a cool, raw dozen and laugh with friends and wear your PT tshirt often and wear it proud.  To honor, for honor, with honor .... 

                                        

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A Good Hunt

Posted on February 25, 2013 by AUTHOR (edit in theme settings) | 0 comments

Duck season has come and gone on the Grand Prairie of Arkansas and every year I am reminded of how special this time of year is to me as an avid sportsman living in Arkansas.   I often relate back to an article published in the November 2000 issue of Gourmet Magazine, written by Eugenia Bone, entitled "A Good Hunt". To me her article sums up what duck hunting (and hunting in general is all about). Below is the original article for you all to enjoy.

by Scott Perry, Contributing Blogger for Wm Lamb & Son, Founder of the outdoor clothing brands Mountain Khakis® and McAlister®, Father, Sportsman, Friend

A GOOD HUNT

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN GOURMET MAGAZINE -NOVEMBER 2000

It’s not about killing or guns. For Eugenia Bone it’s all about the land, the water, and the dogs, and more than anything else, it’s about family—in all its quirky splendor—and food. Always food.

I have never experienced a duck hunt of the sort that many of my friends imagine—the drunken-bubbas-blasting-away stereotype. As most hunters will tell you, hunting is not about shooting. It’s about providing food; it’s about earning those provisions; it’s about a heightened sense of awareness. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

My husband, Kevin, and I usually fly to Memphis on the Friday after Thanksgiving. We get up at four the next morning to drive an hour and a half northwest to Weiner, Arkansas, with my uncle Norfleet. This part of Arkansas is rice and soybean country, and for miles in every direction the land is parallel to the horizon. It’s dark the way only deep country can be, so dark that driving along those flat roads is like floating in space. The Muzak oozing from my uncle’s car lends a Prozacky element to the surreal drive. Then ... blam! We hit the first of many potholes that announce our proximity to Claypool’s Wild Acres. Uncle Norfleet floors the accelerator, bouncing guns and gear and dogs around madly. In the joggling distance we can see the lights of the clubhouse.

Claypool’s is privately owned, by three cousins and a family friend (their daddies bought the club from Wallace Claypool, an automobile man from Memphis, in the mid-Seventies), so it is a clubhouse, but the word gives the wrong impression. It’s really a frumpy old two-story farmhouse with a semi-attached boot shed, plunked in the middle of a big gravel driveway. Norfleet grinds to a stop beside three or four other vehicles. Labrador retrievers pop up from their backseat beds to inspect the new arrivals and sniff. The vast oxygen-rich winds that blow over the fields must smell incredible to them. I can’t smell anything in particular, but in the hours before dawn the coolness feels like spirits passing overhead.

Inside, it smells like coffee. And peanuts, and gunmetal—and rubber boots, and old tobacco, and even older men. There’s a big fire burning in the living room fireplace, and a coffeepot and mismatched mugs on the table. Hunters lounge on dumpy furniture that crackles when you lean back because of all the peanut shells behind the cushions. Others are banging around upstairs in the dormitory bedrooms. There are dead wasps on the windowsills and worn issues of Ducks Unlimited, dusty taxidermied ducks, and old sepia-toned pictures of hunters and dogs and ducks and woods. And there are maps—beautiful maps depicting Claypool’s 1,370 acres of flooded woods and reservoir, and maps showing the location of blinds: Brown’s Hole, Well Island, Snowden’s Hole, Johnny’s Hot Spot, Turner’s Hole, Mystery Hole, Fifth Avenue.

It’s almost always the same cast of characters, most of them weirdly named, southern-style: my uncle Norfleet Turner, sassy and elegant, and his earnest son-in-law Mike Robbins; Skeets Boyle, vivacious and grumpy; Toof Brown and his boys; John Riley, for 32 years the gamekeeper, a giant of a man and the terror of local poachers; and my cousin Bayard Boyle Jr., a gentle loner who hunts by himself. As the sky lightens and everyone announces where they intend to hunt, the same old sparring breaks out, as it has for at least 50 years.

