Nov 24, 2004
Thanksgiving in Wisconsin
“Hunting is big here.”
My wife told me that when she first moved to Rice Lake in 1990. I was finishing course work at South Carolina, and Sue was doing her best to explain the local culture to me over the phone before I joined her. But I didn’t understand until I got here.
The deer hunting season (except for bow and black powder hunting) is crammed into the ten-day period starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and ending the Sunday after. The love of the season is real. It even resonates some in non-hunters, as it has come to do in me. Part of the love is simply guy bonding stuff, sitting in cabins in winter underwear and having a Miller or three. (Wisconsinites support their local breweries.) There are gals that hunt, of course. More than ever, I’m sure. But hunting season gives the women left behind a chance to do some bonding of their own. When the men take off, many women go out and play. Restaurants and bars have “widow’s nights.”
Part of the love comes from the sense of heritage. Here at least that’s not NRA propaganda; it’s real. (And some of these guys and gals vote Democrat, too.)
The dangers are real, too, but usually the danger stems from stupidity. The last time I looked at the numbers, the number of accidental deaths in hunting season has declined on a per capital basis over the last fifty years (with occasional one-step back).
This last weekend we got slaughter. I’d like to say the details are sorting themselves out, but we’re all historians. We know that people sort the details, and right now lots of people are in shock. There are conflicting stories on who fired the first shot. There is an element of racism that hovers over all of this.
Here in Rice Lake there is the natural desire to assume that one’s neighbors are wholly innocent, and while I do not know those who were killed, I certainly know people who knew them. The man in custody has family, too. They are in shock. They cannot believe he would just go crazy. They want to assume there was some reason, preferably a good one.
The nearest TV station is 60 miles away. On Main Street last night there were uplink trucks from four different stations. Looking for truth in street sound bites? Let’s be charitable. Maybe.
Through all of this we come to Thanksgiving. I and others in the supermarket last night went around our seasonal tasks, looking for the joy that we can find.
Sticking our heads in the sand? Maybe. Have we looked forward to this break so much that we just cannot let anything, even death, stop us from having some joy? Yeah, that seems likely. At least that’s in my soul; I won’t speak for others.
My wife told me that when she first moved to Rice Lake in 1990. I was finishing course work at South Carolina, and Sue was doing her best to explain the local culture to me over the phone before I joined her. But I didn’t understand until I got here.
The deer hunting season (except for bow and black powder hunting) is crammed into the ten-day period starting the Saturday before Thanksgiving and ending the Sunday after. The love of the season is real. It even resonates some in non-hunters, as it has come to do in me. Part of the love is simply guy bonding stuff, sitting in cabins in winter underwear and having a Miller or three. (Wisconsinites support their local breweries.) There are gals that hunt, of course. More than ever, I’m sure. But hunting season gives the women left behind a chance to do some bonding of their own. When the men take off, many women go out and play. Restaurants and bars have “widow’s nights.”
Part of the love comes from the sense of heritage. Here at least that’s not NRA propaganda; it’s real. (And some of these guys and gals vote Democrat, too.)
The dangers are real, too, but usually the danger stems from stupidity. The last time I looked at the numbers, the number of accidental deaths in hunting season has declined on a per capital basis over the last fifty years (with occasional one-step back).
This last weekend we got slaughter. I’d like to say the details are sorting themselves out, but we’re all historians. We know that people sort the details, and right now lots of people are in shock. There are conflicting stories on who fired the first shot. There is an element of racism that hovers over all of this.
Here in Rice Lake there is the natural desire to assume that one’s neighbors are wholly innocent, and while I do not know those who were killed, I certainly know people who knew them. The man in custody has family, too. They are in shock. They cannot believe he would just go crazy. They want to assume there was some reason, preferably a good one.
The nearest TV station is 60 miles away. On Main Street last night there were uplink trucks from four different stations. Looking for truth in street sound bites? Let’s be charitable. Maybe.
Through all of this we come to Thanksgiving. I and others in the supermarket last night went around our seasonal tasks, looking for the joy that we can find.
Sticking our heads in the sand? Maybe. Have we looked forward to this break so much that we just cannot let anything, even death, stop us from having some joy? Yeah, that seems likely. At least that’s in my soul; I won’t speak for others.
Nor do I think that it is all bad. At least I hope not. We live in such a crazed world, that without some time to retreat and to count our blessings, I think most of us would go mad. Maybe that is selfish. I don't always know.
To all of you, treasure the joy of the day. Living in the present moment is the only thing we are guaranteed. Handle it like a jewel. Spend it like free money. Treasure it in your heart.