Return to Top
I don't blame you sportsman for liking to hunt. I realize it is a thrill to be the one who bags the largest spread or make the cleanest shot, but no matter how tense and exciting the stories you bring home to tell (and retell to anyone who will listen), there is one universal story which takes place with those left behind--equally as tense, but never told.
Of course the mothers, sisters, and wives of the hunters never have to worry about the big hunt. No indeed! They don't have to battle the hub-bub of getting a license or spend time making plans: how to go, in whose party. They don't have to climb the mountains or run through the gullies to flush the deer out. They don't have to do anything but sit back and relax, and of course, cook the meat brought home. But let's look at mom.
Right now she's in the middle of the towns busiest grocery store buying cakes, apples, and all sorts of goodies to pack in the boys' lunches. "Ow!" she moaned to herself as the lady in front of her accidentally stepped on her toe, the same toe which had been mutilated in ZCMI's last Wednesday when she was trying to get a warm red sweat-shirt off the bargain table for Sonny. Mom finished her task and was home before very long where, after a hearty meal, she sharpened the knives while the men-folk cleaned and made ready their guns. She scooted them off to bed early by reminding them of the rest they needed in order to hold up under the strain of the morrow--and by volunteering to finished what needed to be done. We then hear her fussing around in the kitchen washing and filling canteens, packing lunches, checking to see that tags and clothing are all in order, and doing various other odd jobs until way into the night. Then after setting the alarm clock for 3:30, she retires.
Several hours later Mom wakes up, shuts off the alarm, and awakens Dad. He grudgingly rises and goes out to milk the cow.
A half hour later Mom gets up, wakes Sonny, and begins preparing a good warm breakfast. Shortly we find her out with Son and husband running the gate while they bridle and load the pack horse. Then with her last words, "Be careful", the hunters are off.
Now past the sleepy stage, Mom putters around until time for her work at the doctor's office.
The day draws on, causing only momentary excitement when the first reports of various hunting accidents are reported. But after Mom is assured it happened not to any of her kin, her hear-beat allows slows to normal, and so the day passes.
As the sun disappears, leaving in its place the shadows of eve, we find Mom busy again in the kitchen. There is absolutely nothing as tasty as a bowl of hot chili for the returning hunter, and this is exactly what Mom is preparing. She does not know the time the hunters will return and until they make their appearance a million things repeatedly race through her mind. "I wonder where they are? Could something have gone wrong? Maybe Sonny will get one for himself this year. Dad will surely get his; he's such a good shot. Why are they so late?" This mixture of emotion--anxiety, curiosity, pride, fear--sometimes collectively called worry, leaves Mom tense and on edge. At the end of the third hour she feels as if she's climbed the Matterhorn. Finally, we hear the unmistakable sound of the truck pulling in the driveway. The dog begins to bark, and Mom runs out to see if the hunt was a success or failure.
The tired, spotted with blood, and very hungry hunters proudly show their prizes--a spike and a four point buck.
After skinning and hanging them to chill, the "boys" return to the house, gorge their shrunken stomachs, take a nice warm bath and crawl into bed. Mom is left washing the supper dishes and the blood stained knives. Finally she retires. The last thing she remembers before dosing into solid slumber was dad saying, "It's a good thing you didn't go hunting today with us; I don't think you could hold up under the strain."