It’s the day after Thanksgiving, a quasi-holiday of sorts here in the States.  Retailers were dreaming last night of sugar plums flying off the shelves at discounted prices, as were the stock analysts who cover the retail sector.

This quasi-holiday is observed in this household, against my personal ethics.

Meaning: Hubby has given into his shopping addiction today. 

He left the house at 5:00 am this morning, dressed in extra layers of clothing, as if he were heading out into the woods hunting.  I guess it’s appropriate; he’ll be standing out in the dark Michigan cold, waiting to bag the big one.  Thankfully there’s no weaponry involved, save for the Visa card with frequent flyer mileage feature.

He insisted on getting the paper on Tuesday, Wednesday, yesterday, today, even though we only read the Sunday paper all other weeks of the year.  He was afraid he’d miss that one sales flyer he needed to complete whatever his objective is at the moment.

Beloved D.H. didn’t used to do this frenzied shopping on Freaky Friday post-turkey.  He used to go deer hunting whenever he had free time, between opening day mid-November and the end of the season a few weeks later.  We’d head north for Thanksgiving.  I’d be closeted with his mother in the kitchen cooking all day; he’d be in the woods with his dad and brothers, tracking down the great buck which roamed wild and taunted the men of the family from the woods behind the house.

Hubby drifted away from his sport in two phases, reconstructing the paths which got us here. 

One year D.H. fell asleep in the woods, as hunters are wont to do after rising at 4:00 a.m. and hunting in the cold until sundown, coming home at dark.  He awoke from his nap, finding himself prone on the ground with a large buck sporting an enormous rack standing almost over him, within feet of him, staring at him.  He carefully eased his gun into position; when he found his aim, the deer charged at him.  He fired, shooting the deer not in the chest as aimed but in the foreleg which the deer had raised up to its chest as it moved in to charge.  The buck bolted and ran off, trailing blood; hubby found bone shards in the bloody leaves.  This made it imperative that he find the deer; it had been maimed and was suffering.  It was the first time in his hunting career he’d not made a clean, quick kill.

He tracked it for more than three hours, over more than 6 miles of terrain.  His father and brothers were enlisted to help.  They found nothing.  He’d heard other gunshots, wondered whether other hunters had fired and taken this maimed deer down.  But no evidence of a kill was found anywhere along the trail.  After 3 hours it was too dark to see the trail; the search was called off.

He went out again the next day, ostensibly to hunt more.  Instead he found himself searching again for this maimed deer, trying to satisfy the gnawing concern he felt.  Nothing turned up.  All he had to show for the worry and effort was a bone shard from a foreleg, a sad story, and a week’s worth of fatigue.

And a loss of interest in hunting for several years.

Hubby regained his interest when his son reached the age where the two of them could hunt together.  This did not last, though; as sons do, this one grew up and left home, going into the service.  Hubby hasn’t hunted since. 

Since the maimed deer incident, D.H.’s interest in post-Turkey shopping has steadily grown, escalating to an annual fever after his son left home.  It has to be the thrill of the chase that’s motivating him; he has to be at the store before the doors open, laying out a plan of attack on Thursday evening after reading all the sales flyers.  First assault victim will be a department store which opens at 5:00 a.m.; then, two discount stores which open at 6:00 a.m., then onward to an electronics retailer which opens at 7:00 a.m.  He calls from his cell phone and wakes us up at 7:10, asking whether I want a particular item for my parents for Christmas, it’s on sale after all…I mumbled an incoherent yes after realizing it wasn't a nightmare.

He’s already dragged in his first kill at 9:00 a.m., bags and bags of booty he’s hustled down into the basement before the kids could catch him.  He won’t tell me where downstairs he squirreled the goodies away.  Means my Christmas present must have been purchased this morning.

D.H. asked me to fix him breakfast – something he’s almost never done.  But it’s impossible to surf for goodies at Amazon.com while you’re frying ham, he points out; he surfs while eating ham and toast, now bagging on-line the toys that had already run out of stock during this morning’s siege.

Hunger sated, the on-line purchases completed, he checks the clock.  It’s approaching noon, means other shoppers will be going to lunch.  Time to track down the next elusive retail beast, before the other shoppers get back from lunch.

I forgot to ask as he walked out whether he’ll be home at dark.

12:04:14 PM    comment []