What I'm Hunting For

      Another deer season has ended. I still have no venison in the freezer. What I have is what I went after: a mind full of memories that few modern people can duplicate. Today I had the tedious task of following an hour-old trail through six inches of snow. The woods are cluttered with blowdowns and head-sized rocks, pits where trees have fallen, and old stumps, all now treacherously hidden under that white blanket. I picked my way through this tangle, ducking under branches that the deer had found no obstacle, moving six steps, then pausing six minutes to look, listen, focus on what’s around me.

I know these woods, know them as none but a hunter can. The trees are old friends. Anything out of place is glaringly obvious. Any flicker of movement attracts my attention, although it usually turns out to be a squirrel clinging to a trunk, a woodpecker or chickadee gliding from branch to branch, or an aspen leaf shivering in the wind. About once a season it’s a deer. Usually one I can’t see well enough to determine if it’s a legal animal, or in a position where a shot might not be safe, or moving too fast or at the wrong angle. I won’t take a chancy shot. Quick kill, no suffering, or no shot. And safety, always safety first.

My liberal friends (fellow liberals, except in this regard) would think me a barbarian for owning guns and a monster for hunting with them. Yes, there are what I call ‘slob hunters,’ who take sound shots, hunt animals they refuse to eat, and/or pay big money for ‘trophies’ which are often tame animals raised for the purpose, not wild, fair-chase game. On the whole, these are the same people who commit other conservative atrocities, the one-percent. The 99-percent, the hunters I know, are ethical, caring folks who are out there for totally different reasons. The few among my class and acquaintance that swing that gun muzzle in an unsafe direction for a moment, take an iffy shot, drop litter, or break out the liquor before the guns are cleaned and racked, often end up quitting hunting because no one else will go out with them anymore. My rather extensive circle of hunting friends have a zero-tolerance policy against unethical hunters; and are more typical than the ones the liberal media points fingers at.

As a fishing guide, I admit to a certain amount of contempt for well-to-do clients looking for shortcuts, who just want to catch fish instead of learn about them, their habits, and the aquatic ecology that supports them. I learned fly-fishing through experience and practice, and to me it’s all about the process, not the catch. Hunters like my fishing clients give us all a bad reputation. It’s the process, learning the woods, finding the game trails and learning the ways of the creatures themselves, that lures me out there again and again. It’s the focus, becoming a part of the cycle, using my senses in a natural pursuit. It’s facing the fact, however unpleasant a gentle soul like myself finds it, that life feeds on life; and it’s hypocrisy of the first order to value one class of life above any other.

The deer have the advantage. Oh, boy, do they, as my success record clearly shows. Unlike battery chickens, which are hatched, force-fed, drugged, mutilated, crowded wing-stub to wing-stub, and killed at six weeks old; the deer enjoy freedom, living as their wild ancestors did, often to an old age. Unlike supermarket meat animals, deer are free of steroids and antibiotics, the meat untainted by dyes or preservatives, and lean. Healthy meat, from animals that live an unstressed, natural life, eating natural foods, enjoying their freedom. And, incidentally , learning their territories so well they consistently elude me when I pursue them. Unlike domesticated food animals, they have a darn good chance to survive, thrive, breed, and give me those bland, smug looks the day after hunting season ends.

Hunters know the creatures that live in the woods. Most people who don’t hunt know what children’s stories and the mass media have told them about animals, which is more fantasy than fact. And, it’s true, most effective conservation efforts that really benefit animals (of all kinds, not just game) are motivated and funded by those who love and respect the creatures that share our planet for what they truly are; the people who go out and share their habitats with them on a regular basis; almost exclusively hunters and fishermen. Yes, it’s as self-serving as it sounds. We want to preserve those wild places where we can go out and fill our senses with nature as it is, where we can become one with the cycles of the Earth.

Today I slogged up the north side of a hill, an open meadow, following those deer tracks. The footing was better than in the woods, but snow had drifted deeply there, making it hard going. Pausing for one of my frequent looks around, I had one of those moments. I could see the meadow dropping away on three sides, bordered by forested lowlands. In places evergreens brooded, grouchy under their festive seasonal decoration of snow. In other places, the snowy ground was clearly visible under bare deciduous trees, an open landscape one never sees in summer. Beyond the lowlands the spurs of Broadhead Mountain loomed, misty grey, miles away: Boone Ridge to the west, and beyond it the nameless ridge that holds the old railroad grade that is now Junction Road. Clouds curled over its summit, spitting a few flakes reluctantly at the ground, threatening more. Wind reddened my face, blowing snow in streaming flags across the meadow. I was alone. I was the only human being seeing this sight, on this day. It was like the cold air I breathed had been created just for my enjoyment, and the view just to give me a mental image to treasure. That’s why I go out there. That’s what I’m hunting for.

