Hunting Season STUFF
Years ago when I lived in Florida, I chuckled at some fall ads in our huge Sunday paper. One of the large sporting goods mega-store chains was gearing up for hunting season, and the items they advertised made me laugh. I lived in the southern part of the state where the weather is hot and humid at least nine months a year. People were into the beach, snorkeling, scuba diving, wind surfing, and boating. Folks biked and jogged and roller-bladed. No one I knew hunted. These were city folk. South Beach and Coconut Grove were nearby. The only hunting was part of the club scene — starting about midnight each evening — and usually indulged in by the young.
Years ago when I lived in Florida, I chuckled at some fall ads in our huge Sunday paper. One of the large sporting goods mega-store chains was gearing up for hunting season, and the items they advertised made me laugh. I lived in the southern part of the state where the weather is hot and humid at least nine months a year. People were into the beach, snorkeling, scuba diving, wind surfing, and boating. Folks biked and jogged and roller-bladed. No one I knew hunted. These were city folk. South Beach and Coconut Grove were nearby. The only hunting was part of the club scene — starting about midnight each evening — and usually indulged in by the young.
The Central and Northern parts of Florida are quite different from the area in which I lived. Some parts are known as horse country and are quite lovely. There are rednecks and everything. (It’s still politically correct to say “redneck,” isn’t it? I mean, the term appears in C&W songs, right?) North Florida in particular was much like Central Texas; similar latitude, temperatures, plants and trees, even lifestyle. This was before Disney World started Orlando off in a totally different direction. So the ads for hunting gear were no doubt aimed at Florida residents anywhere BUT balmy South Florida. They appeared in the Miami Herald anyway. I read them and roared.
My uncle had been a hunter. Each year of my childhood, his vacation consisted of a trip into West Texas with his buddies. I suspect there was as much card playing and dice rolling as rifle shooting, maybe more. His best hunting friend was a man from Del Rio nicknamed “Cooter.” (I swear I’m not making this up.) As far as I know, other than his guns, a leather suitcase of hunting clothes, a cot and mattress (all of which I inherited and still cherish), my uncle had no fancy extras, no doe estrus to rub on trees, no buck or doe calls or antlers he hit together. He didn’t spray himself with stuff to mask his scent to the deer (although he probably stepped in cow poop on the way to his hunting spot. These guys were no nonsense, basic hunters.
All I really knew of my uncle’s hunting were the mounts on the wall here at the ranch. (I suspect my aunt didn’t allow them in the house in Waco. They used to hang on the interior wall of his garage there.) When he returned from a successful trip, he always drove by our house to show off his success. Just what a little Bambi-loving girl wanted to see — a pickup bed full of dead deer. I feigned excitement because I knew he was proud of his trophies, and I adored him. Secretly I was horrified. But I do remember once taking a deer’s LEG to school for show-and-tell — to demonstrate the action of the tendon. I can’t believe I did that. The science of it, the wonder of the workings of the animal’s body overcame my distaste. And my parents allowed it! My father was the one who taught me about the tendon. Can you imagine what my poor teacher must have thought?
There’s something else I remember. A couple of times, my uncle’s hunting friends had mistakenly shot a doe with a young fawn. The thought of it still upsets me. It must have bothered my uncle as well, for he brought the fawns (certainly with great difficulty) here to the ranch where Mabel Zander bottle fed them until they could be on their own. I sometimes played with and fed them. Mabel told me that after they left to fend for themselves, they would sometimes return to visit, always keeping their distance. I like to think that some of the deer in this area now are descendents of those long-ago fawns.
My Florida days were some time after my uncle’s annual hunting trips and well before I became personally acquainted with things like camo jackets and netting, insulated overalls, deer stands, buck rubs, and deer snorts. So when I read in my Miami Herald years ago about hand warmers, I had to laugh. There I was, living year round and sweltering in the resort type heat, taking my kids to the beach. I found the descriptions of tree stands amusing — and all the accessories that went along with them, including devices with which to tie oneself to the tree. I couldn’t imagine being cold enough in Florida to need glove and sock warmers.
Dave Barry was at that time a regular contributor to the Miami Herald’s magazine section. This was before he became nationally known. The son of one of my friends baby-sat Barry’s kids. I always found his columns and stories humorous. After I laughed at that ad, I felt compelled to write Dave — to give him my take on hunting from a South Florida perspective. It was a humorous letter. I noted several more hilarious (from my naïve, girly perspective) items in the sporting circular. Somewhere I still have the letter Dave Barry wrote back. He said he had once been asked to do a piece about this very subject and had picked up or been given many interesting items for his research. They included some kind of weird camo netting outfit which he still owned to that day. Not being a hunter, he had similar reactions to mine.
No doubt about it, this sport is no longer as “pure” as in my uncle’s day; a man, a gun, a deer. It’s big business now, with leases costing up into the thousands and exotic trophy opportunities through the roof. I suppose hunters must make those precious, expensive days count. They need the tricks of the trade. This makes hardware and hunting establishments happy. For the uninitiated or the novice (like me), I’m just sayin’ — at the risk of being shot by some offended hunter — some of the “accessories” still seem a little funny.
(Gene Ellis, Ed.D is a Bosque County resident who returned to the family farm after years of living in New Orleans, New York, and Florida. She is an artist who holds a doctoral degree from New York University and is writing a book about the minor catastrophes of life.)
