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WHITE-WALKER: Saving slugs by the dozens
You’d think turning 65 was the highlight of a person’s life, for Pete’s sake, the way my husband was carrying on. Just because I suddenly became eligible for Medicare and I’m saving him oodles of money on monthly health insurance, and more importantly also on my hunting license because of the reduced price, he’s started looking at me like finally I’m not a drain on his wallet.
“You have a wallet?” I wondered aloud.
“What the hell do you think that bulge is in my back pocket?” he asked.
“I thought maybe it was a boil on your butt,” I laughed.
Last year, he forked over maybe $65 for almost the exact same thing that he plunked down a mere $5 for: my sportsman license. Guess I don’t have to worry about losing him to a younger woman; she’d be too expensive. But seriously and shockingly, we seem to share in our relationship total trust. That sure comes in handy when we’re out on the shooting range practicing our aim. We might have less than lovable thoughts toward one another, but we don’t even have to worry about either one of us pointing the gun in either direction.
Two days before hunting season, my husband decided to give me a hands-on pop quiz. I’m the teacher (sub) in the family and yet he’s giving the tests? What does that tell you? It tells me it’s probably killing him that there’s an area in my life that I just might know something he doesn’t. But one thing about the man — he seems to do well in everything, but as a teacher?
“Let’s see if you can remember from last year how to load this sucker,” he heavily inhaled, as he pulled out my “little” 12-gauge shotgun with the army green and brown camouflage strap that absolutely didn’t go with what I was wearing — a florescent orange hunting jacket that’s so bright it hurts your eyes to blink.
“You’re insinuating that I don’t know enough to open up the breech, insert the slugs, close it and turn on the safety,” I pouted.
“Don’t start!” he warned. “We’re out here to learn and to have fun. I’ve got five slugs here and you better make everyone of them count by hitting the target every time. These babies cost me $1.36 a piece. One miss and that’s like pouring a cup of coffee in the ditch. Two cups and there goes the two donuts you like with that coffee. Three cups and ... ”
“Hey, I get it, I get it,” I snapped.
The man’s not at all cheap, but he’s the product of the 1930s Depression and probably for him $1.36 is staggering. But I’m the product of the 2008s depression, trying to live up to the high expectations he has of me. But I’m so confused because I keep hearing my Grandmother Mama’s words in my head.
“ ‘Karolina,’ my grandmother warned, ‘No-a let a man-a know how-a smart you-a are — play stupido. Men-no like-a woman who-a know more-a than they-a do.’ ”
“Yeah, Mama,” I thought. “We’ll play ‘stupido’ and the next thing you know, you’re shooting yourself or better yet, you’re shooting someone else.”
Of course, I don’t mean that part, for I strongly believe it’s a mortal sin to inflict pain and suffering on anyone or anything. So why am I’m hunting with my husband? Seems like the deer obviously don’t know that I am, because they’re all staying totally out of sight. Have they gotten wind that for a stinking’ $5, they can be cooking kettle bound? What an insult. This season, I just might be saving slugs by the dozens, so coffee and donuts, anyone? My treat, of course.
Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident. Her column runs every Tuesday.
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