There he sits all alone. He cannot think of his wife, kids, tom cats or the drippy faucet or that eighty six point buck that evaded him last year will read his thoughts from a mile away, know he is there and stay hidden. Concentration must evolve around nothing but pretty white tail female deer so that he will come out of the woods right where the hunter has his gun already trained.
He hasn't used shaving lotion in weeks and has a beard that reaches to his belly button to prove it. Deodorant is a thing of the past and will only be used when the season is over. Only unscented soap can touch his body until after Christmas.
Only his eyes move, ever scanning the territory below him. Watching. Waiting. And even his eyes move slowly, never daring here and there. Not even a bikini clad model could make him whip around for a second look. Hunters are trained to know that any swift movement, including fast glances can scare off that big buck.
You can't see him, perched there in the trees on a little platform that's been painted to match the dead leaves. His clothing is also that color and so is his gun and even the funny looking gloves with the fingers cut out of them.
He left home at daybreak to sit in the coffee shop with others of the great hunter religion. Until the first rays of sunlight peek over the horizon they spin stories about what they will bag that day. That means what Bambi relative they'll strap down on the hood of their car. Then they'll drive very slowly through town so everyone can see that they are the biggest and best hunter in the whole county.
After the braggin' session, he goes to the tree stand to sit with more patience than he ever shows his teenage daughter or those boys that she brings home with their hats on backwards and their pants that are three sizes too big.
If the deer aren't biting that day, or is it fish that bite and deer that appear? I never can get all the terminology straight. In that case he takes home a case of chiggers and an allergy attack that promises to put at least two doctor's kids through college and maybe even put a pool in their back yards.
If the deer are biting and he does shoot a white tail that is worthy of the Guinness Book of World Records, then he takes home a case of chiggers, a dose of allergies, and a freezer of venison that the wife won't cook and the children refuse to eat.
It must be a hold over from the ancestors that date back to the cave days. Men brought home the meat and the women cooked it. But between then and now, women have burned their bras, burned the bridges at both ends and decided that packaged meat from the super market worked just fine. But the DNA surfaces in the fall and the men folks continue to talk about the hunt--about that bionic beast that ran away with six arrows protruding from it and two tons of shot imbedded in its hide.
Rest assure, there is another side of this story...kind of like Paul Harvey's news when he'd say, "And now the rest of the story."
While he's sitting in that deer stand, his wife has learned that it's the perfect time to shop, shop, shop. He'll never know what got bought or charged during "the season." He has to carry around a paper in his billfold to remember who he's married to and the names of his children.
Who does he think talked the gaming commission into putting "the season" so close to the holidays? It sure wasn't Santa Claus, darlin' deer hunter!
