Wearin' o' the Orange

There is much hoopla in my state this week. It is the time of year that rivals Christmas and the Super Bowl combined. Greeters are stationed at the airport handing out trinkets, coupons and other sundries for the myriad of guests streaming in from far and wide. Dogs are yapping and bursting with pent up energy. Plaid shirts and multi-pocketed vests are the stylin’ choices. Much revelry and the building of memories are anticipated with delight. And everywhere one looks, there are signs that say, “Welcome Hunters.” It is the beginning of pheasant hunting season.

Nowhere, however, is there more eagerness than in the small towns on the open prairie. Growing up in one of those towns, I know the sameness that can become a blur of daily living. When not one, not two, but hundreds of strangers descend upon your environs, there is bound to be excitement and a few stories to tell. Churches and civic organizations gear up with offers of food and fellowship during the opening weeks. Money from new pockets is always appreciated and conversations with people with accents are, well, priceless.

I don’t participate much in the goings on anymore, but I do have very fond memories of the big opening day. Our farmland had some great hunting opportunities and a crowd was sure to form an hour or so before the noon start time. It was mostly family and friends taking a day off from their usual commitments. The seasoned hunters were all too willing to show the young ones the ropes and the little ones who were too young to hunt circled around on the fringes, watching the show unfold, dreaming of the day they could join in the festivities.

My sisters and I were busy for a week, baking and preparing goodies for the big feed after the hunt. On the menu was an assortment of cookies, bars, sandwiches and, of course, hunter’s muffins. The muffin batter was easily stored in the refrigerator and made dozens of tasty, hearty treats, just what the doctor ordered for a crew of ravenous hunters.

When the hunting party returned, it was time to watch and listen. Birds were cleaned, wrapped and packaged for future meals. Kids gathered favorite feathers and marveled at their iridescent and tickling qualities. Hunters lingered over groaning tables of goodness. Stories flowed as easily as the coffee.

All too soon the sun would begin to dip on the horizon, reminding the crew that it was time to get back to chores and predictable routines. Guns and gear would be tucked away for another year. A feeling of beige would descend. But, for a few moments yet, the sky blazed brilliantly blue, the camaraderie warmed the moments and the color of orange was a sight to behold.