“I think you’ll git some ducks at Well Island, Norfleet,” says John Riley.

“He can try,”starts Skeets.

“Not if you scare my ducks I won’t,” says Norfleet.

“Did Steve make the coffee this morning? God, it’s evil.”

“I’m going to put my waders on,” says Bayard softly, and we all tromp into the boot shed.

Green rubber waders hang on pegs along one wall. Guns, primarily 12-gauge, rest on a tall rack. Masks, camouflage jackets, and boxes of neat orange and yellow shells sit on a long bench. There’s a dead mouse in the toe of one seldom-worn wader. The shed is dingy and gloriously atmospheric, smelling of leather and wet wool and dogs held in high esteem.

“Good hunt!”yell the hunters to one another as they heave their creaking, squeaking selves into their cars. Norfleet’s chocolate Lab, Claypool, is alert now, and moving into that loopy joyousness of a dog on the hunt. John Riley is with us to help call the birds, with his Lab Shiner. We drive along a dirt road through wet trees dripping with mostly imagined water moccasins and pull over near a lean-to that houses the Argo, a muddy little all-terrain vehicle that carries us, guns, and dogs out to Well Island.

Well Island is actually a grove of pin oaks in a flooded wood. “Mallards love them pin oak acorns,” says Riley. There are decoys floating in the clearing, and blinds hidden around the perimeter. Once we are settled, the Argo stashed, the dogs hushed and shivering with anticipation, and the hunters’ guns loaded and their masks on, the water stills. Everything stills. And we wait. Very quietly. So concentrated is the quiet that the slow zigzag of a leaf falling from the canopy captures everyone’s attention. This is the true character of hunting: a Zen-like state of simultaneous excitement and calm that allows for acute observation of nature. It’s why I don’t have to kill anything in order to experience a good hunt.

Overhead, ducks fly by in flocks and pairs, and higher up, geese travel in tremendous, fluttering ribbons. Riley begins calling—a wonderful, lonely quack and trill combination—and the ducks start descending into the clearing.

“Betty!”shouts Robbins, letting everyone know she’s a hen. No one shoots. And then everything is silent again. Uncle Norfleet lights up a cigarette. I can see its glowing tip and the long black barrel of his gun peeping out from the blind.

As the sky turns orange and pink, we shoot mallards and tiny, zippy teal for their sweet, tender meat. With every bird that falls like a feathery stone, the dogs leap off the blinds and lope through the water to retrieve it in soft jaws, their tails wagging fiercely. The ducks are so stuffed with rice from their nightly feed that their craws make a crunching sound like a bean bag chair when we hang them in the crook of a nearby willow bush. There’s a camaraderie that happens on a hunt that is very precious. I get great pleasure when my uncle calls out,“Good shot!” And I don’t even mind his more frequent and rather unnecessary,“You missed!”

There are a lot of ducks traveling the Mississippi flyway (the capital of American duck hunting is nearby Stuttgart, Arkansas). As a result of the nationwide ban on ddt and the efforts of conservation-minded folks—mainly hunters—who have worked to preserve breeding grounds farther north, the population has been growing. Population figures determine how many ducks hunters can shoot during the season (mid-November to late January in Arkansas). Last season the limit was six ducks per day.

Over the course of a weekend we will shoot in two locations, once in a flooded woods environment like Well Island, and once in the thick floating mats of duckweed and the tangled buck brush that surrounds the reservoir. The hunting is difficult because the birds are flying fast overhead—it’s a little like shooting a speeding shoe—but it is a great spot for watching the splashy Arkansas sunrise, with its gaudy colors and flocks of banking ducks. There are usually so many waterfowl flying overhead, they sound like traffic and look like a black storm cloud descending, but this one isn’t ominous at all. This spectacle of nature is why so many big shots have come to Claypool’s to hunt, among them Jimmy Carter, Wernher von Braun, various DuPonts, and baseball great Preacher Roe, but not Bill Clinton. (“Skeets don’t like Bill Clinton,” says John Riley.)

