Hunting Widow

Growing up, I remember my mother telling me how she knew she would never marry a hunter because her own father and two brothers were always gone during prime hunting season, as if I automatically knew when this was. “They were always off hunting something,” she would say. And as my mother tends to follow through on her word, she married a non-hunter.

Being raised in a non-hunting household in Mississippi was a rarity. Sure, we fished plenty, but hunting was something reserved for my uncles who lived in the country. I honestly didn’t think twice about it until I had my first grade Thanksgiving feast at school and my friend, Seth, brought venison for his contribution. He came from a family of known hunters. I had many questions for my friend about his venison. I had never heard of such a thing and needed to know where I could get more because it was absolutely delicious. Seth’s father had recently harvested a deer, and the processor sliced it thin like deli meat you could find in the grocery. I distinctly remember being dressed as the Pocahontas of 1988, standing in my first grade classroom, with two braided pigtails, in front of the southern charcuterie plate his sweet mother had arranged so nicely. I honed in on this new delicacy I had found and ignored all other options. I was hooked.

After the Thanksgiving feast, I ran home (as I lived directly across the street from my school) and begged my mother to add venison to her weekly grocery list. My mother laughed, “You can’t get deer meat at the grocery store.”

Bewildered, I quickly responded, “Well, where can we get it? It’s my favorite!”

My mother laughed again, continued doing whatever it was that she was doing, and simply replied, “I guess you’re just gonna have to go out and kill it yourself. Besides, I ate enough of it growing up, I’d be fine to never have it again.”

“What?” I thought to myself. That wouldn’t do. How could I go kill a deer myself when I didn’t even know where to find them? I was defeated, disappointed, and resorted to the hope that maybe Seth would bring me some extra deer meat one day in his sack lunch. (I’m still waiting, Seth)

Fast forward to my junior high and high school days. School dances became the norm, but I started noticing that many of the boys would go missing during the winter events. My options for dance dates were dwindling as I wondered where they went. Finally, I realized they were all going to their hunting camps. They boys were choosing deer over dolls. I’ve now learned that most Southern men usually do.

In fact, I have a vivid memory of realizing hunting season was upon us when I was a sophomore in high school. It was a Friday night, and a group of us teenagers were leaving one house party in search of another, when a cold rush of wind blew through the air. My avid outdoorsman friend, Cole, extended his arms in the middle of an Eastover street, closed his eyes, leaned his head back, and inhaled the brisk breeze. He let out a sigh as he ran down the pavement with arms still extended like airplane wings, and screamed with joy, “The ducks are coming!” It would be the last night we would all see Cole for months.

Moving into my college days, I had become very accustomed to the men disappearing as the weather turned cooler. It seemed any boy I went out with or became friends with had a closet full of camouflage, a cooler to match, and a retriever of some sort to join them on their adventures. It was not uncommon to see these young men walking to an early morning class dressed in full camo, having just returned from an early morning hunt before class. In the blind by five, class by nine. We were in Mississippi after all.

I remember sitting down with a dear friend’s mother during my college years. Julie had raised two boys- both hunters. She gave me some life-long advice in the thickest drawl you’ve ever heard, or ev-a hurad, “It’s so good for them when the boys go into tha woods. It gives them a hobby and time to be togetha. It keeps them busy so they’re not gettin into trouble. And it gives us women time to do whateva we want, without them.” She then took a sip of her wine and gave me a sly smile with a twinkle in her eye.

Enter my title of “hunting widow”. This term was coined by some genius woman who was left time and time again during the changing of seasons when animals start bustling and moving about their habitat. In my mind, she was left with multiple children to fend for and multiple schedules to juggle.

About thirteen or fourteen years ago, I started dating my current husband. At the time, he was a professional sporting clay shooter (yes that is actually a thing believe it or not) and an enthusiastic deer and turkey hunter. Taylor is still the latter. He took a break during duck season, which is probably one reason why we were able to maintain a relationship at all. Or perhaps it was the fact that I didn’t bat an eye when he told me he was going hunting because I had become accustomed to the pastime. You are a product of your surroundings after all. Looking back, I really believe that all of my observations of hunting seasons through the years prepared me for a life of a true hunting widow. The only time I can remember being enraged about my role was when our pipes burst in the middle of the night while I had an new (and my first) infant, and my husband decided it would still be okay complete the morning deer hunt rather than turn around and deal with the plumbers. It was not pretty when he returned let me tell ya.

I’m coming up on a decade of being an official hunting widow, and I have found there are some pros to it, too. Turns out, Julie was right. Hunting season isn’t just for the men. While the men go and have their alone time, I have found I can get so much done. By the time Thanksgiving rolls around (prime deer season), I have my entire house ready for Christmas, holiday shopping lists are started, have booked a manicure and/ or pedicure, enjoyed some of the best girls nights, have a much cleaner house since I’m down a whole human as well as the hunting dog, and basked in some well-deserved “me time” . I also tend to treat myself more since I have come to the conclusion that all hunting widows have earned it. And, the best thing is, after all those years waiting for my friend to share, I finally have my own venison in my house…a whole freezer full.

For Chucky

A Jellyfish Halloween