In one of his earlier attempts to "parent" me into "manhood," I was rudely awakened at 0'dawn-hundred by my father, who handed me a red & black buffalo plaid flannel shirt and informed me I was to get dressed.
I looked at the shirt with dramatic disdain. "You're not serious..." I inquired, incredulous. Father shot me the "don't go there" look and I begrudgingly obliged.
Mother appeared. "Is one of our Maine relatives dead, or I am being punished for being perfect again?" I sniped.
"You were the one who wanted your father to spend more time with you," she replied patiently. "Just remember, this little trip wasn't my idea."
This oughta be good, I wondered aloud what rite of passage I was destined to flunk this time around, and reminded my mother, it was her idea that father and I spend more time together. My mother flashed me the "our marriage depends on this" look and I dropped the subject.
After a brief skirmish over my refusal to pair the unfortunate plaid number with a neon-orange hunting jacket, we were off. In the frigid light just beginning to appear, I looked about the cab for clues as to our destination. (The less my father and I "chatted," the better, in those days.)
Unfortunately for both of us, I found them: a quiver of arrows and my father's beloved bow.
"I thought we talked about this already," I growled. He was silent. "Do you enjoy torturing me with these ridiculous escapades?"
Silence. Uncharacteristically, I chose not to pursue it further. My father was an accomplished archer and expert huntsman, one of the few things of which he was truly proud. And, after all, he was trying. A precocious megolomaniac at five, by nine I was no easier parent. But my father knew how I felt about killing things for sport.
Everyone knew how I felt about killing things for sport. In fact, everyone knew how I felt about most things.
I will spare you the details of the ensuing march of death, wandering aimlessly about, stopping only to embed ourselves into the occasional snow bank or ice-covered bush in search of my impending manhood--it's little more than a blur now. The next thing I remember, I was sprinting full-speed, arms flailing wildly about, screaming, "Run, Bambi, run for your life!!"
It would be a while before we could leave the bedroom doors at home unlocked at night and even longer before my next chance at manhood, the unfortunate Skill Saw Incident.
I come from a family of hunters, and responsible hunters at that. Over time I have learned to appreciate the cultural value of the hunting tradition, thanks to my patient twin uncles and numerous conversations on the subject. I will not, however, ever understand the clothes.
My new-found tolerance of this disdainful behavior is others was seriously shaken, however, upon paging through the latest issue (April 2001) of the ironically-titled Outdoor Life. What I read in this appalling publication reaffirmed my oposition to additional gun-control legislation.
I'm putting my money behind population control.
Wasting no time in getting to the good stuff, I skipped passed the as*-slapping self-congratulations contained in the reader mail section and happened upon this quote: "The first thing we done was to bait on eof the big hooks with a skinned rabbit and set it and catch a catfish that was as big as a man..."
I hurried to finish my last pork chop, certain this would be my last opportunity of the evening to do so without paying full fare on a round-trip ticket.
Transfixed, the very next page provided the evening's only comic relief. In an brief on Pennsylvania's first-ever season for hunting elk, Art the embittered farmer, fresh from his star-turn in the stage version of Deliverance, declares, "If they come [on my land], I'll kill them. A big bull elk is a magnificent animal, but there isn't the habitat to support him. Elk don't belong in this state."
{trying not to swallow tongue}
Alas Pennsylvania voters narrowly rejected my proposed alternative, "Big Bull Dyke Season," during which angry lesbian environmentalists with baseball bats enjoy open season on dim-witted farmers. So much for progess.
Rabbits make another appearance a few pages past this enlightening blurb, along with a number of other things that should never make an appearance anywhere. {WARNING! NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH!!} In "Ask the Experts" we are treated to this colorful advice on how to "quick-clean" rabbits:
"When you shoot a rabbit, immediately cut off the front and hind legs at the joints, and remove the head. Make a shallow cut in the skin halfway down the back and peel off the hide.
"Next, cut a slit up the middle of the belly, from the tail to the neck. Remove the entrails and the rabbit is ready to be placed in the ice bag.
"The key is to clean the animal while it's still warm. the skin will come off like a banana peel, and you'll eleimate the possibility of picking up fleas....
"A Word of warning: Do not try the commonly touted method of holding the rabbit by the head and squeezing firmly downward, therby eliminating the entrails through the anus. You'll wind up with a putrid, inedible carcass, soiled by the stomach and intestinal contents."
And then your parents will make you marry him, anyway.
Poppy Z. Brite, eat your heart out: that is hands-down the most vile thing I have ever laid eyes on. Ever.
Miller High Life, in an unparalled display of pandering prowess, then offers this urgent public service annonouncement in a full-page ad: "Stay off the man juice or stay off the roof," warns Outdoor Life's readers of the hidden dangers associated with drinking alchohol while attempting to install a rooftop tv antenna. "Beer tastes better when you don't have to drink it through a straw," they gently admonish.
Proving Christopher Lowell will work for anyone, an article entitled "Bed, Boxes and Beyond" enumerates the stunning variety of items that can be affixed to a pickup truck with little more than a GED and a dream. Throw in several thingly veiled NRA puff-pieces, a few more really compelling reasons to euthanize George Bush, Jr., and a perky little scribble on clever ways to get a married woman to sit on your face...and, well...
...there you have it.
To be completely fair, I did tear out one useful piece entitled "The Fight to Save an Ancient Fish," a misty-eyed salute to Native American tribal efforts to save the endangered White Sturgeon. After all, when they're gone, there'll be no more left to kill.
And they say hunters and environmentalists can't get along.
I am currently using this article to solicit support from foundations for environmental education programs at the wildlife museum where I work.
It has proven quite effective. Thanks, Outdoor Life.
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