Twitter

I don't see how people can Tweet. As a writer, I could never express my thoughts in so few words!

Flipping the Bird

A friend sent me an e-mail forward about golf today. In the spirit of trying to at least think about seven impossible things before breakfast, croquet as played in Wonderland crossed my mind. This, as most people know, is played with a hedgehog for a ball and a flamingo, turned upside-down so its beak is the mallet-head, for the... well, mallet. Thus the title "Flipping the Bird."

It occurred to me that someone my height could never handle a bird as tall as a flamingo as a croquet mallet. Fretting over other possible avian mallet choices, I finally decided that toucan play at that.

A Proper BLT

A proper BLT was high on my list of “Ten Foods I Refuse to Give Up” when I was diagnosed diabetic. To me, it’s the sandwich made in heaven. Every part of it is necessary, blends and harmonizes with the rest, like the instruments in a chamber quartet, to form artistic perfection. There is no such thing as a bad BLT, but there IS such a thing as a proper one.

It starts with the toast, well-done toast firm enough to stand up to fatty, juicy goodness and not get soggy. My preference is a light wheat, but I’ll accept white or whole grain. My homemade bread makes a fine BLT, except of course for fruit bread.

Then the mayo… or, as I prefer, the light, sweetish taste of Miracle Whip. Mayo’s fattiness competes with the fattiness of the bacon, and let’s admit it, bacon is THE food. Any dish it’s in, it steals the show. If I must use real mayo, only a light smear, please. Miracle Whip I slather on with a trowel.

Next in construction, the lettuce. As with most sandwiches, I go for the All-American standard of iceberg. I like the crisp, light texture, subtle flavour, and non-chewiness of it. The leafy lettuce currently in vogue for sandwiches I find too assertive in taste, and somehow it is limp and tough simultaneously.

I only make BLT’s in the summer. Why? Because they lack that taste-explosion-in-the-mouth unless made with fresh garden tomatoes. It borders on heresy, but to me, a good tomato is the co-star of the BLT production along with the bacon. The tasteless hothouse or imported types available in winter may add colour to a salad, but never flavour; and give nothing at all to a sandwich. Best of all for a BLT is a nice, juicy, homegrown Super Steak or Big Boy, the kind you can carve a single thick slice from and have it protrude beyond the edge of the bread. But I’ll take two slices, please, dripping with juicy, home-grown, grab the tongue and assault the taste buds flavour. 

Now, pile on the bacon! Real pork bacon, definitely NOT turkey, cooked crisp, never hard (which eliminates thick-cut bacon as an ingredient), well-drained, nice and hot. Although Weight Watchers and my doctor do not approve, bacon is the star of this show. Pile it high. Add the top slice of bread, cut if you wish (on the diagonal is the classic method), and dig in. Be sure to have more than one napkin on hand. This is meant to be a messy sandwich, enjoyed as much tactilely as by taste. And abandon table manners during the BLT experience. Dab up dropped bacon crumbs with a finger, lick tomato juices off your hands… heck, lick the plate if you want to!

I’ll be the first to admit that the above instructions reflect my personal opinions. After all comfort food is a very, very personal thing. I revealed none of this to my psychologist, during the time I was using one’s services. I could talk about my job, my ex, my health problems, my fears, but not comfort food. The stomach is too close to the heart.

A Tale from the Booby Hatch

Over the course of losing over fifty pounds, I expected to lose at proportionally the same rate over my entire body.  Or, perhaps, that the places with the largest fat deposits would lose the most.  But, to my dismay, it seems to me that at least half the departing adipose tissue disappeared from my breasts.

      How was it I didn’t notice my tatas vanishing?  Firstly, I was distracted by the elation of seeing less desirable portions of my anatomy shrinking.  And it happened slowly, insidiously, exactly like two bean bags, each with a few stitches torn from the seam, that gradually deflated over the course of a year;  becoming a pair of limp, drooping, pathetic, almost-empty sacks attached to my chest.  At my age I wasn’t expecting to end up with the figure of a nude model, but this is downright distressing.

