Crowning Achievements

This weekend, I was asked to be an auditor for the 2012 Timberfest Pageant here in Sheridan.  I love anything to do with kids, femininity or stagecraft, and simply being in a pageant atmosphere gives me a charge by providing all three.  Especially a well-organized one. 

(A pageant can be like a circus: when everyone does their job well, it's thrilling and glamorous.  But when the lion tamer is let out the same time as the daredevil cannon guy and the monkeys, there's fur and gunpowder EVERYWHERE and that results in lots of refunds.) 

I was given the perfect job for a helper-with-child -- I got the best seat in the house, was given a simple task that I was good at (after four years as a bank teller, I play a ten-key calculator like a piano), and my fellow auditor and I were the first ones to discover who the winners were since we were tallying the judges' scores.  It was so gratifying to be one of the few people those girls could see in the dim ocean of an audience, and to be able to cheer each one on as they did their best to display the work and preparation they had put into their presentation. 

It tickled me to watch the youngest contestants who were presented lovingly by their parents and grandparents, like their baby was a prize that they had already won.  There's always a nervous fascination during the competition in these categories, because you never know who's going to spit up or squeak or blow their first kiss.  I especially enjoy the age group who are discovering their bipedal abilities for the first time and attempt a kamikaze leap from the stage to the judges' table because, well, I'm sure I would want to dive into the three pretty, sparkly ladies who were cooing and smiling at me, too.  Especially if I were wearing something ultra-fluffy to cushion the impact of landing.

I was well-acquainted with a handful of girls who were participating this year, and I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride in seeing how they had chosen to present themselves.  To my gratification, they were each rewarded while showing themselves to be modest, elegant, and age-appropriate.  Even if they'd walked away empty-handed, I still would have been as thrilled because of the way that the chose to define themselves at that point in time, when they knew all eyes would be on them.

It hurts my feelings that pageanting can be portrayed as a relic of oppressed womanhood or the domain of insane parents and fractured children.  While I can't speak from the personal experience of a childhood participant, I chose to enter quite a few when I was in senior high school and I bless these experiences for what they were to me.  Although I approached them with the singular intention of honing my stage presence in support of my aspirations to be an entertainer, I walked away with a much more valuable lesson: not all girls are evil.  In fact, I think I connected quickly and deeply with many of the other contestants because, like me, they were struggling to get to a place within themselves where they felt no need to make any apology for wanting the affirmation that they were lovely or talented or well-spoken.  The difference between these girls whom I identified with and the ones who took sadistic pleasure in casting a critical eye or comment upon us is this: the girls who appointed themselves to the Crucifying Committee had done so because it was easier than actually trying to seek opportunities to become well-rounded.  The girls who chose to compete -- whether it was in pageants, sports, artistic performance, or anything that required dedication and measurable progression -- were the ones who were encouraging to one another.  It didn't matter what venue they chose to press their energies toward.  The important thing was that they learned to push themselves and explore their own aptitudes in order to put them to their best use in adulthood. 

I strongly hope that our daughter is blessed with many of these kinds of girlfriends in her life -- the ones who dare her to bloom. 

I want her to know that a truly lovely woman makes no apologies for seeking to make the most of what abilities God has given her because through her own struggles, she will learn to recognize that it's more important to lift up those who accompany her than it is to win a singular prize.

Mini & mom with Miss Arkansas 2012 Sloan Roberts & Miss Greater Jacksonville Maegan Inzer

Posctcards From the (Uterine) Edge

 

Picstravaganza!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

List of Luv.

With Love, to the Smith Family

Do not judge a song by its duration
Nor by the number of its notes
Judge it by the richness of its contents
Sometimes those unfinished are among the most poignant…
Do not judge a song by its duration
Nor by the number of its notes
Judge it by the way it touches and lifts the soul
Sometimes those unfinished are among the most beautiful…
And when something has enriched your life
And when it’s melody lingers on in your heart.
Is it unfinished?
Or is it endless?

 

- Author Unknown

 

 

My Kingdom for a Well-Balanced Cupcake!

I’ve never been accused of being a normal eater. 

 

I’ll try most anything once.  This is how I’ve figured out that I like items like squid, cinnamon pickles and kimchee.  I’m not so much a deep-fried southern snob as to turn my nose up at a meatless meal (beans and cornbread don’t count – there’s always pork in the beans, anyway).  I’m equally happy with a bowl of baked eel over brown rice as I am with a frozen pizza. 

 

But even I have to admit that the pregnancy palette is a peculiar creature. 

