No, not the Academy Award-winning 1978 movie. It is deer gun-hunting season again in Wisconsin, the time that people who sneer at environmentalists the other 51 weeks of the year get all excited about culling or thinning the deer herd "for the good of the deer and the environment."
A guy who has hunted Tom's property for many years has been plugging away this morning. Usually he wakes me up with a shot as soon as the sun is up and the season officially begins. This year I slept through that first shot, or so Tom tells me, but I have heard plenty since then.
This guy always brings us a gift bag when he shows up, usually with summer sausage, classy crackers, maybe some cheese and a bottle or two of wine. Neither Tom nor I drink, so the wine becomes a gift for someone who can enjoy it. Peg asked yesterday why Tom doesn't tell the guy we don't drink, but he figures after all these years, it would just embarrass him. A few years ago he gave us a great flamingo mug, and Tom said he finally was getting us. This year he included a bottle stopper with a graceful glass flamingo on top.
There is still a bit of snow on the ground, which makes it easier for the hunters in some ways. But it is warming up -- the deer apparently have a powerful lobby with the Person Who Makes the Weather -- and the snow will soon be gone. Then tomorrow it will rain.
Our neighbor's son is now 12 and at the age to experience the hunt. He and his sisters have constructed a fort of sorts out in their woods, and today he, his dad and a friend from church intend to perch out there and see what happens.
On a side note, a few days ago when the kids were sledding down the ridge in the back, they heard growling. After a bit of investigation, we now know where the black bear has chosen to nap away the winter. Forewarned is forearmed.
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