In your sights

It’s that time of the year. Autumn leaves, crisp mornings and the male of the species at his arrogant peak. Steam spouts from his nostrils into the frosty air as he paws the earth. He bellows forth his challenge and strides both boldly yet cautiously through the forest, to meet the challenges of the season. Testosterone levels are at their peak. Caution is thrown to the wind as the presence of a challenger to their dominance is sensed.

Just to clear up any confusion, I’m not talking about a trophy bull moose or a 12-point buck. I’m describing the behaviour of the great white (or any other shade) hunter. In Drizzle Creek, they stride confidently into the Bakery, most any hour of the day, decked out in their blaze orange togs, except for the crafty bow hunter in full camouflage.

Shuffling up to the debating table, their arrogance, pre or post hunt is only distinguishable by the odor or lack thereof that only a week in a hunting camp can instill.

Pickle, who was full 21 years of age before he realized you could shoot a deer other than at night and without a flashlight, was cool and nonchalant.

“A bull and a calf, of course. It’s all we had tags for” he offers, off-hand, before launching into a half hour speech on the wile and cunning required to bag the trophies. Pickle has become a pillar of sportsmanship and now follows all hunting regulations to a T. After all his brother and hunting partner is a game warden.

When snorts of disbelief greeted some of his details, he hesitated not a whit.

“Well what part of my story didn’t you like anyways? Tell me and I’ll change it,” he offered as he sucked in another mouthful of hi-test.

Pickle had to take this tack as his fishing partner; the Runt no longer hunts and couldn’t vouch for him. Recent reports of Sasquatch sighting have some what unnerved The Runt and although there is no official season on them, he is concerned some wild hunter on an adrenalin high, might mistake him for the legendary bigfoot and drop him while he was innocently sitting on a stump in the cut.

“I’m just to close to the pension, to be taking those kind of risks,” he philosophized, as he ordered up a second serving of flaxseed toast and peanut butter.

Personally, even yours truly joined the hunt this year, after an absence of several seasons. On the first morning in camp, Norm and Rick took me for a Hollywood Hunt- cruising the bush roads in a vehicle- while they explained what areas they would push the following day and where marksmen would be posted.

As I am slow and old, as well as a questionable shot, I was crammed into the centre of the front bench with Rick and Norm on the doors, ready to jump out in a split second and drop any trophy unlucky enough to show itself.

“Now remember we only have bull tags so be really careful. NO COWS!” emphasized Norm for about the 20^th time as we bounced along rut and pothole heaven.

“Now we’ll push in from that ridge on the other side of the swamp and maybe we’ll scare up a moose. If you post along here you could get a good shot at a…MOOSE!” exclaimed Norm as the truck bounced over another rock and skidded to a halt.

“Look there! Just 100 yards!" he whispered at about 100 decibels as he and Rick piled out of the truck, simultaneously slamming clips into their rifles. I followed behind trying to untangle by legs from the gearshift and the binocular strap, eventually making it to a firing location. I loaded up but didn’t lift the scope. I’d leave this one to the professionals.

“ Has it got horns? Has it got horns? Has it got hhhhh-horns?” stammered Norm as he whipped back the bolt to chamber a shell. Too late he remembered he’d disassembled his rifle the prior evening, and forgotten to re-insert the bolt-retaining pin. He whipped the bolt clear out of the rifle a good two feet. An arc of shells sprayed up out of the clip and descended into a mud puddle.

He scrambled to reassemble and reload, all the while asking, “Has it got horns? Has it got horns? Has it got hhhh-horns?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see it!” exclaimed Rick who was trying to peer through his scope. Then realizing he still had the lens covers on, snorted in disgust and sent them flying into the mud puddle.

The moose determined to win a Darwin award waited patiently.

Finally Norm had his rifle reassembled and aimed. Rick had his scope focused on target.

“Has he got horns?” Norm asked once more.

“Yes! Positively” replied Rick firmly.

“Well shoot it then, d@#$#% !” exploded Norm.

BOOM! BOOM! We had meat.

Now if there’s some part of my story you don’t like, well tell me about it and I’ll change it

Invasion of the carcass carters

Undoubtedly you noticed the strange creatures skulking around the bus stations and airports over Thanksgiving- those wasted looking souls with the strange haunted looks. Not vagrants or terrorists, they’re just first Year University and College students returning home for a substantial home cooked meal.

“I ate the last of the cereal this morning,” moans one waif to another. “There was no milk, so I used the rest of the Kool Aid.”

