Cabela’s, Dioramas, Pre-Adolescent Apathy and Hard Questions

We’ve been on holiday in Austin for an extended weekend. The Chinese tallows, the elms and the black oaks are all holding onto summer’s sunset in their leaves: golden yellows, vermilion and sienna strike like fire against the slate blue fold of a Fall afternoon cold front. It’s windy. Though their uncle’s house is warm and the tv flickers, alluring with movies and the sofas beckon with plush, warm suede, we convince the boys it would be exciting to take them to Cabela’s sport superstore in Buda. Because that what a lot of people around here do, that frenzied day after Thanksgiving; if they aren’t watching football at home, they’re either hunting or hoarding or some commercial marriage of the two in the Outdoor Superstore, where rednecks shop for everything “outside” that they can’t find inside Wal-Mart.

Actually, beyond the gluttony this place ties in perfectly with this month’s chapter on practical taxidermy but the boys haven’t really seen anything until they’ve witnessed the spectacle of Cabela’s. Dad says the mounts are exceptional, but nothing prepares me for the lavish visual tapestry behind the doors: a riot of bountiful bins stocked with christmas delights for the family: crates of wooden pop guns, stacks of venison marinade samplers, shelves of stoneware crockery painted with Autumnal fauna, piles of pillows in the shape of fish. And that’s just past the front doors. Beyond this: a congregation of all sportsman’s delights: racks upon racks of shotguns, aisles of fishing poles on attention, an assembly of shells, disks, bobbers, baiters, jigs, quivers-you name it, they have it. And in the middle of every sport category, to illustrate the point, Cabela’s hones the rapture with some of the most lavish, exquisite hunt mounts and trophies I’ve ever seen, all in fabulous diorama. There is no finer display of the hunter’s lust than what I see here.

For Damon, this is all too much and far too personal, dredging an otherwise curious experience in some past baggage sludge I’m unable to recall, memories maybe of his own dad, trapping and skinning in Wyoming when Damon, himself, was Ford’s age. Pretty quickly he disappears to mingle alone in his thoughts.

See if you can spot Waldo in there. Hint: shades and a beanie.

Meanwhile, Dad and I take the boys on a taxidermy tour, an attempt to bring the craft into another context, another connection to make in the confusing world of nature appreciation.

I’m sure the only one surprised here is me: At this point in their lives, the boys have a limited interest in taxidermy. Chas is more fascinated with living, scratching, snorting, farting animals, though the diorama presents itself on an important level as art; Ford appears to believe taxidermy is as interesting as dermatology and, in fact, confused the two in conversation during the car ride across Austin. His interest is fleeting and superficial. To his credit, he searches each diorama for the smallest hidden and random element (a marmot was something he’d never seen before) but then blips off to check out the kiosk full of “hunt snacks” like bagged chocolate-covered pretzels and gummy treats. Where most appetites would whet for hunting and sport, Ford is distracted by sweet overstock, and he tugs my shirt for a bag of gummy treats.

Not surprising in the least, He spends the rest of his visit asking when we are going to check out, so he can finally tear into the gummy worms. Dad consoles me. Understand, I’m not only irritated by Ford’s tenacious pleading for sweets, but also dampened with the realization that Ford just doesn’t yet appreciate the craft of bringing the outdoors in; more personally, he doesn’t yet have an affinity for something I do, and I guess I dismay a bit.

Chas, meanwhile, probes Dad with the hard questions, trying to understand why his grandfather enjoys hunting: “Poppy, I don’t understand WHY you hate animals!” throwing both hands up into the air as if his grandfather had suddenly decided to wear dresses. Befuddled by the irony, Dad squirms while I counter for him:

“It’s complicated, Chas…” suddenly I start squirming, too, realizing that, duh, I’m conflicted over the matter, myself.
“People keep moving into the woods, spreading out over the fields, and the animals then have less and less room to live…like in the movie ‘Over the Hedge,’ do you remember that movie?”
He nods, listening. “When animals get crowded, they tend to get hurt and unhappy. But the hunter makes the situation better. He buys more land for the animals with each permit or lease that he buys. He makes more available habitat for the animals. He makes it impossible for builders to build on that land. The hunter keeps the wild.” I pause to consider words. “Hunting brings people closer to nature. Some people like to watch nature, others like to experience it like our ancestors. It’s a skill that most men have lost, being able to go feed your family without using the grocery store. It’s not very easy to hunt, but it can be very satisfying.”

“Mom, I’m hungry.”