Opening Day

Yesterday marked the beginning of bow season for deer hunters in Kansas. It wasn't until the last few years that I knew there was such a thing as bow season, or any hunting "season" for that matter. My marriage to a hunter has given new meaning to the phrase to everything there is a season. Kansas even has a squirrel season, with a possession limit of twenty squirrels. Consider this an open invitation to any hunter who wants to shoot a few squirrels, as I'm pretty sure you could reach your limit on my tiny 80 x 100 foot piece of property. Just be careful of the neighbor church's stained glass windows. OK?

We even have a crow season.

Enough of that. I swear Carl was born in the wrong century. If he had it his way, we would live entirely off of the game he brings home and we would plant a garden and preserve its contents so that we could subsist off of it through the winter months. If he could figure out a way to "live off the grid," we would.

I, on the other hand, enjoy the convenience of store-bought bread and fruits and vegetables that have been canned en masse at some far-away factory. I have no desire to ever milk a cow. My experience with vegetable gardens has been tortuous since childhood when mom sent my brother and me out to weed our enormous garden, then hauled us to help grandma in her even-larger garden. Don't get me started on the evil of hand-picked cherries and apples. I'm certain all of that hard work developed character within me...somewhere.

I've ambled far from my original thought's path. Hunting. Where was I...? Oh yes--Carl.

Carl has been slow and steady at honing is hunting skills. He purchased the "Big Buck" DVDs, read through various catalogs and magazines and sought the advice of successful hunters. While Carl found the DVDs dramatic and informative, I saw them as the highest form of comedy. I literally laughed out loud at the tense whisperings of the camo-clad hunters perched atop their climbing tree stands: "Look at that buck. It's a BIG buck." Adrenaline and testosterone practically dripped out of my television screen.

The preparation for a morning of hunting is unbelievable. The same man who refused to see the benefit in helping his daughters find their shoes, lay out their clothes and bathe before bedtime suddenly became a preparedness guru. He showered with scent-neutralizing soap and shampoo, ran his hunting clothes through the dryer with a scent-neutralizing dryer sheet, packed same clothes into a plastic bag along with a scent-free towel and laid them all out the night before along with his hunting gear. He awakened before dawn, drank a little coffee, drove in his civilian clothes to the hunting site, changed into his scent-free camo and set out for a tree stand.

This next part is true, though it didn't happen yesterday. Carl made himself comfortable and invisible in his tree stand and waited. And waited. Within the hour the sun peeked over the horizon and Carl could see his breath in the cold morning light. No big bucks. The only nature calling to him was the result of the coffee he drank, but peeing wasn't an option unless he wanted to erase all the scent-removal he had so tediously accomplished.

More waiting.

Did I mention Carl is a smoker?

Still waiting.

No buck. No anything. Carl "held it" until "it" caused physical pain, but could not forego a cigarette. He lit up. Still no buck (imagine that). Finally recognizing that A) he wasn't going to see a deer that morning and B) if he waited any longer he would pee his pants, Carl loaded up, practically fell down the ladder and relieved himself on the tree. It's really not a good thing to urinate under your tree stand.

Needless to say, Carl came home empty-handed that day. Yesterday as well. But yesterday he departed without so much as a sip of coffee and with a nicotine patch pressed firmly to his butt.

Only 100 days of bow season to go.