It’s kind of like when the young cheetahs of the Kalahari are kicked out on their own and find making a kill is quite a bit more difficult than when Mom used to serve it up, steaming hot and plentiful.

And so they arrived Friday and Saturday, tumbling off buses and out of packed student cars. Their knapsacks loaded down with books and pending assignments due early the next week. The garbage bag slung over their shoulder is stuffed with six weeks laundry. They stagger to the door where a beaming Mom waits in her empty nest.

“Hi, what’s for supper?” is the greeting as Junior hands the laundry bag to Mom, and then his eyes light up,” What’s that I smell? Is it ready yet?”

Within a half hour every plate on the table is licked clean. Mom beams. Dad looks at the empty pot roast platter. No snack tonight. A cavernous voice echoes from the vicinity of the fridge, where a skinny butt protrudes, “Hey Dad, I need the car for a while, ‘kay?”

And so the weekend goes. Eat, sleep and prowl. These wild critters are clearly not domesticatable. Never a book is cracked, nor a pen put to paper on those pending assignments. But the computer does get used. Dad had spent a month of evenings and two hundred bucks freeing it of viruses and spyware so it would even work again. Within 24 hours, Junior has it once again plugged full of downloads, including the latest bugs.

“Dad, I think you need a new hard drive, this one’s way too slow.” advises Junior condescendingly.

Monday afternoon, Junior's ride shows up at the door as he wolfs down the last of his Thanksgiving dinner, including the better part of a monster turkey.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

Mom sniffles, and presses a care package on Junior who is trying to balance the last quarter of the pumpkin pie in one hand while stuffing a drumstick in his knapsack.

Dad looks out the door and asks, “Where’s MY car?”

“Oh it’s parked down the street a few blocks,” breezes Junior as he stuffs the garbage bag of now clean laundry, gratis Mom, into the already overstuffed trunk, sitting on the lid to force it closed.

“It’s just out of gas, but no problem, I just walked home. Here’s the keys,” he reassures offering a quick hug- not too long, maturity is still a few years off.

Into the car and they’re off. Mom sniffs. Dad sighs and gets out the lawnmower gas can.

In the car, Junior digs out the drumstick and begins to gnaw. “Anyone get that assignment done?”

A chorus of snickers and ‘”yeah, right!”s rumbles around the interior with a final reply, “Trade you a piece of pie for the rest of that drumstick.”

Your own space

Your own space

If you ever worked with animals, protocols for space are very evident and they change depending on the situation. Cattle are real social animals. Just watch them during the hot weather when they are free to roam the pasture at will.

When they head in for a drink, there is all kinds of pushing, jostling, and impatience to get at the water. The bullies slake their thirst first and then try to keep the meeker members of the herd from the trough, but eventually relent and everyone gets a drink.

Same thing for grazing. Everyone eats at the same time- no alternating, or working in shifts. Every critter is just well enough spaced to stay out of horn range of its neighbour. About the only time the herd will crowd together without friction is when the flies are really bad and they swish tails for mutual benefit.

People on the other hand being sane, reasonable, highly intelligent creatures are not prone to such foolish "space" issues, right? Wrong!!!

Marital space for instance. Early on, there isn't any. You just can't get close enough. But as passions cool, your own side of the bed, your pillow, and your stuff become increasingly important.

Tolerant phrases like, "Whatever you say Dear," are replaced by the likes of, "You threw out my what? Are you crazy?"

In time however, you reach understandings on "space", Just like the Pearl of the Orient and I have. She stays out of my office and I stay out of her lingerie. A very sensible arrangement.

In the coffee shop, where males congregate to tell the latest lies- with the female we call it gossip- personal space issues are a socialized ritual.

Down in Hooterville at the cafe it is called the Hooterville Hop. In Drizzle Creek at the Bakery it is called the Chair Shuffle.

At the Bakery tables are grouped to hold parties of four except for one larger one serving as the discussion group area- the debating table. This debating table is generally habituated totally by males.

Drizzle Creek males in their blissful ignorance, consider themselves one of the last great bastions of sexism and chauvinism, remaining in all of North America. Employment equity is unheard of. Equality of the sexes is not even open to discussion. The females know they are superior and see no reason to come down to the male level.

Observing the "space" quirks of the Drizzle Creek males is quite a unique experience.

The normal six seats at the forum table are quickly filled, but others crowd up to the table and the "Chair Shuffle" gets under way. This is an almost unconscious act of automatically adjusting the space between table members.

