I’m not a redneck. Believe me I’ve tried. I just lack the knowledge and skill set for it. Before trying, I held the misguided belief that being a redneck was a vacuum of knowledge – a default position at which a country-boy would languish if he lacked the initiative to rise. Only in trying to be one did I learn that it is actually a specific set of knowledge and skills, not to be the subject of condescension. My efforts turned out to be a comical series of lessons in humility, focused primarily on hunting.
The objective was to kill a deer with a bow. Not a bow tie, a compound bow.
Very different, as illustrated above. I can use both, in the sense that I tie my own and I can shoot accurately. So that’s not the problem. The first problem was camouflage. Just the word is difficult. I’m always unsure of where to put the “u.” Camoflauge, Camoflague. That may be why a good redneck says “Camo,” because pronouncing the whole thing brings latent insecurities about spelling to the surface. Anyway, I had to learn the difference between your day to day camo you wear to the WalMart and the actual good hunting camo. I was drowning in ignorance, and was too ignorant to be aware of it. I will not divulge the secret here, for fear of reprimand from the elders.
But that problem was insignificant compared to the next. There I was, in a tree stand at the edge of a small clearing dressed in my good camo (actually borrowed to avoid the heavy initial investment into stuff I would not wear anywhere but the woods). I have a deep appreciation for solitude, and I’m a great fan of the natural world (see exercitatione or harmonia), but it was frustrating when the deer would come to a point where I could see them, and then huff like they were blowing their noses and run away. It reminded me of girls when we were in college. I consulted with the elders and determined that I needed to take active steps to control my scent. (May have been the problem in college too.) Who knew that walking venison could smell that well? The rednecks of the world. They knew. Their redneck dads taught them that just after their redneck moms changed their pampers on the camo sofa. But I’m a problem solver.
These plus a few other products solved the issue of smelling like a civilized human, and I was back in the woods, invisible to the eyes and the noses of nature and ready to bring home the bacon, so to speak.
This time, the wily does sauntered all the way up to the clearing below and began to eat some of the corn that had fallen miraculously, like manna from God, in that spot. (Let me explain at this point that I was hunting on my own family acreage, so I really have no idea how these tree stands and corn arrive there, much less the small patches of rye grass or soybean. I’m smart enough to suspect that it doesn’t happen naturally though.)
Anyway, a few does wander into my lair, and I wait till they are eating contentedly, and then begin to draw my bow when my wedding ring touches part of the stand and sets of a sonic wave of “ping” through the hundreds of acres around me. The deer bolted, the squirrels scurried, and the birds took flight, all trying to conceal their pity underneath their laughter. I went home, mulling over the difficulty of being a redneck.
continued at redneckus not-at-allus