An annual event, for lack of a better description, has once again tapped on the window. I take that back. It has stomped to the door and is pounding ferociously, much in the manner of Fred Flintstone in the opening credits of the show. This particular happening often leads many an area woman to experience feelings of isolation and a strong desire for earplugs.
I'm certain that some of you are picturing the lady of the house prepping madly for the holidays whilst hubby/significant other/domestic partner/perpetual/etc., casually loafs about and watches television.
Surprise! I speak not of that nightmare. Give me time to conjure that rant for a future piece.
I'm actually talking about hunting season. Honestly, I cannot keep up with this jazz because I do not participate. I should state, for my own safety, how I understand fully that a lot of gals do take part. This particular piece might not be your cup o tea—yes, I just rhymed without even trying.
However, many do not and might be able to relate to the term, “great outdoors widow.” After all, we dwell in an area known for a plethora of sportsmanship pursuits. Therefore, Captain Caveman might be off the radar for extremely long periods of time.
This is the position in which I find myself currently, as good old Perpetual, (life long thorn), has been taking part in this annual festivity.
Now, I haven't a clue as to what season this is. It could be muzzle-loader, archery, hand to hand combat, pocketknife of choice, etc. I simply do not know and it matters not.
What I DO know is that Perpetual is absent from this abode well before sunrise and he reappears well after sunset. These days the sun sets around 4:37 but I am talking much later than that hour. I am reading your thoughts and am appalled. You are thinking that P is doing everything in his power to avoid having contact with darling lovable me, aren't you? OK, you are probably correct. (Mind you, he stays at the world-famous trailer quite a bit since it is closer to the action.)
I have picked up on a few things in terms of men and hunting. As I said earlier, I really do not know if this pertains to women or not. I am strictly sticking to the male marksmen among us. I am aware, abundantly so, that both sexes enjoy this pastime to the max.
Also, I am not a hundred percent certain that all males behave in such a manner but I am willing to bet that most do. That last statement comes from years of observation and analyzing conversations relating to all things deer homicide.
During this special time of year, I find myself channeling my inner Charlie Brown teacher/adult voice in order to fake being absolutely absorbed by Perpetual's enthusiastic descriptions of the hunt. I have trained myself to pick up on key words as he moves along with speed and agility. I have learned when to nod politely whilst, simultaneously, pretending to be transfixed by his every statement. (If you are not familiar with the Charlie Brown adult scenario, it is some sort of bizarre kind of brass instrument with a muffle over it, of some sort. It produces a sound that goes, “waa, wa, wa, waa, wa.” We never hear an adult voice on the Peanuts. This is exceptionally difficult to describe in print form.)
Last night I was subjected to verbal torture which violated my rights as a United States citizen. In other words, I got to hear EVERY last detail of Perpetual's day in hunting history. The story unfolded for an obscene amount of time. It included captivating details like how the buck appeared on the horizon after P had utilized some sort of antler rubbing method to draw him in. He meandered majestically toward P and eventually came to rest beside a tree, which was bursting with the colors of Autumn. Hold on to something sturdy because the big reveal, as told by P, was how he simply couldn't take aim due to the infamous X, Y or Z factor. (Hey, isn't there an area band called Z Factor? I think so. My ex-roommate's husband is the Z in Z Factor! Wow, total digression and within these fancy lookin' gizmos to boot.)
All the while, I heard something like this: “Waa, wa, wa, wa, 12 point, wa waa wa wa wa, deer stand, waa waa wa wa, within feet, wa waa wa, he was a MAMMOTH beast.” Wash, rinse and repeat.
Now that I ponder, the man NEVER engages me in conversation with such passion on any other subject, PERIOD. Plus, I think he must also use some sort of filter as I bloviate about politics, religion, sex, rock and roll and/or anything else.
Also, why is it that hunters have to be totally selective in terms of the kill? I get that people have to be somewhat discriminating depending on the season in question. However, I have heard countless stories about how an 87 point buck that was spectacular in every way, shape and form was directly before him but he didn't go for it in the end. Call me sillier than usual but if the animal meets all the criteria then why not go ahead and “take” it?
Do your wild animal slayers wash their outdoor adventure clothing with specially designed detergent? Clearly P does this as I look on in sheer amazement. I'm not sure how we got along without such shenanigans in the olden days but somehow Grandpa Walton managed to bring home the bacon—er, I mean venison.
Just one more thing before I prep for being murdered in my sleep due to putting this in print. Some of the males among us are NEVER on time for any reason under the night sky. This includes, but is not limited to: weddings, funerals, dinners in Greenville at 5:30, (see recent column for that insanity), doctor appointments, etc., blah, blah and blah. However, said men would somehow manage to make it to the big woods by X hour of the day even if a body limb were hanging by a thread due to a furious “hunting widow.”
With that, I'm off. I must meditate a bit so that I can get totally in touch with my inner Charlie Brown adult/teacher voice. Perpetual is scheduled for a shower tonight so he will be gracing me with his delightful presence. I must ready myself for that ongoing epic tale of mass proportions. In other words, fetch me those earplugs and some heavy medication. THE END.
P.S. I just noticed the cartoon theme that ran throughout this prattling session. Captain Caveman, Fred Flintstone and our dear Charlie Brown all made guest appearances. At least there was ONE constant for once in my “career” as a columnist.