 

As I stood in the kitchen last Saturday morning with a scorched tofu hotdog forked in one hand and a slab of pumpkin bread in the other, I wondered to myself, “On what other day in my life would I be able to eat this five minutes after I puked off the back porch?”  (Rough morning concerning vitamins and asparagus.  Don’t pry.)  Tossing my cookies early in the day used to put me in mortal fear of food for the following 24 hours, but for some reason, this pregnant body seems oblivious to the normal aversion instinct that settles in after the taste of yarf brands my tongue.

 

I haven’t experienced any new baby-backed cravings in a few weeks, with the exception of a simple chocolate cupcake.  Well, fat chance of that, Carl.  As I discovered last Thursday, my favorite cupcake shop in Hot Springs doesn’t bake sugar-free cupcakes (not even for an exorbitant fee or the naming rights of a firstborn child – believe me, I asked!!!)  And the do-it-yourselfer in me quakes at the notion of attempting to concoct such a thing myself.  I have a darn good hand for homemade marinara and all things savory, but when it comes to baking, I fear that my lack of knowledge concerning the instability of diabetic-friendly ingredients will result in a nuclear meltdown in my oven.  I know myself.  Domestic, yes.  Kitchen chemist, not so much.

 

Being both resourceful and persistent, Nana-To-Be suggested that we refuse to be disappointed and scoot on down the sidewalk to a new frozen yogurt shop.  That’s where we found some brilliant No Sugar Added Tahitian Vanilla fro-yo.  I added pulverized pecans to mine (can’t get enough of those little boogers lately), and she bravely added some squishy pink blob-ball things to hers that were made of tapioca, I think.  We seated ourselves at a sidewalk table with our little cups of consolation and eavesdropped on the geriatric motorcycle enthusiasts conversing at a high decibel level next to us.  All in all, a very stimulating outing. 

 

Thankfully, I've rarely had to make do with any alternative to what I've truly hungered for.  Honey child, what an age we live in!  I’ve discovered that if I prepare my food at home under controlled conditions and with select ingredients, I can have pretty much whatever my fluffy little heart desires, within reason.  For example, one of my favorite things in creation is spaghetti a la carbonara.  Normally this dish would be a pregnant diabetic’s worst enemy, but with my handy-dandy low-glycemic pasta, sulfate-free bacon, and fresh eggs and parmesan, voila!  I’m  slurping noodles with my feet on the couch in no time.  With a healthy side of sautéed spinach, of course. 

 

While I wouldn’t wish diabetes on anyone (with child or con un vuoto utero), I can’t help but consider my diagnosis a blessing in disguise.  Adjusting my prior eating habits out of concern for A Most Important Passenger has effected a tremendous change in the way I feel from day to day.  It’s meant the difference between falling on my freckled face for thirty minutes after lunch and having the energy to make a few laps around the block following a well-chosen meal.  I’m very grateful to my doctor for not merely sending me home with a handful of pamphlets; the dietary counseling I received by his referral at Baptist Hospital in Little Rock has become the cornerstone of my food philosophy, prego or no.  Here’s some of the wisdom I’ve gleaned from this transition:

 

·         Fiber = FRIEND.  Sugar = FRIENEMY (as in, initially acts like a friend, then tells everyone behind your back that your hair looks like one of the original muppets).

·         Eating carbs can be compared to stoking a fire.  Protein is like the long-burning pine knot at the heart of the blaze that keeps it going, but carbohydrates are the sticks and kindling that give your flames that initial boost they need to get started.  Refined sugar is just lint from the dryer – it burns quickly, and then ya’ve got nothing but a warm spot on the ground.  Then everyone at deer camp throws empty cans at you for allowing them to get nippy.    

·         A balance of carbs and protein is important to maintain proper blood sugar levels throughout the day.  Eating my previously carb-infused diet is like see-sawing with the skinny kid.  You just *think* you’re having a good time when gravity takes its toll and all heck breaks loose.  Your butt’s about to kiss the concrete.

·         And finally, it’s better to enjoy a wee nib of the real stuff and savor that morsel than it is to have a faceful of its artificial impostor.  Sugar can be monitored and balanced out.  Aspartame is forever.

 

I wish you all many satisfying NOMS!

 

Love,

Mini’s Mom     

Reminders from Mort

Dear Mini,

This may sound strange, but bear with me.

When I came downstairs this morning to start your daddy's coffee, the strangest thing was sitting on the kitchen counter: a reconstructed ear made from mortuary wax. 

Good morning, beautiful.



