This past Saturday, I was running around town doing errands, and on the radio came a song that cracks me up every time I hear it _ "Thirty Point Buck."
This year was no different, but I did experience a first in my life on hunting's opening day.
Living in the Northeast, every year I transition to studded snow tires right about this time.
So, over the hills I rode with my brother to Tony's Body Shop to swap out my all-seasons for the noisy but reassuring grippers before the shop got bombarded with folks after the first heavy snowfall.
By the way, I wasn't there just to watch. Brother Mark instructed me to replace the lug nuts, and after he tightened them with the air gun, he handed me the torque wrench and said have at it.
Luckily, his friend Marcus was there to show me how to use it, and I proceeded to finish each tire off.
Saturday was the perfect opportunity to get in and out of the shop because Marcus was out hunting, looking to tag the biggest rack he could. To our surprise, at about 9 a.m., Marcus pulled his pickup down the long drive and came into the shop proudly exclaiming that his seven-pointer was in the bed of the truck.
Now, I can understand and appreciate that most local hunters depend on the kill to feed their families. Many others donate the meat to area organizations such as the Conservation Alliance of New York Venison Program, of which this company is a proud supporter.
My husband even gets out in the wee hours of the morning to walk the perimeter in hopes of raising his rifle for that perfect specimen. But, to his dismay, he has come home scoreless for the past several years.