You don't just get up and move your chair. The "Shuffle" involves special technique and skills.

The Drizzle Creek male generally sits down by grabbing the crotch of his pants, hoisting it up to ensure there is plenty of free room or perhaps just to reaffirm his masculinity. Then he swings his leg over the back of the chair, before he lowers his butt.

Once lowered, his hand transfers from his pants crotch to the seat of the chair between his legs. He then lifts up on the chair and proceeds to manoeuvre his chair in short rapid hops to his proper position at the table.

As if on cue other males at the table automatically grab the seat of their own chairs, and eyes quickly darting left and right, "Hop, hop, hop," adjust their own space.

When Stinkki Bootela, Drizzle Creek’s least eligible bachelor, shuffles up to the table, his high level of testosterone, causes his neighbours to take a couple of extra hops to make sure they're not too close.

When the latest political hopeful wanders in from the Trawna with another handful of election lies, the whole crew shuffles around to face the new arrival. Looks just like it does on Nature, when buffalo at the water hole turn to face the approaching lion.

But the strangest sight of all is when four or five bodies rise and leave in unison. Those remaining, have their space sensitivities kick into overdrive, feeling being seated too closely threatens their masculinity. A veritable syncopation of the shuffle erupts as they re-space themselves around the table, scurrying around like a bunch of surprised cockroaches.

If you don't believe me, stop into the Bakery some morning and observe. You could even get involved. And please be prepared to contribute at least one new lie. Besides the shuffle looks a lot easier and more entertaining than line dancing.

Beer Can Chicken

It was beastly hot and there was no way we were going to roast the house and ourselves just to do up a chicken for our guests that Sunday. They were special guest, but not that special.

“Why don’t you do something up on the barbecue?” suggested my wife, The Pearl of the Orient. The Pearl is very good at delegating chores to me, even if I am resistant to taking direction.

“I think we’re about out of propane,” I offered hoping, against hope that would put the ball back in her cooking court. You see I had the afternoon all planned out with a cold six-pack.

“Well fix it Dear Jackie, Dear Jackie, Dear Jackie. Well fix it Dear Jackie. Dear Jackie, fix it!” the Pearl rhymed off in here best Harry Belafonte accompaniment fashion.

I dragged out the obsolete, rusted, empty propane cylinder and headed off to the service station for an exchange.

“I can’t give you any credit on that old piece of junk. It’s obsolete,” the attendant informed me.

“Obsolete! Why I just got it from here two months ago!” I lied indignantly; hurriedly trying to wipe off the five years of accumulated cobwebs and grime it had collected in my garage.

“Yeah, right!” commented the attendant ringing up 23 bucks for the refill plus another 25 for the replacement tank. I grumbled all the way home.

As I lay on the deck hooking up the propane, the first of the six pack sitting at the ready to soothe my parched throat and assuage my soon to be scraped knuckles, the mosquito settled lovingly on my head and proceeded to extract a blood sample.

I gave it a good swat with my free hand, remembering too late, that was the hand holding the crescent wrench. I missed the mosquito, but not my skull.

Parents and children exiting the church next door, made a pointed retreat for their cars rather than tarrying around to exchange pleasantries. Looks like another friendly neighbourhood petition will be circulated.

Now, what to cook? The Pearl handed me a hunk of metal that came with the new barbecue and announced, “Beer can chicken. Read the directions.”

To my horror, those directions included the sacrifice of half a can of beer to be shared with the chicken, stuffing can and all up its backside. Well let me tell you, no way was I sharing half a beer with any chicken. It’s all or nothing.

Fortunately, beer is considered a necessary service during the summer season in a tourist community, so I was able to obtain a re-supply at the local snakebite remedy store. Otherwise I would have been forced into a smuggling run and would probably have wound up in the slammer for the rest of the weekend.

In the end I got more beer and managed to get the chicken on the barbecue shortly before the guests arrived. Norm and I settled onto the deck in the shade, with the new six-pack as I explained how I had set up the beer can chicken.

“I know,” interrupted Norm, “ I’ve done it lots of times. Just open a can of beer and stuff it in the chicken and sit ‘er on the grill.”

“Open..?” I asked as the dawn of reason began to suffuse my befuddled brain and I headed for the barbecue.

With a look at first of amazement and then one of sheer terror, Norm dove for cover behind the picnic table as I raised the lid on the grill.

