Hunting seasons are a time of excitement for many – and a source of confusion for others. Non-hunters must wonder why we enjoy getting up in the middle of the night, stumbling around looking for a bologna sandwich and sitting on a cold rock for days at a time.
I don’t understand it, either, so I’m not going to try to explain it to others. Maybe it’s the thrill of the chase?

Not everyone is thrilled, of course. And quite a few wives are less than ecstatic when the old man drags something home for dinner.
I can sympathize with the wives, but the folks who really deserve our empathy are those who work in sporting goods stores. They listen to the tall tales of fishermen all summer, and then in the fall, they get another dose of preposterous yarns from hunters.

I always stopped by our local sporting goods store to inquire about a “big buck contest” they used to sponsor. That’s how I learned the contest had been discontinued.

“Oh, we don’t do that anymore,” the clerk said. “And I am so happy not to have to look at those hairy faces with their glazed-over eyes and tongues hanging out while I measure a deer’s antlers.”
She said some of the deer were pretty ugly, too.

I learned years ago the sight of wild game doesn’t appeal to everyone. Friends and family must be conditioned to the sight and taste of game, much as a puppy is introduced to the sound of gunfire.

I was married only a few short weeks when I bagged my first groundhog for dinner. I have hunted woodchucks since I was 12, but never thought about eating one before that fateful day.
My brother, Kenny, convinced me groundhogs are good to eat when they are about half-grown. So I happened to find one that was just the right size and took it home for dinner.

My young bride saw me finishing the cleaning job, and said, “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. They’re not in season, are they?”
That’s when I realized Connie thought I had bagged a rabbit. This was a long way from rabbit season, and breaking game laws is pretty much out of character for me. But I thought: Hey, is it better for my new wife to think I shot a rabbit out of season, or to realize I am about to cook a groundhog?

That’s what I thought, too. There’s no sense in muddying the water for a person who likes rabbit, but probably wouldn’t eat a groundhog in a million years.

So I browned it in a skillet and baked it in the oven until I thought it was done. Then, I baked it some more to be sure it was done. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t good, either.

What does all of this have to do with folks who work in sporting goods stores? I don’t know, but it gives us a good idea of the crazy stories those people have to listen to.

Readers with questions or comments for Roger Pond may write to him in care of this publication.