Hunting Widow

A Sports Widow Sideline Report: Hunting

September 29, 2007 6:26 PM | 0 Comments

Growing up in Wisconsin, I am no stranger to Hunting Season. When you travel up to the Northlands, it's not uncommon to step into a bar and see the words Bucks and Does designating the men's and ladies' bathroom doors. I always duck upon entering, just in case...

Wisconsin's Legendary Nannie Oakley

My personal experience with hunting and operating firearms is limited, which should be a relief to the nation, if not the world. When it was my father's turn to host us for the weekend (my parents divorced when I was 6), my Dad, who spent his early years growing up in Miles City, Montana, used to play cowboy with us. From the munitions perspective, my Dad was a bit of a bull in a china shop. He was fond of either taking us to a quarry near Madison, Wisconsin, for target shooting or blasting the bucolic fields of his stepfather's farm near East Troy, Wisconsin. The latter choice always angered his stepbrother Gerald, who managed the farm, because it spooked the livestock. During these target practices, my label was Nannie Oakley, but I never liked holding a gun, and I don't think I ever came close to hitting any of the rings of a bull's eye target. In fact, my Dad and brothers are lucky to be alive today with intact eyes and appendages.

A Beater in the English Countryside

When I was in my early 20s, I spent Christmas at a University of North Carolina scholarship student's home in Kent, England, near Smeeth. Sam's family had the longest chins of anyone I have ever met, and they didn't refrigerate their cheese, which I found disconcerting. (Each day, they would pull out a diminishing wedge from their pantry, and even I had difficulty stomaching it.) One of my truly British experiences was to receive an invitation to a hunt at a nearby manor. We all tromped into the woods at which point they handed us sticks and instructed us to smack them loudly against tree trunks and branches in order to flush out the pheasants. The technical name for this assignment is "Beaters." Hunting dogs collected the bagged birds, and it was a very tidy business. But, it's very lonely in the woods, when you know that all you have is a stick and the other members of your party have guns. And, when you consider that the folks out there are British and the poor defenseless suckers in the trees are American, your situation feels even more bleak. You can only hope they bear no grudge for the outcome of the American Revolution.

So, it's safe to say I don't comprehend hunting. I'm an avid fan of anthropology and archaeology. I know hunting reaches back to our most primitive roots and instincts, but I am confident I was the one foraging for berries as opposed to the one who was clunking bison or mastodons on the head with rocks, hurling spears at them or running them off cliffs. I may have even been the one making cheerful pictures, cave-borders out of berry-based paints. Lastly, after 7 years as Public Relations Director at Seattle's Woodland Park Zoo, hunting runs contrary to my ethos. The concept of seeing a beautiful animal in its pristine natural environment and then shooting it somehow doesn't sync up.

So, I find hunting bewildering, and if I were a Hunting Widow, I'm sure it would be very difficult. It's expensive. It's not just an afternoon, but entire weekends (or seasons). If my children were learning the sport, I would fear for their safety. For that matter, even with the most responsible spouse, I would fear for his safety.

If you're a Hunting Widow, I'd love to hear what your experience is. What are your thoughts? How do you negotiate your terms?