I shouldn't have been shocked at all, given the fact that I bore witness to its creation the night before while snuggling with a couchful of dogs while watching Harry Potter with one eye open.

This is a pretty accurate snapshot of our pre-parental life, my dear: Daddy and I sharing a couch in our lamp-lit den; me with my feet under his leg, dozing off the stress of the workweek and relentless chores, and him busily whittling away at his mountain of homework for mortuary school. 

 

Life is hectic right now, crammed with the demands of gainful employment, Jason’s 24 hours of college classes, home repair (thanks to the ill-timed washing machine incident), and the fourteen endearing creatures of all shapes and sizes running amok in and around this joint. Looming above it all is the stress-inspiring snowball which the holidays become immediately following Halloween.

 

I know I shouldn’t be in a rush to put one moment in my life aside in favor of another, but in this case, I would think it’s an understandable urge: for the first time in years, I find myself craving the cool quiet of mid-winter for the sake of your arrival.  I imagine that following your birth, we’ll be spending many an evening bundled into a rocking chair, finding comfort in each other’s presence during those dark pre-solstice weeks. With the onslaught of gotta-go’s and must-do’s momentarily stilled, I think that will be one of the happiest times in mine and Daddy’s lives.  Our lifetimes thus far have been spent so manically in the pursuit of survival and success, the opportunity to focus our energies on the single goal of caring for you seems like a miracle in itself.

 

*   ~  *  ~  *  ~  * 

 

On our fireplace mantle sits another unsettling sight (when he’s not in action as a prop for Daddy’s classes) – a reconstructive modeling skull named Mort.  We get a kick out of the Addams family vibe his presence lends to the rambling old house.  In the midst of the hullabaloo, he’s an effective reminder to spend our time wisely.  We’ll all end up looking like him at some point…. why rush? 

 Alas!

I’m just grateful that your impending arrival (combined with constant reminders from Daddy’s schoolwork!) has been a north star pointing us toward what’s important.  Pace should slow.  Priorities shall shift.  Time and money will be redistributed.    

 

I have a feeling that a lot of things are going to change around here, for the better (including Mort – he’s getting a new clay face this semester!).

Top Ten Worst Maternity Halloween Costumes

10. A Nun  (Forgive me, Father, for I have…er, you know.)

 

9.  Octomom  (Just too scary on soooo many different levels.)

 

8.  Jersey Cow  (Got milk?  Don’t answer that.) 

 

7.  Disco Ball  (Unless you enjoy being surrounded by polyester-clad, AquaNetted old geezers with gold chains tangled in their sweaty chest hair, PASS.)

 

6.  Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader  (Double D’s+Belly+Bouncing=BAD.)

 

5.  Cheeseburger  (You are what you eat…?  Geez, I guess that would make me a Tums.)

 

4.  Spongebob Squarepants  (If you’re wearing square maternity pants, please see your doctor.)

 

3.  Honey Boo Boo Child (Wait…. No, on second thought, that would be pretty awesome.  Pass on the Go-Go Juice, though.  That stuff might cause baby to come out as an extreme couponer with a taste for pickled pig’s feet and Pall Malls. )

 

2. Michael Jackson (Go ahead.  Confuse the children even more.)

 

1.  Redneck Trucker  (Because what would you do if people didn’t realize that it’s a costume?)

 

 

"Trick 'er treat....got any fried baloney?"

 



Mornings With Mini

 

Much to the bewilderment of my husband, I am one of those rare and frustrating creatures who wakes up with a smile on my face and bounds out of bed at 5:30 a.m..  I attribute this to being healthy, regimented, and, well, thirty.

 

If there are any tense moments in our marriage, they occur at the moment each day when I compress his ribs while leaning across him in bed and babbling, “Heyhoneygoodmorninhowdyasleep?

Myeyesjustflewopenatfivebecauseiwashavingthiscrazydreamaboutmonkeysmadeofpeanutbutterandiwaslikefreakinoutbutiwokeupandwaslikewhooooooa.  Want some coffee?”

 

He says, *nodnodnod* “Mmmmph.”

 

He means, “If you weren’t my pregnant wife, I’d mush your face in like Gumby’s.”

 

Sorry, honey… you’re stuck with a morning person.

