NO BOOTS

What are the stages of grief? Denial, anger, acceptance, rage. I hit rage today. Al Blanchard and I have been working all week on my place in preparation for the Memorial Weekend festivities at the church, with a couple of rainy hours off to hunt. It's been a sucky season. After a hot start and one bird in the freezer, my turkey season has ground to an ignoble stop. Rain, wind, cold, more wind, funerals....it's all fucked with my May. After work, I've been rehearsing with Slick and the church band. It looks like High School musical church- alot of hymns and songs- light on the goofy performance art. How times have changed. But still, it's going to be a great church- Bhutto dancers hanging from the ceiling and Michael Jackson impersonators. Who needs performance art?

As i was saying the season has been rough. But today Al and I got up early and went out to WSS to hunt. Our first spot already had a pick up parked in the road. We backpedaled and ended up behind Shewho's. We had one bird going, but he soon shut up. And the FUCKING WIND was driving me crazy. AND my boots leaked. I had bought them at Gander Mt. during last deer season- like in November. And they weren't cheap. Al kept telling me to take them back. Who had time to take boots back? We trudged up Chuck and Tessa's mt. and never heard a gobble. The morning wore on. The wind never let up. At 10am we called it. FUCK!

So I came home laid on the couch, pulled the covers up over my head and tried to escape. But a fly just wouldn't have it. He landed so persistently and obnoxiously, buzzing on my ear, that even through the blanket, sleep was impossible. I got up. I worked on the porch. My feet itched from the leaky boots. I heard Al's words like that relentless fly- "Take 'em back." I knew it was a mistake, but couldn't stop myself. I thought of taking my pistol....but decided that could be a bigger mistake. I grabbed my boots, got in the Neon and headed for Gander Mt.

There were four employee's standing at a little round table as I entered the door. They sent me to a woman at the counter- register 1. She looked at the boots, frowned, talked to the guys at the little table on her headset, then sent me back to them. The head doofus at the little table started the inquisition. Receipt? No, but i paid with credit card. More than 90 days? I'd already told him""Deer Season." "Nothing we can do." he said in a matter of fact, corporate line, no responsibilispeak tone that sent me through the roof. Where was my gun? Fuck! I decided not to pack. So in lieu of blowing his smug face off, I grabbed the leaky, split, good for nothing, Columbia rubber boots and flung them into the evil maw of GANDER MOUNTAIN. I will never set foot in that fucking place again. My voice carries. Half of Middletown now knows what I think of Gander Mountain.

I have to fish another pair of even leakier boots out of the trash in order to hunt the morning. When will my grief end?