Running an errand on opening day of deer season took us into the north country.  It’s subtle distinction, there’s not a line that says “Welcome to the North” when you cross it, like the sign at the state line where you’ll see “Welcome to Michigan".

And it’s not like we don’t have deer hunting around here, but there’s more hunting activity up NORTH.  You’ll see more empty cars along the side of the road next to woods and fields, no homes or outbuildings in site.  Occasionally you’ll see a trailer, maybe the remnants of a small woodfire smouldering nearby,  folding chairs clustered in a circle about that smoke, and possibly a buck pole.  It’s early, maybe someone’s gotten lucky and bagged a legendary Opening Day buck, mabe even a biggun’ with a huge rack.  The bigguns' are pretty infrequent at this point in the season, though.

We break up our errand by taking the widows to lunch.  Deer widows, one might think – the ladies left behind when their husbands held for hill and dale, armed to the teeth and swathed in orange and camo, heading for their annual ritual of male bonding.  But no, it’s a trio of elderly aunts, sisters-in-law of 50 years, whose husbands have passed on to the great hunting grounds beyond.

The youngest is 75 (I think, I’ll have to check – but definitely more than 73).  The oldest is 82, a little Norwegian shorter even than a dwarf like myself, and incredibly spry.  Babs reminds me of the Energizer Bunny – she’s small, with fuzzy white hair, and always going, going, going.  I hope I’m like her when I get to be her age.  Even the 70-somethings rely on Babs – she’ll always be there.

They agree on a local restaurant – oooh, we haven’t been there since they remodeled, it’ll be different.  Well, I said, it’s an adventure, we don’t do this everyday, let’s check it out; when did they remodel, are they ready for us?  Oooh, golly, it’s been, what, 5 years since they remodeled?  (as if it were yesterday…maybe to them it is, I think to myself.)

The restaurant is decorated in cabin motif, a large stuffed black bear greets us, lumbering paraphernalia all over the walls.  I’m puzzled; there are more cars in the parking lot than there are people inside.  Aunts are muttering, oooh, look, it’s so much bigger than it used to be…

There are no hunters in site.  What a surprise.  At noon, not a one, and it’s dang cold outside, clear, windy.  Maybe a dusting of snow in the woods this morning is actually keeping hunters in the woods instead of driving them in for sure warmth and certain food.  The snowdust will make for better tracking and better odds of success.

We sit down, one lone man with four women in an almost empty restaurant.  The waitress greets us and asks for our beverage order.  A Bud Lite for the first, a cranberry juice and vodka (for the Energizer Bunny) and a Real Bud (none of that lite stuff for me, says the last), order the aunts.  I’m trying not to raise my eyebrows.  I order an iced tea. Hubby grins at his aunts and orders a Leinenkugel dark.  Dang it.  That means I’m driving home.

Three of us order the corned beef sandwich, Babs the Bunny orders a grilled chicken sandwich and hubby gets chili (as he would if he were hunting, coming in for lunch).  The aunts are comparing notes: will it be as good as the place across town?  Oh, no, not possible, they use homemade sauerkraut; you don’t like kraut, eh, Babs?  Babs raises her cranberry in agreement; hasn't changed in 50 years you've known me, she says.  The aunts drink half their cocktails while waiting for lunch; they regale us with local gossip.  We knee each other under the table, punctuating in secret the various comments the aunts make in regards to the couple not present – my husband’s parents.   We don’t have to say much, the aunts are running away between bites of their sandwiches and sips of their drinks.  I’ve been worried that we’ll drift to topics that are touchy for the aunts, since two of the three have only just been widowed in the last year; I sneak a glance at my spouse, who’s sneaking a glance at me.  He’s been concerned about the same thing, but no worry.  They’re doing just fine and pretty much without us – we laugh, nod when we’re supposed to, minding our P’s and Q’s like good nephews-and-niece-in-laws are supposed to.

Once the food has been decimated and most of the pressing gossip chattered into submission, there’s little left to tackle except for the décor.  We are waiting for the waitress to return with our change when the youngest aunt asks about a metal tool hanging on the wall in the middle of framed photos.  It’s obviously a lumberjack’s tool, but what is it, the youngest aunt asks.  The other two snicker…ha-ha, tool…they titter, don’t you see the photo below it?  The photo clearly shows this skidhook in use, a log hoisted in the air.

Maybe we’ll see family members in these pictures, Babs says, I see some of these are familiar.  Maybe Dad’s in these photos, the middle aunt says to the youngest.  They peer at the photos; recognition dawns on their faces.  They chatter about a local store owner they believe to be in one photo, bringing back memories of husbands deceased and now memories of my husband’s brother.  My husband is more animated, he’s laughing with the aunts about the local store owner who’d called his parents and squealed on his brother once when he arrived at the store with a silver coin lifted from a family collection.  This is his oldest brother they are laughing about, who’s about the same age as some of the aunts’ sons and daughters.  This brother passed away only a handful of years ago, leaving little ones at home. They all laugh well and deeply about his childhood mischief, then lapse into a quiet spell.

Babs asks my husband if he’ll be hunting this year.  No, he says, I haven’t hunted in, uh, a few years.  He doesn’t elaborate further; I know when it was he hunted last.  I can see the dawning on the flushed faces of the aunts.  It was the autumn before his son went into the service.  The autumn before his brother died. 

Maybe I’ll hunt after my son comes home, he says, next November.  He looks off, out the window.

There are no words; I can see they are all thinking the same thing.  Babs sighs, breaking the silence. 

Four hunters walk in the door just then, tired, cold.  They’re not laughing or joking; it means this morning wasn’t a productive one for their party.  We stand to leave as they carefully and quietly ease themselves into chairs.

It’s time to go and finish that errand.

6:57:32 PM    comment []

Trucks, sprinkled here and there, are abandoned at perimeters of fields.

Occasionally, a car can be found at the edge of woods, no occupants in site.

Men in camouflage and boots, huddled together over tables at the corner restaurant; they appear tired and cold, in need of a shave.

A whispering male voice, captured fleetingly over the walkie-talkie: He cut the corner of field, can you head him off? He’s headed your way.

Rifle fire in the distance – two bursts, pop-pop.  The man patrolling the edge of the corn rows stops and looks in the direction of the sound, shifting his weight slightly and raising his gun slightly more.

A body, head limply hanging, legs trussed, tied to the luggage rack.  A small trickle of blood on the rear window.

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It’s November in Michigan, and war has begun, in a matter of speaking. 

It’s opening day of firearm deer season.

I’ve heard estimates of one million hunters in the woods here in Michigan during the couple weeks of the season.  That’s many more armed men than we sent to into the Persian Gulf War.  The thought sends chills down my spine. 

Imagine if these hunters had something more serious than meat over which to shoot.

9:41:49 AM    comment []