"Condolences"

There is something peculiar about hunters which bears sharing. My wife and I are expecting the birth of our second child in a couple months. In fact, thanks to the marvels of modern medicine and the doctor’s reasoned decision to perform a Cesarean Section, we happen to know the precise date, location and time of day when the little princess will make her grand entrance into the world. We can therefore treat this glorious event like so many other lesser appointments on our calendars and, stated succinctly, plan for it and schedule around it, the way one might plan around root canals and PTO meetings.

Anyone with children knows that the birth of a little one is automatically inserted at the top of the list of meaningful events in one’s lifetime. In fact, regardless of the caliber of human being the little one grows up to become, his or her birth is crowned “The Greatest Day of My Life” by both Father and Mother without the slightest consideration of any other candidates. Should a family be blessed with more than one child, the birth date of each is simply inserted alongside the others’ in a lateral fashion to indicate its equality to the others’ much the way college football polls skip the next lower ranking number when two or more teams are tied for a particular spot in the poll.

Even those without children recognize that the birth of one of their friend’s children is a big deal. The absence of progeny does not deprive the individual of the ability to appreciate and celebrate the joyous nature of the birth of a child.

Hunters, however, are a different breed. No doubt hunters feel all the same emotions and thankfulness at the births of their children as normal people. I can attest, as I have a son and as stated am expecting a daughter. My son’s birthday was truly the greatest day of my life. I am sure my daughter’s birthday will be, too. Every one of my hunting buddies would say the same thing about their children as well. Each of them has been wildly excited for me over the impending arrival of my little girl. That is, until I announced the date of my wife’s and my appointment with her doctor during which our daughter is to be extracted and placed in our anxious arms.

She will be delivered at the centermost point of what could be considered smack dab in the middle of deer season. The moment I supply the date upon which my daughter is to be delivered, my hunting friends, contrary to everyone else I know, slide slowly into a state of moroseness and empathy, as if I’d just said, “Fellas, I’m being audited.” Their faces change and they draw in their bodies as if to get closer and less imposing during someone else’s moment of grief. Voices are hushed and refrained. Often the next audible sound after my pronouncement is the awkward clearing of a throat as if to say, “Come on, guys, someone needs to say something.” That something, more often than not, has been, “Gosh, Rog, I’m sorry. Is there anything we can do?” Which is usually followed up by a particularly observant, “Man, you’re gonna miss the whole season.”

Bear in mind I will have just announced to whom I consider my closest friends that my life is about to be blessed by a child, and their immediate instinct is to step forward and offer me a shoulder to cry on.

I understand why the hunters’ reactions have been more along the lines of tongue-in-cheek condolences than whooping congratulations. During more than one particularly myopic moment, I have wanted to lean on them and cry away. After all, my wife and I could have had a baby any time we wanted. Had I misplaced my calendar when we decided to have a baby when we did? Had I forgotten how to add to nine and project that number of months into the future in order to figure out the big day? The truth of the matter is I will in fact miss most of the season this year. And that will drive me crazy. I will be itching to get up to the camp and get in the woods. My imagination will run wild with images of the deer I will be missing out on and I will burn up the telephone lines seeking out reports and sightings.

But I will not really be disappointed at all. God willing, a man can reasonably expect to be around and healthy enough to participate in some 30 or 40 hunting seasons in his lifetime at the very least. Not every man is blessed with a child. So this season, I believe I shall savor every moment I am not there because, at the end of it all, I will be getting another miracle, a second child, and hopefully another life long hunting buddy. And that’s worth sitting this one out.



(c) Roger Guilian 2006