       Yes, I went from a size 44 brassiere to a 38, but what was once a comfortable C-cup is now…  Well, I can only say that I have not been this embarrassed of my bosom since I was twelve years old, when all the other girls in the gym class locker room were starting to wear bras and I was still wearing Carters undershirts.  If it had just been a matter of my young self looking busty while wearing clothes, a bra stuffed with two pairs of rolled socks would have given the right impression, but not in the total-honesty environment of the locker room.  Lack of hooters at the age of twelve is normal, though, and what I have dangling from my upper torso now is not.  I could be very happy with my prepubescent figure now, rather than a pair of skin flaps.

By fastening my old bras on the inmost set of hooks I can still wear them, diameter-wise, but have to almost accordion-pleat my teats to get them aligned to push the cups out to where they should be.  Then I put on a shirt, and mooosh!  Baggy bra cups.  Horrors!  Worse yet, the largest of my old bras have room for my poor withered boobies to ooze out the bottom, as if they were semi-liquid, over the course of an hour or so.  Since this makes me somewhat anxious about catching them in my waistband, I bought a couple of ‘sports bras,’ which my friends nickname ‘uniboob bras.’  The source of this moniker is still not that obvious to me, as my pendulous skin sacks just flatten against my chest entirely and vanish.  My problem with sports bras is the constant fear that people are going to address me as ‘sir.’

I try to look on the bright side.  Next time I go for a mammogram, there will be no pinching.  I doubt the plates of the ‘ice vise’ adjust close enough together to pinch two layers of skin with no stuffing between them.  Come to think of it, I’ll just suggest I pull them outwards with a strong light under them and the doctor will be able to see everything she needs to.

As for my feminine curves… Can anyone loan me a pair of rolled socks?

Valentine's Day Love Triangle

       Shortly after I started filling my bird feeders in early winter, I was delighted to see a female cardinal eating.  They are favorites of mine, with a subtle beauty that pleases my artistic senses better than the gaudy males’ plumage.  This one hung around all winter, and I gave her the not-very-original name Mrs. Cardinal.  As time passed, I began to feel sorry for her, as it seemed “Mrs.” was not the correct honorific for her.  Where was her mate?  Had she ever had one?  Poor thing, all alone in the world!

Around the middle of December I finally glimpsed a male cardinal in the yard.  At last, a suitor for Mrs. Cardinal!  The problem was, they totally ignored each other.  Among the flocks of juncos, woodpeckers, and chickadees feeding all around them, they were the only birds of their kind using my feeding area, but seemed unaware of that fact.  Now the question was, were they waiting for spring and the urgings of their hormones, or was she just playing hard-to-get?

It was on Valentine’s Day I finally saw them interacting.  They were within a foot of each other, alone on my ground-feeding spot.  She was watching him as he pecked at a sunflower seed, cocked his head at her, and began to hunker down, almost assuming the baby-bird-begging-for-food position that is a large part of the courtship ritual for many birds.

“Aww!”  I thought.  “Mrs. Cardinal is finally going to get her Mister, and on Valentine’s Day, too!  Love is in the air.”

That’s when things got complicated.  A fluttering in a nearby sapling drew my eye.  To my surprise, there was a second female cardinal there.  Was it my imagination, or was she looking daggers at the tableau on the ground?  I distinctly heard the “dramatic discovery” organ music of an old soap opera.  Then she launched into flight and dive-bombed Mrs. Cardinal.  Or should I now call her, Miss Cardinal, the interloper in what was obviously a long-established marriage?  The “other woman!”  Miss Cardinal flew away, and the Missus rounded on her mate with battering wings.

“You cad!  Two-timing me, are you?  Take this, and this!”  She goaded the poor hen-pecked (are female cardinals called “hens,” I wonder?) male into flight, buzzing and berating him as they left.

The tragedy-laden closing music of the soap opera swells, as I wonder what lies in store for Mr. Cardinal after his momentary surrender to temptation;  And, did Miss Cardinal know she was luring a married man into infidelity?  Will she ever find love?  I may never know the answer, for even if their soap opera continues, it’s not likely to be where I can watch.

I was left with a smile on my face, though, for the privilege of enjoying a Valentine’s Day Special, Potter County style.

Associative Memory

Somewhere there exists a recording of me spieling out nearly an hour of poetry from memory, word- and diction-perfect.  Long passages of Shakespeare, parts of “Evangeline,” even the Moody Blues.  It was a long-ago New Year’s Eve, I had been drinking champagne, and something set off my associative memory.  Probably someone dared me, which is not a safe thing for anyone under those circumstances. I don’t know why I can only do this when I’ve had a glass or two.  Today I tried to recite a simple, standard poem from memory without the aid of alcohol, and this is what came out.  The faint of heart may wish to stop reading now.