 

In his defense, this wasn’t one of the characteristics of the girl that he married.  When we were newlyweds, we used to tear ourselves from the slobberpools of drool on our pillows and stare at each other dumbly like two frogs on a log while sharing a large cup of nearly-chewable coffee.  That was all we were truly capable of accomplishing.  It was only after we both escaped the draining world of retail sales that my personal melatonin levels evened out.  Morning became my mental and spiritual preparation period for the day.  He…. is spiritual the rest of the day.  He continues to grumble and eat coffee during the early morning hours, and I’m okay with that.  Otherwise he’d be perfect, and that would be difficult to live with. 

 

As Mini’s time grows nigh, I find a new peace in the rhythm of my mornings because she’s become a tangible part of them.  Now that the first-trimester furies of my digestive system have straightened themselves out, I sleep deeply and comfortably and wake to the funny tappings of my little inner captive ticking her time away in an odd fetal rhythm of kicks and flailings.  I imagine she’s utilizing her developmental period to study for a career as a telegraph operator.

"Can.....I have.....a....cupcake....mom?"

 

This morning was a particularly active one for Princess Little Limbs.  In my initial state of wakefulness, I’m never quite sure whether it’s her morning announcement or last night’s Mexican food that’s demanding a flying valkyrie trip to the bathroom, but I either way, I wasn’t about to take a chance on it being the latter.  Once I’m awake, the dance goes like this:

 

Roll over à spit cat tail fur from my face à eject cat from bed àpat underside of pillow for cell phone àsquint to read cell phone screen and trip over curled-up dog à holler “YAaaaaargh!” as I mambo around the startled dog and shock Jason half-awake àwiggle out of fleece pajama pants and wonder how the fool I slept in them àfinally reach my destination where I, um, take care of business while reading a chapter of Gone With The Wind

 

(Graphic side note: after months two through four, I will never, ever EVER take morning regularity as anything but a blessing.  Holy cow.  Wow.  Endorsement for FiberOne brownies goes HERE.)

 

Following this one-woman parade across the carpet, my morning is usually fairly placid.  I’ve grown to enjoy my pre-dawn tramp across the dewy grass in my bathrobe and boots, making sure all our animals are fed and well, and that those who spend the day indoors are sufficiently squeezed out in an appropriate place outside.  I love the few minutes of solitude I manage to steal each morning while waiting for the pugs to make their morning rounds through the privet hedges; I listen for their distant footfalls crunching through the pine needles as I wander the goat pen, looking for new flowering vines and signs of the changing seasons.  Sometimes I’m greeted by blooming carpets of wild morning glories or explosive tangles of trumpet vine.  And after a run of rainy days, I’m often rewarded with caches of colorful wild mushrooms that the little kid in me (other than Mini) enjoys kicking across the yard. 

 

Silly little moments like this thrill the stuffing out of me.  I can’t wait to take a wobbly little girl in tiny boots on these morning adventures and introduce her to the outdoors.  I want her to know that it’s more than just a place she’s banished to when mom refuses to turn on the television.  I want to teach her to enjoy the ever-cycling life around us and understand that some mornings there are new flowers or or wild plums or the smell of sassafras trees getting their sap up…. and then some days there might be a dead bunny in the goat pen because Big Dolly was doing her job last night.  Mornings are for opening our eyes and taking in the world around us, appreciating along the way the gifts that God has renewed for us to enjoy for one more day.

 

Whether those gifts be flowers,

 

Or coffee,

 

Or good mornings from our loved ones (however begrudgingly accepted),

 

Or familiar animal friends,

 

Or…. Fiber.

 

 



These are a few of my favorite wee things....

 

Posh photo framing to show off your sweet face....

 

 

 

The tiniest shoe-ettes in sparkles and lace...

 

 

...and where would our angel be without wings?...

 

 

...These are a few of my favorite wee things!...

 

 

...To warm your small head, you've got tiny toboggans...

 

 

...and headbands with flowers, if no hair's on your noggin...

 

 

Onesies with flowers and critters and bling,

 

 

 

These are a few of my favorite wee thiiiiiiings....

 

When the pug barfs,

When the goat butts,

When I'm feelin' fat....

 

I simply remember

Your favorite wee things,

And then I don't feel

Sooooo

crap!

 

Neighborly Love

"One of the greatest gifts you can give anybody is the gift of your honest self. I also believe that kids can spot a phony a mile away.”

 

Fred Rogers is my hero.

To my personal shame, I didn’t give him much credit when I was a little kid.  Compared to the flashier, high fructose corn syrup-laden children’s programming of the eighties, his world seemed sedate in comparison.  When I was tired enough to spread a pallet on the living room floor and curl up to watch television at a 90 degree angle, then I would watch Mister Rogers.

