Saturday is the beginning of bow season. Deer are quaking in their hooves right now as thousands of
Hunting is a controversial topic, and I'm perfectly willing to have a debate on the ethics of hunting, gun ownership, and raising children in a home with hunters and guns. But we'll leave all that for another day.
What hunting really means to me, as a non-hunter myself but at the daughter and wife of hunters, is that I take on "hunting widow" status from now until well after Thanksgiving. Hunting widows prepare crockpots full of venison dinners, bake vast quantities of cookies that disappear by the dozen at hunting camp, and parent their children alone for the weekend.
It also means DeuceDad has been treating me more or less like a queen all week to buy my favor. He's put up more curtains in the last week that he had in his previous 30 years of life!
My dad's hunting camp is different from many in that women are invited to come. I just won't leave the cabin for fear of stray bullets, so we don't hike or enjoy nature, instead we find little shops and tour wineries and read and nap for fun. It's great. Next weekend we're having a clam bake. It's really nice.
DeuceDad is really respectful of the fact that other people don't cease to exist just because it's hunting season. And he washes his own clothes. What more could a woman ask for?
So we'll devote tonight to bow-hunting preparation. He'll pack, and I'll bake cookies (which I love to do) and just enjoy the night together as a family. Then I'll plot my own weekend activities. Cleaning (blah), shopping (yay!), possibly reorganizing the kitchen cabinets (yes I'm still procrastinating on sewing), and lots of cool Deuce activities like the zoo and some painting!
The only ones that aren't excited for Saturday are the deer. I just figure they'll come back as PETA activists and I'll come back as a venison-barley soup and it all comes out even.