The Coyote and the Roadrunner were one of my favorite shows as a child. Coyote always made me laugh, his ineptness epic, while the Roadrunner watched from a short distance. It was the Coyote I thought of one Saturday morning not too long ago when my husband sat down to watch the instructional DVD that came with the tree stand he had just purchased. If ever there was a contraption that should not have been invented, the tree stand is it. If ever there was a contraption devised by man to be his death, the tree stand is also it.
I can’t for the life of me comprehend why someone would inch-worm his way 20 feet up a tree to stand there (or sit, I suppose) on a platform that is just big enough for a man’s hunting boots (and I definitely don’t mean a Paul Bunyun sized man–more like Johnny Appleseed sized man) with a full body parachute harness (if he’s educated himself on safety) that attaches him to said tree.
A very hearty laugh escaped me when the DVD launched into demonstrations on all the ways you can fall and injure yourself. My husband and Bugaboo (my oldest son) turned to stare at me.
“What is SO funny?” my husband asks looking slightly annoyed.
“Looks like nothing but a recipe for disaster,” I say, wiping tears from my eyes. He’s glaring at me. “I mean,” I add hastily, “that a new hunter might get overly excited if he did shoot a deer and accidentally step off.” He’s still glaring. “I’m sure a seasoned hunter would never do that,” I add as emphatically as I can.
He takes my cue, and launches into a description of how they talked about the dangers of tree stands at the Hunter Safety Course, and how the largest percentage are young, new hunters.
Then I begin thinking about the fact that my son intends on using one of these things. The look on my face must have shown.
Bugaboo rolled his eyes at me. “Mom, Dad will be with me.”
I worked with a lady when I was fresh out of college who had a son that was in college. She told me that sometimes when he came home for a visit, her husband and son would have long talks.
“What about?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t know. My son doesn’t tell me,” she replied, clearly unbothered by the idea.
“Your husband doesn’t tell you?” I say, surprised by this revelation.
She smiles, a knowing smile. “He’s says I’d rather not know.”
I’ve decided since I trust my husband, this is excellant advice.