There were no frightening creatures or villainous shades in his neighborhood. The characters who populated his world fell into one of two honored categories: neighbors and friends.  It’s not that he ever denied the existence of hurtful people in the world; he just gave children a safe place where they didn’t have to look over their shoulder for thirty minutes a day.  It wasn’t a platform for plot-driving conflict or a long-form advertisement for a brand of merchandise.  He simply discovered the world around him, and asked me questions which I in turn would ask myself.  What should I do when other kids tease me?  If mommy and daddy fight, do they still love each other?  What happens when my goldfish dies?

There were no teasing insults or playful barbs flung on his show.  If he was angry or upset, dadgummit, he told you so.  And then he explained how he intended to deal with that. 

Sometimes his explanations took the form of play. 

“When we treat children's play as seriously as it deserves, we are helping them feel the joy that's to be found in the creative spirit. It's the things we play with and the people who help us play that make a great difference in our lives.”

― Fred Rogers

As I grew older, I still watched his show on occasion when I wasn’t driving myself and my parents crazy by running from activity to activity after school.  Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was drawn to his show’s slow, purposeful pacing.  While other kids’ shows were booby-trapped with explosions and loud buzzers and trendy costuming, Mr. Rogers remained quietly consistent – as comforting and familiar as a grilled cheese sandwich after school.  He never attempted to merely entertain me; no, that would have been a squandered opportunity on his part to bring out the best in his viewers instead of relegating them to the status of a mere audience charged with stoking his vanity.  He considered his viewers to be his equal, not as an adoring mass to be kept at bay by bodyguards and mansion gates.    

 

 

“I believe that appreciation is a holy thing--that when we look for what's best in a person we happen to be with at the moment, we're doing what God does all the time. So in loving and appreciating our neighbor, we're participating in something sacred.”

― Fred Rogers

I feel like I carry a piece of Fred Rogers’ mission in my heart when I have the opportunity to interact with children, especially the very young.  I remember being very responsive toward the adults in my life who spoke to me with a kind-yet-straightforward treatment (as was his manner), and it’s my intention pass that on by being mindful of the way I interact with the young.  They want to be heard and directed. 

I don’t believe that children should be spoken to as adults, or as ignorant pets.  Gentleness and firmness are both necessary, and discipline plays an important role in establishing where a parent stands in relation to a child.  But interaction, pure and simple, seems most imperative to me.  It says, “You are worth my time and attention.  My attention is a representation of my love for you.” And I think it takes equal measures of wisdom and candor to communicate well with them, especially your own. 

It saddens me to know that so many children seem abandoned within their own house just because their parents don’t try to understand who they are and guide them through life equipped with that understanding.  At the foundation of each child’s emotional development, there are things that child needs to be secure in – things that only an important adult can imprint onto their heart.  These were words that I know I longed for and was nourished with by the adults I held in high regard:

“I know you’re afraid, but we love you and will protect you.”

“You’re so smart!”

“What do you think about this situation?”

“Let me teach you how.”

“How you feel matters to me.”

My specific prayer in the coming months is for our child to be secure in these foundations, and to receive such clear confirmation from us, her parents, as well as other important "neighbors" in her life.          

“Love isn't a state of perfect caring. It is an active noun like struggle. To love someone is to strive to accept that person exactly the way he or she is, right here and now.”

― Fred Rogers

 

 

 

Sleepless Nights = ...Stubble?

In vain you rise early
and stay up late,
toiling for food to eat—
for he grants sleep to^[a] those he loves.

 

~  Psalm 127:2

 

But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost

 

 

Dear Mini,

 

Honey, let’s talk about the importance of sleep.

 

It’s necessary, even beneficial – but you can get too much of a good thing.  Like kisses.  Or vitamins. 

 

I strongly endorse the sustaining power of all three, but overindulgence always bears consequences.  Like lethargy and wasted time.  Or beard burn.  Or expensive pee.

 

If you end up with wiring similar to mine and your daddy’s, then sawing too many logs won’t be a problem for you.  You’re predisposed to be what my mom calls “tightly wound”, like a clock that runs a leeeeeetle too fast.  There’s always something present to occupy our minds, as well as ten thousand reasons to do something other than rest our addled brains.  The satisfaction of accomplishment – and sometimes the sheer panic associated with letting things slip just a little – can be such a harsh taskmistress.   

 

“Mow the lawn!” 

“This project will never get done unless you take charge of it!”

“The floor’s not clean enough!”

“You owe this person your time!”

“Pry that dead armadillo out of your car grill!  It’s been there for HOW many weeks?!”