Two hours after dawn the hunt is over. Then the hunger starts. And, oh, what a divine hunger it is! Not a depleted hunger, or a gnawing hunger, but a hearty hunger brought on by exercise and fresh air—really, a kid’s appetite, if I remember correctly.

Outside, the dogs inhale their kibble breakfast, and inside the house Mary Minton is working on ours. Mary is a curvaceous brunette in her mid-forties. She’s got a robust laugh and a fine sense of her womanliness.

“This is my fifth year at Claypool’s and I love it,” she says while turning over thick-cut bacon that is frying in two inches of bubbling fat. She also prepares dinners when hunters spend the night—southern classics, all. “I make chicken fried in bacon grease and hot apple caramel pie and coleslaw. That’s my specialty,” she says, turning the bacon. “Last year a guest from Colorado offered to marry me for that recipe.”

Settling down to this breakfast is a true reward. The table, by a picture window that looks out on a duck-resting pond, is set with thick, diner-style ceramic, matching in spirit only. Pitchers of orange juice and milk are set out, as well as bowls of jelly, jam, and marmalade. It may be country, but nothing is ever served in its original container. Then Mary comes out with the goods: a platter of scrambled eggs and another of fried country eggs, a basket of steaming homemade biscuits, a mound of curly bacon, and a bowl of white gravy with the handle of a ladle sticking out of it. Everyone is pretty quiet for the first few minutes of furious piling on plates, and then the stories start—about the hunt, the dark water, the red sunrise.

I don’t always kill a duck, which is okay with me, despite the pitying looks of my fellow hunters. But my uncle tends to get his limit, so it’s at his house that we assemble later with the rest of the family to enjoy the fruits of this particular harvest. Game that has been shot at Claypool’s over the year makes an appearance. Because I know what’s involved in putting these birds on the table, I feel tremendous respect and appreciation for my dinner; more so than when I buy it at the supermarket. And what a dinner it is! Breasted dove wrapped in bacon, teal stewed with sauerkraut, livery mallard with turnips, goose roasted with apples, all served with baby butter beans, collard greens, and hand-formed corn pones. Norfleet always serves an airy coconut cake that he gets from a neighbor. There is bourbon drinking before dinner and wine drinking during, and there’s always teasing—lots of teasing, of both the gentle and the rough varieties. But that’s family: You’re never off the hook.

I always carry home a heavy duffel bag; one way or another, I end up with enough ducks to last the winter. As I feast on these lean fowl, I’m transported back to Arkansas, to the dogs, to the birds flying by, to the warmth of the morning kitchen, and to all the quirky charm of my southern kin.

   

Scott's son learning the joys of hunting early.

    

Classic Father and son time together .....

 

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"The past is never dead, it's not even past."

Posted on February 20, 2013 by AUTHOR (edit in theme settings) | 4 comments

“The past is never dead, it’s not even past.” –William Faulkner

It’s shocking that January sneaked up as quickly as it did, much less that it’s over.  January, the betwixt-land, the portal, is named for Janus, the Roman god with two faces, one looking ahead to the future, the other behind to the past.  Perhaps more than any other time, it simultaneously conjures nostalgia and great expectations.  

Hunting season is always a sort of “January” for me.  I’m always reminded of seasons past and memorable (or even mundane) hunts.  A certain flash of a wing, a hunting horn echoing across a cypress bottom, the silent flicker of a white tail always roots up some buried memory.  But hunting is also oddly marked by the tension between being completely submersed in-the-moment yet tingling with the anticipation for what excitement lays ahead—the tranquility of nature violently rent by the flash of a muzzle. 