It was just the little added shock the beer can needed as the pop-top popped and the chicken achieved lift off. By the time it reached the top of the house it had achieved orbital velocity. It must have burnt up on re-entry as we never found it, but the neighbour’s shiatsu did develop an awful case of indigestion.

However, the takeout pizza was great and we had just enough left of the six-pack to wash it down.

The truth of the matter

The secret to a happy, long, and lasting marriage is mutual respect, devotion, and truthfulness, right?

Well maybe the truthfulness part should only be attempted as a last resort. The Pearl of the Orient and I have kept the knot tied for going on 39 years and we hope to keep the divorce lawyers at bay for a couple more decades.

Also regarding the Pearl’s little truth tidbits, I simply don’t want to know. One surprise visit with the undertaker was enough. So I will not use this forum for “digging up bones.” After all true love has to have a good dollop of mystery.

However, this past weekend’s Rainy River Walleye Tournament, revealed some real truths amongst the contestants, for the entire world to see. Take Cathy and Ziggy for example.

Ziggy, a long time competitor in the RRWT was happy with his fishing partner. It was male bonding at its best. Friendly banter, spirited competition, and no strings attached.

Then it happened. The unthinkable. Cathy put her name on the waiting list and was drawn. But she didn’t have a partner. Who would she select? Ziggy was in a real pickle. He finally offered to partner, and when the initial spousal interest was cool, he finally insisted.

Morning of the Tournament Cathy showed up with her survival kit. A roll of duct tape to silence Ziggy. A revolver to keep him in line and coerce him back to the dock for potty breaks. Two bottles of medicinal potion to ward off malaria, snake bite, west nile, and the plague. A sign directing him to shut up and fish. A set of handcuffs to keep him from going AWOL. And lastly, a big tub to put the fish in.

So why did Ziggy insist on fishing with his wife?

Was it a sense of chivalry? Ziggy? C’mon!

Was it loyalty? They have dogs for that?

Loneliness? Maybe a bit.

Mid life crisis? Ziggy’s way past that!

Mating season? Not on your life, says Cathy!

No, it was none of these reasons. The truth is, it was cold, white-knuckled fear!

Fear that his manhood would suffer unrecoverable damage.

Fear, his male ego would be squashed like the migrating frogs crossing #11 the past couple of weeks.

Fear, smashed like his prop hitting a boulder.

Fear!

Fear, that Cathy with another partner, would scoop poor old Ziggy at the RRWT.

The bare, raw, truth is not to be taken lightly.

I’m lost

Everyone knows that real men don’t ask for directions, but few know the real reason why. It’s fear plain and simple. Not fear of being lost, or being wrong, or any minor shortcomings the fairer sex might heap upon us.

The real reason we males are more than reluctant to ask for directions is the overriding fear some female might try to give us directions. That is a sure path to disaster.

For example, my wife the Pearl of the Orient is a very talented lady, but directions and reading maps aren’t her forte. A typical trip question after we have been traveling west for a half-day goes something like this.

“So now we are at west, what direction is that?” she’ll inquire earnestly, while pointing off into the sunset. But in her defense, I must admit she’s a real whiz at keeping the road maps folded neatly and keeping track of my faux pas.

Should the male take his wife’s advice- admittedly, a rare occurrence- and ask the cashier at the gas station for directions, I’ll bet the response from the helpful lady behind the counter will go something like this.

“… that place is just the other side of town. Go up the street to your right,” she says waving her hand left, “up past Mrs. Johnson’s house. It the one with the gingerbread trim and the pink peonies.”

“Then on past Mrs. Smith’s… she’s got that beautiful long porch, with the swing set, and the fuchsia curtains, and turn right before the bridge,” she continues again waving her left arm….

You ask if she might draw you a little map. Mistake number two. This requires a group effort with the other cashier and the food prep staff converging with a napkin and a tube of lipstick. Placing the napkin on the counter, they begin a cooperative work of art, rotating the napkin as lines are drawn and notations noted.

The matter finally comes to a head when the big fat biker waiting impatiently in line behind you snarls, “Three blocks down the hill past the beer store and hang a left!”

You stammer your thanks and hurry off, leaving the staff all huffy about not appreciating their effort.

