Tom grew up in Milwaukee, bartended in Wauwatosa in the '70s and moved here in 1984.
Commentary, observations and musings about the outdoors, life in general and maybe Tosa politics and personalities will be the order of the day. He savors a lively debate as much as terrific cooking.
Whoever wishes to hunt, I know where there is a deer. But don't count on me to ride it down with you. I no longer have the desire. The work it takes has made me very tired, and I am now farther behind in the chase than anyone else.
Yet I find it difficult to take my mind off the deer, and as she continues to run I follow. But I weaken; my enthusiasm is gone. Consequently, I am quitting the chase since trying to catch the deer is as futile as trying to catch the wind in a net. I advise others to quit the chase too, lest their time is wasted.
Be aware that the hind wears a necklace encrusted with diamonds that spell out a warning that no hunter dares to touch her, for she belongs to the ruler of the land and she is wild even though she seems tame.
Sometimes I think I have a great deal of banal and generally useless information rattling-around inside my skull.
Thus I'm going to off-load some of it and offer you this as an example.
Back in middle ages the hunt was a metaphor for the travails of love. The hind (deer) was the beautiful young lady - the object of the young man's desire. The pursuer (hunter) was given to the chase - or pursuit of this object of his desire.
The proper people of the middle ages thus shrouded their carnal desires and behavior with symbolism, allegory and figures of speech. Hence all of those tapestries hanging in the castles with hunters, hounds, hinds and whatnot. In the prose above it's specifically about a randy fella with the hots for Anne Boleyn.
How wonderfully romantic.
Nowadays, the plot goes something like this:
The hunter returns to hearth and home following a grueling stretch at deer camp. Quite possibly a stretch covering the entire nine days. He is raggedy, unshaven, disheveled and smells like a goat. And he is in a foul mood.
Doggonit honey, you sent me off to camp and you forgot to pack my underwear!
The lovely wife replies - No, of course not, dear. I didn't forget a thing. I packed your underwear in your gun case.
Can't you just feel the love?
To avoid all of these uncomfortable metaphors it is a best practice to pack your own stuff.
And have a more suitable alibi.
Wisconsin has a rich history of deer hunting. I am of the opinion that we are living during a Golden Age of deer hunting opportunity. That doesn't mean it is easy. Jill reminds me all the time if it was easy it would be like shopping. But it sure seems like recent times are better than the good old days.
Girlfriend and I arrived last night and settled-in.
By the time you are reading this the crew will have begun the trickle-in. The first two arrivals will have staked their claim on the two guest rooms. The remainder will be claiming their racks in the bunkhouse above the garage.
The groceries will have been fetched. A couple of meals prepared in-advance. A trip to St. Hubert church completed. A couple of stands checked. The temperature in the hot tub adjusted to a comfortable 104 degrees. The wood box filled, the woodburner stoked and firearms stacked on the gun rack by the back door. A discussion of who will hunt from which stand tomorrow will follow over a selection of refreshing adult beverages.
Our numbers have varied over the years. NewGuy is away on business and will not rejoin us until the December hunt. However, two recent missing faces may be returning following a short hiatus.
So we may have a reunion of sorts on our hands.
Stop by over the course of the next week and a half to find out what's happening at deer camp.
And for any of you hunters out there - shoot straight and be safe. Bon Chance!