Well, it was about time! That pesky bladder woke me up three times, so setting an alarm clock seemed redundant. Besides, it would wake my wife.
Christmas shopping had come and gone, gifting and re-gifting was behind me, now...where do all these ceramic creations come from anyway? What Santa thought this stuff up? New Year was upon us in no time, quicker somehow than the year before.
I had promised my wife I would not discuss Politics, Religion or Money with my in-laws, for a week. I held out for 4 days...that's a week, right? But it was not until around the third of January, when I was moving some re-gifting ideas for next year, that I found them. The stack of new calenders that appear every year,in and among the many creative, last minute items my relatives pick up at the local 7-11. The themes of which have more to do with the giftgiver than the recepient. Where do they get these pictures? It was just about then when it hit me. There was a sudden surge of excitement as I thought about the upcoming Sporting Clay season.
I left the chipped ceramic gifts on the sofa and started looking for something to write with. I found a stub of a pencil with a tiny bit of eraser left. I grabbed the January edition of Sporting Clays off the coffee table beside my chair, and decided to head to the garage. I walked through the kitchen. The radio was on, the TV was on, and a few remaining relatives were deep into a discussion of Tummy Tucks and Cosmetic Surgery. Wearing my best smile, I kept a brisk walk as I weaved around them. Seeming interested, but too busy to stop, I opened the garage door and disappeared behind it.
Made it! I switched on the light over the work bench and slid up on the stool. Slowly, and with a deliberate motion, I paged through the magazine, looking for dates. The State Shoot, the US Open, the World Shoot. These dates are golden. You are assured to see Digweed, Cherry, Kruger and my favorite, Concannon.
Once those dates were highlighted on the new calendar, it was time to start my battle plan. I scratched in weekly times and local monthly tourney's. The first day of training. I was reeling with excitement when I heard it..."Honey...Honey can you help us..."
There was just a sliver of dawn cast over the horizon when I slipped out from under the covers, just enough light to keep from tripping over her dog, who had lately become a bedroom regular. Silently closing the door behind me, I stood in the closet and switched on the light. I wanted to leave out my clothes the night before, as I usually do, but I was afraid it may telegraph my early morning intentions. I selected a new hunting shirt my wife bought me, the new boots I bought myself and a pair of new socks someone gave me, and finally, the new black, boxer-type underwear. Seems like a good idea, I don't have to worry about skid marks anymore, right. Dressed, I shut off the light, opened the door and quietly walked out of the bedroom. Took my first full breath as the door closed behind me.
Not waiting for the coffee, I grabbed a cold water and entered the cool, dark garage,where the night before, while closing up, I had deliberately left the garage door open to avoid detection..oops. The shotgun was locked in the trunk, something I also did last night. Now sitting behind the wheel, door not quite closed yet, I tightened my jaws and turned the key. Still holding my breath, I engaged the transmission and eased out of the garage. The further from the house, the more relaxed I became. I pulled the door tight. I had just looked down the road ahead, about to moved my foot to the accelerator, when suddenly, my heart stopped at the pounding on the trunk!...." Honey..oh Honey...you forgot your new cap!"
Comments