I could feel
my Uncle Willis shaking his head in amazement and disappointment.
But not
surprise.
Uncle
Willis, the younger of my Dad's two older brothers, was an avid outdoor
enthusiast, hunting anything legal that moved. That included alligators in
South America when he worked there as a young geophysicist exploring for oil,
and also renegade army officers in that same primitive environment deep in the
bush who kidnapped one of his employees for ransom. He didn't seem to be afraid
of anything, including the Secret Service that helicoptered down upon him one
afternoon and ordered him spread-eagle for frisking against the aircraft when the Vice President happened to be hunting on the adjacent farm.
Hunting, in
a more routine sense, included for my Uncle birds of various categories around
the family farm in South Texas, and white tail deer. He went to great lengths
and preparations to make sure conditions were inviting to his prey. He avidly
bought his licenses, loaded his guns, set his early morning alarms, stalked
through the woods, practiced his "calls", and climbed into his
blinds. He was an enthusiastic sportsman, and a darn good shot.
I, meanwhile
-- at least as far as he was concerned -- was something from outer-space. I
hunted as a kid but more out of genetic obligation than visceral pleasure.
And then, contrary to family genes, I gradually lost all interest. Already Uncle Willis suspected that some mystery creature had substituted the
true Diebel egg in the nest with one from a different planet. When Lori and I
announced that we would be married on September 20, he was incredulous. Didn't
we realize, he asked aloud, that September 20 was the opening day of dove season?
He begrudgingly was willing to forego that signal date, just that once, and
attend the wedding, but for the rest of our lives, he noted in no small measure
of dismay and disbelief, our anniversary would conflict with this important
rite of autumn. He indulged us, but we completely understood that he thought we were nuts.
Fast-forward
20 years, and just this week Lori's brother Steve was exploring our several
northerly acres of thick woods, through the trees close to the creek. There he
discovered a decaying deer that had died of indeterminate causes, with an
impressive 10-point rack intact. Rescuing the antlers from the brush, he
encouraged us to mount the horns for display.
Of course we
know nothing of such things. Transporting the rack to a local taxidermist, he
asked for the "tag."
We looked at
each other blankly.
"A
salvage tag," he clarified. "I can't touch it without a salvage tag
from the DNR."
He might as
well have been speaking Chinese. "I don't know what that means," I
confessed.
"A
salvage tag from the Department of Natural Resources to verify that you aren't
poachers,” he clarified.
“Ah,” we
responded. After exchanging blank looks, Lori noted that all the officer would
have to do was ask us a few questions and it would be plainly obvious that we
weren't anything, especially poachers.
And it is
here, I noted, that a Director would cue my uncle’s disappointment. We might as
well not know the alphabet and multiplication tables.
“You don't
know what a DNR Salvage tag is?” I can hear him asking. And indeed, I would
have to acknowledge that I don't. I'm not completely clueless, but among these
topics I am largely so.
No worries.
A couple of phone calls and a little patience later we are now the proud owners
of a salvage tag from the DNR which has been sufficiently convinced that the antlers
are entirely legal and legit -- the officer apparently convinced that we are
completely incompetent of procuring ill-gotten gains. The windfall, they
concluded, was simply dumb luck.
It's not a
flattering assessment, I'll agree, but it is, nonetheless, an honest one. We
don't know what we don't know, and so we ask ridiculous questions and watch and
wait for pastoral, instructive answers. And yet with these few questions satisfied in ignorance, we gingerly accepted our salvage tag. The taxidermist is
now sorting finishing options while the memory of Uncle Willis shakes his head
and moves on to other things...
...like how
are we possibly going to celebrate our 20th anniversary this fall on the
opening day of dove season? Perhaps with the ceremonial hanging of an impressive set of antlers salvaged from our property and legally prepared for display. He will never understand us. But then he would
relax with the assurance that God takes care of children and fools.
For our
part, far too old for the former, we will contentedly and happily take our place among the
latter.
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