ArcHERy

Skip's latest impulse buy might not be a financial investment (he tells me guns appreciate), but he's certain this will create a hunting buddy. While he hasn't fully given up on me, it's clear that my lack of enthusiasm pales in comparison to Pippa.

 

Want to watch a movie? Of the red stag roar, please. We chase butterflies, call doves, stalk deer on our trails, talk to dogs, trumpet like elephants, and chortle with the horses. Her first word as I lift her from her crib is "outside" followed by a reluctant and prompted "please."

She naturally loves nature. Duck calls make her giggle...as long as she's holding them. If someone takes away her duck call she goes full on combat mode to get it back. And now Dad has armed her with her own bow and arrow set. I think there's a knife as well, but I might confiscate that.

In a strange way Skip is preparing for my care when he is gone. Pippa will be the huntress, stocking the freezer with organic, exotic meats.

Call of the Wild

One of Lamar's redeeming qualities is the herd of deer living on the town's edge. They bed near my parents' home and we often see them when we go for walks. During our last Christmas visit, Skip and I hunted the group in hopes of capturing a large buck in a sunset photo. Or Skip was trying to get his pregnant wife to workout.

He dressed me in snow camo and tugged me through the foot of snow until the deer sensed us. Then he'd have me crouch down and sneak up to them. Yes, me and my 7-month baby bump slowly approaching a buck with antlers larger than my frame. My family way did nothing to soften the deer to me, but I think they remember Pippa.

Today on a walk along the creek, Pippa and I came across the same herd of deer with their fawn. I had Pippa in her carrier. You'd think she'd revel in snuggling next to my chest, a gentle breeze on her face, chirping insects and birds singing, and my undivided attention. I gazed into her eyes the entire time, chatting away about her beauty. No, tonight this did nothing for her but interrupt her nap and she softly whined for the first mile of our journey.

A whine that called to the deer. As they crossed our path they watched us intently. Pippa's lower lip would tremble, her face drawn in a so sad clown frown and "meeeeehh." The deer would instantly stop, turn their heads and stare at us curiously. The closer we got and with Pippa's continued whimpers and whines the curious stare turned into a glare as if to say, "why do you torture that child."

I'm glad the bucks missed this chance meeting, no need to become a statistic of mother's gored by an angry buck trying to protect an infant. Much better to report that Pippa is her daddy's daughter and has perfected her stranded fawn imitation. Bow season opens in September?

The Hunt

The pristine envelope he handed me contained a little more than the expected pay stub. I’ve finally been inducted to the company through an invitation for the upcoming holiday.

I struggle through my days at work, counting the seconds my mind drifts from caissons and piers. Then I remember I hate numbers and their rigid stance, a clear line of multiply and divide, black and white, right and wrong. The daydreams resume interrupted by the comfort of my high heels clacking along the muddy tiles as I walk to the fax machine—a ho-hum day at an office that reminds me of home.

Home with its dust and farm equipment, tractors driving down Memorial, kids wearing Wranglers and Lugs to school talking with that soft drawl and mixed vowels I slip into often. A lack in communication over the work schedule led me to pass on the twelve hour drive to eat bird in Lamar this year. Feeling a little homesick and less than thankful I wondered how to incorporate the Hall Turkey Bowl, rolls and pie into my Thursday. Who would wake me up at 4 a.m. as they stomped through the house in camouflage grabbing guns, ammo and-most importantly-victuals?

The answer lay in my thick envelope, an invitation for a company day-after-Thanksgiving pheasant hunt. As long as I brought a gun and bullets the birds would be paid for. A tradition I believe in, though have never participated in. It seemed like my holiday would be salvaged and I owed thanks to the wonderful co-workers who call me Goth, Emo and artsy-fartsy (those seconds drag tortuously).

Then I reread the invite. Paid birds. Hunting at 10 a.m. A two-hour drive. My Friday wasted. It’s one thing to tell the Boys I’ll go with them at 1 a.m. in Lamar, they don’t remember I agreed four hours later. And I like shooting things, probably even more if I ever hit anything. But this experience needs to be done on hallowed hunting ground at home, not a pheasant farm that releases birds.

I think I avoided the naughty list and if Santa pulls through then it’s guns in the A.M. this Christmas.