Once upon a midnight dreary,
As I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a volume of long-forgotten lore;
From above there came a rapping,
Then I heard a gentle tapping,
And I knew my bird was crapping,
Crapping on my chamber floor.
I hurled an oath, a book flew after,
Knocked the raven from its rafter;
Then I wrung its scrawny neck and flung it to the floor.
Loud I cried out, “I don’t wan’ no
“Filthy birds and stinking guano
“In my room, now or manano.
“Never!” quoth I. “Nevermore!”

Arguing With The Weather

Yes, it’s cold.  It’s winter.  This is northern Pennsylvania.  Stop whining and layer up!  The weather is not listening to you and could care less about your opinion of it.

Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in a place that has ‘climate’ but no seasons.  I find the cycle of the year invigorating, and greet each new season with puppy-like enthusiasm.  In winter, I enjoy the feeling of just being alive and thriving, despite the conditions, defying the ‘little death.’

The Polar Vortex is nothing new.  It’s an atmospheric condition that’s always been there, like the Jet Stream, but now the media has gotten hold of it.  We’ve had weather this cold before.  As long as the pipes don’t freeze and the power stays on, why complain?  This is temporary.  This is not the world of “Game of Thrones,” our winter is only going to last another month-and-a-half.

Half the politicians are saying this is evidence that Global Warming is a hoax, the other half saying this is proof it is real.  Lesser ones are griping about school closings and expenditure for snow removal on roads, and using all this as a reason to increase taxes, as if they needed an actual reason.  In short, the cold weather is the topic of every news article, interview, internet post, and conversation.

It could be worse.  They could be doing their usual rants about celebrities I’ve never heard of doing things I don’t care about.

That’s MY rant for today.

My Theobromide Addiction

One close friend who knows me far too well gave me a dark chocolate orange for Christmas.  For those who never had one, this is a replica of an orange made of chocolate, which, at a blow on the stem end, breaks apart into twenty perfectly-formed segments of delectable, slightly orange-flavored, chocolate delight.  The milk chocolate ones are easy to find;  the dark chocolate ones, however, are rather rare.  And dark chocolate, as any theobromide addict will tell you, is what we hard-core cases love the most.  Just as the serious wine lover prefers dry wines, serious chocolate lovers prefer it dark.  Me, I have a passion for both.  Don’t get me started about the proper wine to serve with chocolate!

I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, preferring the richness of fats even in desserts.  Pies, with their shortening-laden crust, buttery cookies, ice cream, and the occasional slice of cheesecake fill my dessert needs.  But one dessert component always turns me on, no matter how it’s prepared:  chocolate.  Don’t even try to give me a piece of cake unless it’s chocolate.  As for ‘blondies,’ non-chocolate brownies… Heresy!  The inventor should be killed in some prolonged and inventive way, such as being drowned in a vat of vanilla extract.  

But I can control myself.  I’m not your stereotypical chocoholic woman who snarfs down an entire box of Godiva’s best in a single afternoon.  I can limit myself to a piece or two daily until the box is gone.  I can even share some without screaming,  “MINE!  MINE!” and snatching it from the would-be chocolate thief’s hand just before it reaches her mouth.  I admit that self-control is easier with individually-wrapped chocolates, which is why I stock up on “one-biters” at Halloween and Christmas, when they are available in the best variety, and freeze them.

I’m smart enough to know the exceptions:  Dark chocolate covered cashews are irresistible, and a pound of those vanishes from my hand without any will power on my part.  As for chocolate-covered pretzels, there are NO exceptions to my passion for them:  Whether the pretzels have dark chocolate, milk chocolate, or even white chocolate coating.  I have no control.  They come into my possession, they go in my mouth.  Quickly, and with no sharing.  For that reason, I seldom if ever buy either of these types of goody.

Being diabetic, I tried sugar-free chocolate, the idea being to be able to eat twice as much of it for the same impact on my condition.  If you have tried these yourself, you know how I reacted.  Let’s just say that “Ex-Lax” is not chocolate flavored deliberately for taste appeal.  Sugar-free chocolate (even ONE) is my last-chance cure for stubborn bowels.  Needless to say, one try convinced me that a smaller portion of the “real thing” was the way to go.