 

…and on and on she goes. 

 

Your daddy and I were discussing this on our way back from church this past Sunday.  He knew he had endless hours of blood, spit and toil he owed to our new flooring he committed to doing himself in order to save us money.  I knew I should’ve been dishing up beans and cornbread at home instead of giving in to the allure of another cheese-smothered burrito from El Parian.  On top of all this hovered the threat of snowballing chores, activities to organize, and eight peeved little pygmy goats who don’t understand that the feed store isn’t open on Sunday.

 

But then it started to rain.

 

“Let’s turn in when we get home,” I proposed.   He didn’t object.

 

And that’s exactly what we should’ve done.  We were staring at each other like two bloated goldfish by the time our heads hit the pillow.  At that point, there was no way in the world that anything worth doing would have been done well.

 

I’m thankful that God has designed us with the ability to grow drop-dead tired. 

 

If he didn’t, I probably would’ve, um, dropped dead.

 

Or ended up looking like a female Hugh Laurie.

 

 

New Developments

New developments this week:

 

Jason was able to feel the baby kick for the first time last night.  He happened to rest his hand on my stomach at just the right moment as we were turning the TV to The Golden Girls and getting ready to pray for sleep and whammo!  The baby went all Chuck Norris on his open palm!

 

She’s really been stomping up a storm in there lately.  I suppose she’s at just the perfect moment of development when she has enough wiggle room to pull off an impressive floor routine thanks to her newly-acquired coordination.  Unlike most moms who have told me they thought of this “quickening” stage as butterflies fluttering or champagne bubbles popping in their belly, I can’t help but imagine that it feels like Homer Simpson is doing his Curly Stooge impression  -- you remember, the one where he throws himself on the floor on his side and runs around in circles:

 

 

 

All said, I love to feel her movements.  It’s reassuring to know that she’s getting lots of practice in for kicking a diaper away later.

 

 

Also, I can see the bottom of my bellybutton these days.  The Great Protrusion has begun.

 

For thirty years, I’ve had not a clue what dwelt within those depths, and now that excavation is possible, a shallow dive has revealed: 

 

 

 

“…beer cans, a Maryland license plate, half a bicycle tire, a goat, and a small wooden puppet. Goes by the name of Pinocchio”

 

Thank you, Albert.

 

And to conclude this update, I recently purchased baby’s first dressy onesie-gown!  It’s a precious little number from the Chase ‘N’ Dreams boutique here in Sheridan, Arkansas.  I hung it in baby’s closet on a tiny baby-sized hanger and I just steal a peek at it now and then. 

 

Mommy needs that. 

Happy 21^st week of existence, little girl of ours!

 

Oh, Deer. That time of year again....

When the air turns crisp and cool

And daylight hours burn brief,
Our menfolk rise at dark
And disappear into the leaves.

“Where did daddy go today?”

I imagine you may ask;
And this is how I will explain
The ritual of his task.

There’s a time each autumn

(According to the law)
When many guys (and some gals)
Don camo or coveralls;

They drive their trucks or ATVs

Through woodlands dark and dense,
Then scale a tree or hide below –
Whichever makes most sense.

At this point, methods differ

In the way they draw a buck;
some hunters count on method,
and some on plain dumb luck.

Some stake out location

Based on patterns long observed;
They lay out tasty nibbly things
That deer think they deserve,

And then with stealth and steel resolve,

They sit like dolls of wood
All doused in acrid, smelly things
Which whitetails love (or should?),

Then taste the air and hold their breath

And sit with their bow steadied,
For when that ten point wanders up,
They won’t freak out.  They’re ready.

Now I feel I should warn you,

Not everyone’s this way.
There are a few, you’ll no doubt find,
Are dumb as goats that graze.

Some choose to use this season

To get raging, stinking drunk –
Now how would some wise wild thing
Be drawn in with eau de skunk?

Some hunters spit and stomp around

Like Elmer Fudd, but worse –
Then ne’er suspect their raucous ways
Are why their hunt seems cursed.

Then some will use all great outdoors

As their own pers’nal john –
Well, good grief, man!  Go squat at home
Without your coveralls on!

Now that I’ve told you all of this,

I will offer you a choice:
Go malling with the ladies,
Or go hunting with the boys.

Which e’er adventure suits you, dear,
Is fine and well and cute.
Like most southern girls, you’ll learn
Both how to shop and shoot.

‘Cause when you live in Arkansas
(Where deer scraps litter each yard)
These are the things you learn to do.
 
That’s just the way things are.