It doesn’t seem possible that it’s time for me to write the piece that will end another year. Although I missed Kansas this year, I hunted Alabama and Tennessee and fished Alabama and Florida. In between, the Sporting Wife and I tore hell bent for leather across the countryside chasing fins, fur, and feathers. We spent time of our choosing with family, friends, and each other. In the end, when it’s time to pee on the fire and go home, we should have no regrets.
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“It must have always been in me somewhere and, though it has faded at times, it has always lingered and returned; this interest in the hunt. The evocative smell of gun-oil, metal and old wood, of powder and dogs and leather. These have held me for as long as I can remember and they hold me still.”
- Diggory Hadoke, from the introduction to Vintage Guns
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Since early hominids discovered that setting up shop in a cave will keep your cooking fire dry and your backside out of a saber-tooth cat’s mouth, man has been searching for his own space. For just about as long, he has been sharing that space with woman. One way to preserve domestic bliss that has traveled down through the generations to modern Homo sapiens is the institution of the man cave. Although it’s seldom an actual cave now (although that would be cool) many men agree with their spouses that a certain area of the home will be designated exclusively for typically masculine pursuits. (Save your e-mails, ladies. This advice applies equally to you if you need a place in your home to smoke cigars, drink scotch, scratch openly, and reload ammunition while hubby does macrame and watches Oprah.) As I am the absolute master of my domain here at Armchair Central, I have chosen the garage for my lair. That the Sporting Wife also chose this location for me is mere happenstance. The lack of air conditioning is no deterrent to me, no sir. I like to confine my manly pursuits to the late evening hours when it has cooled to a bracing 85 degrees in there.
In one corner, wedged behind my garage refrigerator, I have an old desk. It’s the first desk I bought for myself when I was in private practice. Actually, it’s an old secretary’s desk with the return on the side. It’s not much to look at, but it’s solid walnut save the Plastiwood top, and it’s as heavy as the hinges of hell. I worked behind that desk for nine years; now it’s where I play. I have a padded vise for gunsmithing work, a fletching jig for making arrows, and presses for shotshell and metallic cartridge reloading. Reloading components, gun cleaning supplies, and tools are close at hand, and I file duplicate copies of all my hunting and fishing licenses in the center drawer. I don’t get out there as much as I’d like, but I enjoy knowing that my things are there, semi-organized and waiting.