It is that time of year again: hunting season. My husband, GWH,
goes hunting every year. It is his passion. And every year at the end
of the hunt, he starts planning for next year’s hunt. He lives, eats,
breathes hunting and plans everything to the umpteenth degree.
GWH stands for Great White Hunter,
as a few friends and I, jokingly, call him but it may as well stand for
Gentleman Who Hunts. When you think of a hunter, do you conjure an
image of some trigger-happy, red neck in an Elmer Fudd hat whose main
goal is to put a trophy head on his wall? Think again.
When I think of a hunter, I think of someone who is passionate
about nature and the outdoors, someone who cares about the future of
the animals that he hunts as well as their ecological environment. I
think about someone who is honest about where his food comes from and
only takes what he needs, someone who appreciates that the lives of
these animals are used to sustain ours. I think about someone who is
dedicated to carrying on these traditions and passing them on to future
generations, traditions that promote companionship, camaraderie, and
respect for nature.
For
me, to sit down to a table knowing that the meat that we are eating is
completely organic, from an animal that lived in its natural
environment, is very satisfying. Yes, I used to be one of those who
were squeamish at the mere mention of wild meat. But seriously, people,
our meat does not come from a conveyor belt in the meat factory.
So,
alas, my Robin Hood will leave me once again. I have learned to keep
my whining to a minimum. (You’re going for how long?!) I know better
than to try to stifle his passions just as he knows it would be futile
to try to stop me from writing, reading or cooking but I will miss him,
dearly, once again. Be safe, GWH.
For this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we’re inviting you to truly scare us.