The older I get, the more I understand the sporting life not as something that transcends time, rather the binding that straps time together, gives it shape, makes it more human and less machine (“Clocks slay time,” as Quentin Compson observes in The Sound and the Fury.)  Passing from one hunting season to the next (even those seemingly interminable days in between), and on and on, reminds us that despite our own individual transitoriness, by merely participating we leave our own indelible stitch on a magnificent tapestry that began the moment it dawned on Ogg that he could hurl a sharpened stick at a woolly mammoth and won’t be finished (I certainly hope!) until mankind, in his bumbling addiction for efficiency, has managed to chop down the last tree or pave over the last field. 

I shoot doves on a plantation on Wadmalaw Island, just outside Charleston, with a company of excellent gentlemen.  My father goes as my guest whenever he and Mother are visiting from Alabama during the season, which they were on the second Saturday of this new year.  This time was different for a very significant reason: my eldest son, Henry, who is four, sat in the field with us for the first time.  It was almost surreal having three generations of Hunter boys out in the field together, a moment I've dreamed about since I was old enough to entertain the thought of having a son of my own.  Best part was that Henry absolutely loved it (despite his DNA, I could never be quite sure until the moment the first shots were fired)--I mean, every minute and every aspect of it.  He even "shot" a dove himself (actually Daddy shot it but gave Henry credit) with his cap gun, and Tilly, my eight-year-old Brittany and constant hunting companion, made a picture-perfect retrieve and Henry got blood on his hands and jacket (which he refused to let me wash off).  He even had the grace of a true sportsman to assure me, “Don’t worry, Daddy, you’ll shoot better next time.”

So afterwards we gathered back at Black Betty, my old battle-scarred Bronco, who at the end of each season I wonder if it will be her last.  Towards the end of the shoot, a front had rushed in from the west, accompanied by plummeting temperatures, so I poured Daddy and me a stiff bourbon and Henry a splash of apple juice.  Now, I had right on the tip of my tongue this toast that I'd recited in my head for years for just this moment when it finally arrived, and I'll be if before I could get my mouth opened Henry pipes up, "Here's to us Hunter men!  We're HUNTERS!"  I managed to join him and Daddy in raising my glass moments before my shock from what just occurred caused me to spill my drink all over the tailgate.  Out of the mouths of babes. 

When at last I buckled Henry into his seat he burst into tears.  I asked, "What's wrong?" and he replied, "Daddy, I don't want to leave."  After plying our way back across the muddy fields and through the wood, we pulled onto the hardtop and were crossing the bridge onto Johns Island.  The sunset off to the west over Bohickett Creek held us spellbound until Henry sagely observed, "Isn't that splendid!"  That's Henry—four going on forty.  And I know he’s hooked.  “We’re Hunters.”  Always have been, always will be, I reckon, full of nostalgia and expectation and the ability to fully appreciate both.


Bryan Hunter
Contributing Blogger for Wm Lamb & Son
Writer, Father, Hunter, Friend

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Easter Sunday

Posted on February 12, 2013 by AUTHOR (edit in theme settings) | 0 comments

With Fat Tuesday here we all know that Ash Wednesday comes right behind,  and for those of us in the South that means one essential thing .... 40 days til we pull out the white bucks for Easter Sunday morn.

You can't be shy or self conscious.  Wearing white bucks makes a statement that says, "I am comfortable in my own skin and I'm man enough to pull it off."   We put them on Easter and take them off Labor Day. We wear them with a fine seersucker suit, khakis or even shorts. There is little left in this world when it come to tradition, but white bucks during the spring and summer is a style that is timeless, and it also goes great with a gin and tonic. 

Adding Wm Lamb & Son white bucks to our line was an obvious fit for our Apparel Collection.  Wm has been wearing bow ties and white bucks long before either were trendy.   His own personal white bucks have gotten plenty of wear over of the years and happen to be made by the same company that now makes our very own Wm Lamb & Son bucks.  So yes,  he can atest first hand that these shoes are excellent quality and made to last you many years of Sunday church services and many afternoon cocktail parties.   So order up your white bucks now and you'll be all ready to take your Mama to church on Easter Sunday.  Just make sure you put them up on Labor Day..... it's kind of the law down here.

 

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