Twenty-Year Rewards, Part Two
My husband has very good taste in jewelry. He has given me pearls and diamonds and emeralds and sapphires. He has educated himself quite well in gemology. He had to approve my new diamond-encrusted wedding band. He doesn’t like cheap stuff. I sometimes think he shops in the same store as Queen Elizabeth.
But while he loves to see me decked out (I could go to work in a tiara; he’d been fine with that), he’s a manly man who is content with a good watch and a wedding ring.
For our twentieth wedding anniversary, I wanted to give him a present he would love.
He spent a week thinking about it. And yesterday was his day. So at breakfast he told me where he wanted to shop.
For you girly-girls like me (who had never heard of Cabela’s) – well, it is a Sportmen’s store. But not just any Sportsmen’s store. It’s HUGE, and I hear that there are even much bigger stores in places where there is actually a population of sportsmen. But even the store in genteel Connecticut has fifteen zillion square feet. It has its own aquarium. It has a restaurant. A shooting gallery. Fish electronics. A fudge shop that also carries beef jerky. And every inch of space not taken up by merchandise has some big taxidermied specimen of wildlife – it’s sort of a natural history museum for folks who don’t mind shopping amid dead things.
Most importantly, Cabela’s has guns. They have big guns, little guns, new guns, used guns. And ammo, ammo, ammo.
Yup, that’s what my romantic husband wanted for our anniversary. A new gun.
My husband used to be a hunter, but he doesn’t hunt much anymore. Once we moved out into the country and the deer and turkeys became our outdoor pets, he lost his enthusiasm. He is a very tender guy (for a manly man).
But he loves to go to the firing range. He likes target practice – and even girly me can see the pleasure in it. I like to get the golf ball within a few dozen yards of a little hole once in a while myself. And he likes explosions very very much. And firing a gun is a little explosion.
So off we went to Cabela’s. Little did I know that we would be there for five hours. Even with a permit, it takes an extraordinary amount of time to select, buy, and register a gun. Even if you think you know what you want. I was tempted to remind my husband that he put a quarter in the parking meter when it was my turn to shop. But I didn’t. As I may have told you a time or two (or twenty) already, I am a saint.
The first couple of hours were fun. (The last three, not so much).
I was amazed at what I saw:
– The dead critters of course
– A George Harrison look-alike eating an elk burger
– A ear-flap hat in pink camo
– A guy in a kilt
– Purses with hidden compartments for your ‘piece’
– A Christmas tree decorated with bear repellents and deer attractors (because nothing says Christmas like deer estrous)
And on the subject of camouflage, it is a miracle you can even find your way through most of the second floor. The aisles could be teeming with marines, and you’d never see them. But I have a question: Why are some hunting clothes orange and some camo? Do you want to be seen or NOT?
Well, I made my dear husband extremely happy. I won’t tell you what kind of gun he bought, but suffice it to say you should probably call first before dropping by for a visit.
And it stirs my heart to think that every time he squeezes off a round, he’ll be remembering our wonderful wedding day.