As I write this, I should be deer hunting. I'll say I feel guilty about not hunting, only because I can't think of a more relevant term other than guilt - I'm sure there is a long German word to describe it that I don't know about.
Past years have taught me that one deer is a reasonable goal, and usually I'm scraping vacation days by now to get that. This year is different since I have not used many vacation days productively and I've got time to burn. Since I can be hunting, I somehow feel I must be hunting - one of the reasons I made the decision to no longer bow hunt several years ago.
After getting a deer opening morning and spending the following day getting him in the freezer, I haven't acquired the energy to go back out.
I'm on the edge of getting sick, or maybe getting better. While restorative, sitting in a treestand may not help what could be a ferocious cold - and hacking out a lung is counterproductive to waiting for a deer.
I picked up True Story by Michael Finkel from the library. As I paused early in the morning, putting the book down while reading, I realized part of the reason I was so content to stay indoors. It is more than just because there is now fresh venison in the freezer, or sickness. I put the book down and the only sound I could hear was the therapeutic sounds of dogs sleeping.
Many of the books I've read this year have been listened to while in a car. I do like audiobooks, but I'm not sure that listening and reading are equivalent. Of the books I've actually read, many have been hurry-up-and-read before something else comes up. I've read some at work this past year - very likely the worst possible manner to read anything. All the preparation for uninterrupted deer hunting has created some much needed space.
This year has been more than hectic. Dad's illness and death. The cycle of work early and sleep early. The formerly mentioned misuse of vacation allocation. Even the vacation time used, while restorative, has seemed somehow rushed. There have been down times, but much of that has been consumed watching TV - a past time I find simultaneously enjoyable and mind numbingly painful.
True Story is a gripping book. It tells the story of Christian Longo and the murder of his wife and three children. But the book is about the author, Michael Finkel, nearly as much as it is Longo, as the critical events take place shortly after Finkel is fired from The New York Times and disgraced from the profession of journalism due to fabrication.
What is terrifying about Longo's story is how absolutely normal it seems at times. But, for a few poor decisions, things might have turned out very different. There but for the grace of God go I. Poor decisions are added to poor decisions and things spiral out of control - a train wreck in slow motion.
I looked up what Finkel is doing now, and it appears he is back in at least tepid relations with the field of journalism (not at The Times). There is some criticism of this, but at least he fully admits his mistakes, and publicly. The rarity of admition should be somewhat restorative in itself.
Underneath the book is the magma of half truths and small lies that are easy to rationalize and may help smooth over wrinkles in the short term.
Much like my time deer hunting, I thoroughly enjoyed the time reading True Story. And I know there will be more time for both reading and hunting before the end of the year.
After pausing to listen to the dogs contented breathing, some appliance fan came on somewhere, ending that serene, brief moment, and I returned to reading.
No comments:
Post a Comment