Since moving here eight years ago, I have accumulated a small collection of friends who disappear in the Fall. Vacation days are consumed, school is ditched, and hopes are high as these sporting friends head out into the wilderness with deer tags to fill. Hunting season doesn't typically hit my radar with much gusto, though, other than the handful of empty pews at church and the sound of sighting shots echoing about Woodhaven. (It took a few years but I no longer jump to call the police.) But this year, it was hard to miss.
There was much excitement by the Roberts family. All three daughters (age 14 to 20) plus Dad and Grandpa were heading east for a week of hunting. Lots of Facebook status updates and photos of the prep. They left in the rain and got a flat tire late at night...but within cell range...so I shared the online worry with Mom and Grandma. A couple of days later, I was excited for them as the youngest daughter started posting status reports of successful shots and tags being filled at a quick pace. WHOO HOO!! And then...then...it became very real.
Pictures. Lots of them. In color.
Rob warned me not to enlarge them on my computer monitor. Indeed, the little thumbnail versions were graphic enough. I saw parts of deer I didn't need to see. I have images burned in my mind that I fear will never fade. I have now learned the term "to bleed out."
The youngest daughter changed her profile picture and it's still there two weeks later. It is of her and a sister Tebow-ing next to two...let's pretend they are napping, with their eyes open and missing a knee...deer. The girls are wearing Safety Orange shirts and latex gloves. I don't want to think about it.
A week later, a college student friend posted a picture her dad had just sent to her phone. Oozing daughter pride, she titled the photo, "Dad got a deer first day out!!!" More story followed including that Dad got the buck in one shot (he is a very accomplished sportsman). Estimates are that the buck was 3 years old and about 250lbs. I started to wilt as it was explained to me that the weight was an estimate since a scale wasn't available until the blood, guts, hide, head, and hoofs were...umm...elsewhere. A mutual friend's comment on the photo that "We now have his leg bones in our freezer. YEA" didn't help.
So once again, just when I think I can call myself a small town country girl, I am instead reminded that a camo shirt (as a pajama top), a Safety Orange hunting vest (for walking in the fog), and Romeo boots (for making wine) do not a hunter make. I am looking forward to the venison dinner, though, that has been promised at a future date. I hear the meat sliced up like butter.
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| "One Shot Buck" by RK. I like to pretend he's watching TV. |
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