Luckily things are changing, as Moe showed me on a recent trip in his new van. It was GPS equipped and it only took the better part of two hours for me to get it up and running. The sarcasm and running commentary from Giggles and the Pearl in the back spurred on my efforts. Finally, I got the home address in the gadget changed from California to Drizzle Creek (I think all mini vans naturally home in on California- it’s a Grapes of Wrath thing)

From then on the little red arrow faithfully traced our course down the blue line of the designated highway, except for a couple times when it showed we were driving through a cornfield. Moe assured me we never left the pavement and sure enough we arrived at our destination without once stopping for directions.

On the way home, I continued to tweak the new toy and found a menu that offered voice prompts. I pushed OK and a chill of the coldest ice ran up and down my spine. The computer-generated voice was definitely female. I lost all confidence and began putting it to the test.

“Prepare to turn left in one quarter mile’” it prompted politely.

“Turn left in 300 feet,” it soon added in a stronger tone.

“Turn left in 50 feet,” it ordered even more sternly

“TURN NOW! TURN NOW! TURN NOW!” the voice shrieks, beeps twice, and flashes an error message as we cruise blithely on through the intersection.

“If possible make a legal U turn in 300 feet,” are the new orders, in a voice now dripping with disdain. We ignore the new directions and continue homeward.

And so it went for the next four hours as I furiously programmed in mis-destinations and we joyously ignored the voice prompts. The co-pilots in the back kept making pointed comments about boys and their toys.

But I think the system was learning from our truancy as we prepared to make the last left turn, it directed us to “Turn right and proceed on past Mrs. Johnson’s house, the one with the gingerbread trim and …”

Fish or eat bait

With the Rainy River Walleye Tournament just a few days off, the crew at the Bakery in Drizzle Creek were bemoaning the paucity of fresh shiners, their favourite bait. Even Pickle couldn’t scrounge up a supply from his older brother Dill, nor his younger sibling Gherkin. I dug through my archives and came up with this tidbit penned in 2003 for just such an emergency.

Bait! What’ll it be? Worms? Too much work. Minnows? No money. Blew it all on beer. Time to get creative. Take a look in the kitchen and see what else might do.

Voila! Answer to both you and your wife’s prayers.

A shrimp ring.

Now this is the answer to your wife’s prayers, because although said ring was intended for the Church Women’s meeting this afternoon, she realizes unless you have an adequate supply of bait, there’s always a chance you may come home early…. before the meeting’s over and all the other members of the Auxiliary have safely departed.

She still remembers the last time this occurred when you and your buddies, fresh out of bait, but not beer, arrived in the middle of the luncheon, and took over the kitchen to clean up the rest of the beer, and that stringer of ripe fish.

If nothing else, it sure provided a good serving of gossip- as well as a few new cuss words- for the Auxiliary for the next couple of months.

So you can be assured your wife is more than prepared to negotiate your guaranteed absence for the duration.

Bargaining from a position of strength in this marriage is a completely new experience for you, but don’t let it go to your head. If you play your cards right, not only will you not ever have to waste money on minnows again, you’ll be the envy of all your fishing buddies as well. Here’s how.

The shrimp ring is key, You should be able to negotiate for at least half of it- maybe even all of it, if the Minister’s wife and mother are attending this day. Whatever. On special at $3.99 for 80 pieces, cooked shrimp are way cheaper than minnows at $4.50 a dozen. And they are not as slippery and taste way better. That’s right, “taste better”. Here’s the methodology.

Place your supply of bait- shrimp- in one of those zip lock plastic baggies in one pocket. In another pocket, another baggy of cocktail sauce- the spicy kind if you have an abundant supply of beer and Tums. Then you can bait your hook or snack at your leisure.

If the catching’s slow, ( the fishing itself is always good) you will be the envy of your group. While they cuss, swat flies and try to keep their minnows alive, you enjoy a succulent shrimp cocktail.

On the other hand if the catching is great, as soon as the shrimp bait on your hook starts getting a little tattered, simply dip it, jig and all, into the cocktail sauce and daintily nibble it straight off the hook. Um, Um good! And grossing out your buddies is a top-notch fringe benefit.

A word of caution at this point, make sure you use only barbless hooks.Catch and release takes on a whole new meaning when it’s your tongue or lip that gets caught trying for that last morsel on said hook. You hook yourself, it’s a sure bet, after recovering from a fit of hysterical laughter, your buddies will embellish and spread the news of your misfortune faster and further than the Auxiliary’s review of the Preacher’s current affair with the choir leader.

Aside from the embarrassment, such a tale on reaching the wife’s ears could seriously impair all future supplies of bait from the shopping cart.

So the choice is yours, fish or eat bait..