A letter to the editor of The Mount Vernon Optic-Herald Mt. Vernon, Texas - Cypress Springs Lake Page 2, Mount Vernon Optic-Herald, Thursday, Feb. 18,1999 It's no secret that we Lake People pay more in taxes than any other part of Franklin County. There are times that some of us complain of the unfairness, and hope to change the inequity, but on the morning of February 6, I realized how blessed we are to pay more than our fair share. I watched the tocsin moments of a predawn bass tournament takeoff. And I do mean takeoff. Not just a few whiney jet skis or a couple of buzzy little bass boats, but a giant floating cockroach armada bigger than the invasion of Normandy. it was an event that (had there been light) could have been recorded on videotape fora ton of academy awards. It was like a front row seat at Saving Private Ryan. Big events in life seem to sneak up, for on that fateful morning as we were trying to sleep in, we gradually came awake to the low rumble of a thousand idling cylinders. Having to go to the bathroom anyway, I got up and looked across the graceful waters of beautiful Lake Cypress Springs. There in the foreground of the lights of the marina, I saw the beautiful Christmas twinkling red and green of navigation lights, and towering a few feet above them, swaying in the ripples, anchor lights. It was like my first Christmas, 1939. Overcome with emotion, I exclaimed, "Holy tuna fish, it's a bass tournament!!!!!" Wife Gail got out of bed and we stood arm in arm at the window, marveling at the lifting gray, and the bellow of the head fisherweenie with a bullhorn. (Our grandson calls them fisherweenies.) He was shouting rules and numbers like General Patton on the eve of battle. Gail and I donned our bathrobes, and went out on the porch. We were humbled to witness a world class event, not unlike the installation of a Grand Dragon or a Pope. At 6:30 there was a bellow for silence. The engines stopped, and a prayer fisherweenie began to talk directly to God. I know it was God, 'cause he talked so fast. We could only understand a few words, but in a twinkling we heard a fateful "amen". The head fisherweenie yelled, "Gentlemen, start your engines." Like it was the Indianapolis 500. Cupping my hands to my mouth, I yelled, "Wait, someone needs to pray for the poor fish!" The engines of the crazed fisherweenies drowned my plea for equal time. The fish were about to be assaulted by whirling propellers, hooks, invisible line, and electronic death rays. Swiftly the boats got into a crooked line, and filed past the head fisherweenie boat. He checked each fisherweenie like St. Peter checks lawyers into heaven. On Dasher, on Prancer, on Donner and Blitzen he yelled into his bullhorn. Once past the Purley gate, each fisherweenie goosed the throttle and he was off, faster than a nuclear submarine and twice as dangerous. My neighbor Steve lost count after 58 flsherweenies. I was too awed to count. They headed in every direction, and slowly the noise died down to the point that Gail and I could look each other in the eye, and awed by what we had seen, murmur, "I love you." Soon we became aware of a lone fisherweenie going sadly back to the marina at but half of full speed. I looked at Gail, our eyes locked, and we said with one voice, "He forgot the worms." Few have witnessed the pageant and ceremony that we saw that gray dawn. We wish them well. To the unfortunates who live in the cities of Mount Vernon, or even Winnsboro, I say, "Don't waste the rest of your life in that musty old town. Move to Lake Cypress Springs. Pay the disproportionate taxes, and witness the humbling spectacle of a predawn Bass Tournament. Like Gail and I, your lives will ever be changed." David R. Reinhartsen