When I was little, all I wanted to do was play "school". I, of course, would always pose as the teacher and make my brother do spelling tests, which I would harshly grade with my red pencil. The whole family believed I would be the teacher of the clan, that is of course until I got into college, saw how ridiculous the Education program was at Niagara University, and switched my major to English. This decision was borne from my inherent nature of disallowing myself to dumb-down my learning. Hence, when I was placed in a second grade classroom and found that all the little creepy crawly creatures had no concept of verbs, nouns, or even predicates, I was a little put-off. I had always envisioned my future consisting of teaching the young minds of America the importance of Shakespeare, the creepiness of Petrarch (he was in obsessed with a woman he only met twice, who was married and had 6 kids. He wrote poems to her in life and in death. His extremely uncomfortable writing of undying, unyielding, unrequited love acted as the base for many a Shakespearean "hero") and the beauty of W.B Yeats. I would assign the drooling mouths, their attached eyes glazing over after a weekend filled with memories best left in the drunk tank at the local police station, assignment after assignment of thought-provoking inquires, earth-jarring enlightenment. I would be the professor that everyone loved but who created the hardest, most involved assignments during Freshmen year. Like Chuck Norris, I would be feared because of my roundhouse kicks but respected as well.
It pains me to say this, but I love Halloween more than National Fiddler's Week. Shocking, I know but it's true. The only problem with my love for Halloween is that I grew up in a climate that was not conducive to cute costumes. Ritualistically, every year, it would snow on All Hallow's Eve. The chilly precipitation would cause my brother and me to either a) cancel trick-or-treating b) force our dad to drive us around in his heated truck or c) (the most chosen selection because we were kids, and of course, complete whores for anything wrapped in chocolate, nougat, or the like) alter our costumes in order to comfortably fit a snowsuit underneath. Eventually, Dave just went as some variety of snow man or skier to avoid the hassle but I couldn't get out of my pink glitter phase. My mom isn't the biggest fan of the holiday so I went as a princess for four years running, a "snow queen" if you will, as my costume consisted of a gigantic down jacket, thick thermal boots and a tiara.
A hazy cloud of heat rises from the wood burning stove as the smell of campfire fills the small cabin. Steam rolls off of the adjacent pond, noting to all that what hovers above is much colder than what lies beneath. The grass is splattered with a frost that can only come when the ancient thermometer on the porch dips below 40 and settles somewhere between that integer and 20. Our lengthy forays in the tree-covered dome are being cut short by a setting sun, a freezing chill, and a windy howl. Oscar, the over-weight, winter-intolerant pooch, who lives for the word "outside", barely peeks the tip of his nose into the outdoors before retreating swiftly back into the smoldering confines of our bed.
Zoolander may be one of the most ridiculous movies ever created and I, for one, never believed one could really take anything away from it, let alone a lesson about hunting. With its walk-offs, freak gasoline fight accidents, orange mocha frappachinos, centers for "kids who can't read good and want to do other stuff good too", inabilities to turn left, gigantic male model egos and a heavy helping of some of the dumbest things you never wanted to hear come out of anyone's mouth, Zoolander is not a source of scholar nor moral fiber. I, however, am shamed to say that this movie was the first thing I thought of when I first began preparing for Rudy, owner and operator of Huntography, to film every moment of my hunting day.
I have found that I, in many ways, resemble a dung beetle. Not any dung beetle, mind you, but a very specific and overlarge beetle named Gregor. To those of you who have no idea as to what I am referring, let me explain. My buddy, Gregor was an ordinary fellow, he went to work, supported his family and above all, kept order. He led a normal life, albeit a threadbare one, until one day when he woke up and was no longer who he had been. Squinting his beady eyes to his regular ceiling on what should have been a regular day, Gregor was regular no more. His body had undergone a grotesque transformation, where once lay a human being now, a gargantuan dung beetle. His hard exoskeleton shone in the morning light, his many legs squirmed aside his body, he was unable to move; worst yet, he was going to be late for work.
Fayettville, NC is home to the largest population of gentleman's clubs in the wold. This statement is not rooted in fact but given that I was privy to more of the sleazy establishments yesterday than I had in my entire life, Amsterdam's red light district included, it must be true. This has nothing to do with anything, much less what I have to say here today, except I figured it was a great hook. A hook being the first sentence in a body of literature that pulls you in like an anglerfish's transfixing glow. I feel that these few words perorated with some sort of sentence completing punctuation are the most important in an essay because if you cannot grab a reader within the first few strokes of the typewriter, you've lost them forever in a mist of bad writing. (Note: I always wanted to start a piece with something like "It was a very, very cold day that freezing July morning when the elusive Moose came to dinner", then start in with an overly explanatory explanation about why Moose prefer muffins to anything else which makes their meat that much more succulent.)
The Writing huntress
I hunt. I write. I wear what some consider an unnecessary amount of camouflage face paint.