As for that chocolate orange… I kept it for almost a month, just looking at it and anticipating.  Today I decided it was time.  I took it out of the box, reading the instructions on the sticker at the stem end of the orange foil wrapping:  “Break Before Unwrapping.”  I contemplated whether I would choose a ball-peen hammer or a plastic mallet to do the honors.  In the end I grabbed the nearest blunt instrument (the small carpenter’s hammer I use for light household chores such as picture-hanging) and gave it several whacks.  Yes!  Peeling away the foil, I saw twenty almost-perfect segments with only about a teaspoon of shards.  Gorgeous!  I placed the segments carefully in a Ziploc bag and greedily gobbled down the shards, making sure the foil was totally clean before discarding it.  (I did, however, restrain myself from licking up the tiny chocolate crumbs that had somehow escaped to fall on the counter.)  Before sealing the Ziploc, I extracted one segment and savored it.  Ecstasy!

Can I make it last twenty days?

I doubt it!

Eulogy for a Working Cat

I bought a copy of “Hobo Finds A Home,” a children’s book about a stray cat who has many adventures before finding that special human being to take him in and love him, before I realized that the author was the local bookstore owner, and the cat Hobo was the store’s mascot.  It’s a cute and touching book made even more so by knowing it’s a true story.  And, of course, by knowing the characters!

As it happens, From My Shelf Books is a great bookstore, one of the increasingly-rare independent bookstores of the type that used to grace every small community.  This one boasts a great mix of new and used books, and lots of them, so I could browse for an hour at a time and occasionally unearth a rare gem long out-of-print.  As time went on, I also found they could locate and acquire many of these rarities, or new books as they were issued, or any of the other search-and-find services I didn’t expect from anything less than a huge chain store.  In addition, the store is a center for reading and writing programs and outreach services for the reading community for the entire north-central part of the State, which I gradually became involved in as I continued to patronize the store.  In particular, there are the store owners and employees I rapidly came to know on a first-name basis.  And especially Hobo, the charming fur fellow who’d wander through the shop greeting people, or surprise them by waking from a nap and suddenly making them realize he was a real cat.  There’s something about a business with a cat, a special charm, a home-like atmosphere I find welcoming and irresistible.

When the store moved from its cramped cellar digs to a spacious corner shop, I was one of several volunteers to pack and move boxes and boxes of books, not to mention the shelves and displays.  The new store provided room for more books, games, and eclectic gifts.  Hobo loved the new place, with its sunny windows for napping, and cozy cubbies behind (and in) the display case.  When he wasn’t right on top of it, kibitzing every sale.  Naturally, his book was featured, in two different printings, and he even had his own ‘author events’ and signings.

I looked forward to seeing this friendly guy every visit to the bookstore and always spoke to him, usually with a few strokes.  He was so easy-going he would accept petting from almost every customer, even small children with little or no cat experience, with gracious kindness.  As a diplomat for feline-kind, he was number one.  I have to wonder how many local shelter cats would have found happy homes if Hobo had not introduced their prospective owners to the pleasure of cats.  Even as laid-back a cat as Hobo had his limits, though;  During a big party at the bookstore last summer, he stayed inconspicuous in an out-of-the-way cubbyhole.  I noticed him, though, and wandered over casually to share some Cheez-its with him, for which he was deeply grateful.

Hobo continued to work hard at the shop, the furry Customer Relations Manager, helping with gift wrapping, inventory, credit card sales (by lying on top of the card swiper), and even re-organizing the customer file cards.  As time went on, he had his own blog, his own Facebook page, and even a featured column in the Wellsboro Gazette.  He appeared in the commercial spot that made it to the finals in the Intuit Super Bowl Small Business sweepstakes.  There was nothing Hobo would not do for his bookstore friends and his beloved human family.

In December, Hobo developed what turned out to be his final illness.  Luckily, it mainly manifested itself in listlessness and loss of appetite at first, but he soon began having difficulty breathing.  His human family did everything they could for him, as did the local vet.  The support from the community was heartfelt and immediate.  Fans of Hobo all over the area, even throughout the United States, prayed, contributed money for his vet bills, and sent e-mails and posts of love and encouragement.  The tumor growing in his thorax had other plans, though.

I think his humans knew it was the end.  For several days during the last two weeks of his life, they brought him to the bookstore where he curled up in his quilt-lined basket, saying farewell to the people he’d loved as they came into the store to pay their respects.  I was one of them, petting the still-soft fur on the thin body, feeling the inaudible vibrations of his purr, knowing that we were wishing one another goodbye.  It was heart-breaking, but I’m glad, so glad, we had the chance.  Just as I’m glad I knew this sweet boy who had such a huge impact on so many human (and feline) lives.

Hobo touched hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives and made them better.  Some directly, most through the printed word or electronic media.  He made a difference in the way people view stray cats, or any cats at all.  Those of us who already loved cats were won over by his charm, becoming his devoted and loving fans.  He made a difference for good in the world.  How many of us humans can say the same?