How to... With The Writing Huntress

   Going to the movies, now that I am once again unemployed, is something of a luxury.  The prices of movies are astronomical; one generally has to give up half of his or her college fund in order to pay for said movie night.  When I see a movie that I would really enjoy seeing, I wish I were back in Lockport, NY the home of a drive-in movie theater that costs about as much as half a coke at a regular theater to enjoy an evening full of visual delights.  The whole thing is an experience of the highest cinematic order, from seeing the night sky as you gaze up to the mammoth screen, to eating home-bought treats and even maybe a little wine in paper dixi cups.  Besides being allowed to sit wherever we wanted, from the hood to the roof to the tailgate of DU's truck, the best part was the previews. Without fail, after each preview rolled past the screen, I was quick to rate the movie, good, bad, or horrible. A movie about the pop sensation who strikingly resembles a young girl with a bowl cut, Justin Beiber? No thanks.  A movie about football teams who have to deal with the drama of which cheerleader belongs to whom? Yeah, no thanks.  A movie about getting lost, deep inside the Alaskan wilderness, searching for one's true self amongst the moose and bear? Sign me up!   I returned to this memory quite a few times in the last week as I have fallen into a little bit of a rut.

   I again, have stumbled into the arms of another unsettling predicament with my previous employer.  So, once again, a company has closed and I am unemployed.   I had a couple of really neat pieces half-finished when the ax fell and for some odd reason, I just could not finish them.  Like lost little lambs, I have let them stray, worst yet I can't even seem to find the energy to retrieve them.  I was talking about this with DU, who is always the best for brainstorming.  I had told him a little while ago that I wanted to start doing videos on HLYH.  I assumed that this came from my brief stint in the limelight with my Cooper Tire debut or that my writing was drying up like grass in the late August scorching sun in the face of mounting stress.

   DU and I threw around a couple of ideas but it was only when I received yet another e-mail from someone who had found my blog and was looking for answers that the stars aligned.  I have been steadily receiving mail from those who have serious hunting questions.  Girls looking to start hunting, guys looking for advice about what to do about their girlfriends, and everything in-between.  I had figured that since my writing was taking a little bit of a Summer vacation, maybe it was time to start toying with other avenues.  Hence, I downloaded IMovie and started my work.

   I figured that no movie is really a movie without a super-dramatic trailer, filled with every random accolade the movie may or may not have accrued by every critic you have never heard of.  Also, I really did not want to revoke your right to critique a movie simply from the trailer so I went ahead and created this little gem for you all :

 

  And for those who are still interested with what I have to say about this new project, please direct your attention to the box below!

(For the record, I have no idea why YouTube decided to have that section as the beginning- I look like I'm either suffering from jaundice, scurvy, or other pirate-y diseases.)

   As I said in the video, if you have any information or questions that you would like to be answered, do not hesitate to let me know!   Tune in next week as I sweat and grunt through my pre-season workout!

   

Miniscule Feet Coverings: A Very Scientific Review

   The adage, "act your age not your shoe size" has always struck particularly hard in the heart of this huntress. Just as my hands are small, my feet are equal in their tiny nature.  Hence, when I am told to act my age, and not the measurement of my bases, my mind wanders.  I see myself, a mere two and one half years young, throwing a tantrum, refusing to act as a twenty-five year old should.  Which is obviously exactly the opposite of how I was acting in the first place.  There was no screaming in an incoherent babble of non-English or carrying about in such a manner while wearing a purple polka-dotted onesie.  Hence, such a request would be null and void as it is extremely difficult to act my shoe size when my bone-infused foundation points are as pocked-sized as God made them to be.

   Having hoofs the size of a first graders has never been fun.  Throughout high school, I would ritualistically purchase shoes that were too large in order to keep up with the ultra-cool fashion trends of my peers.  This made it so that my normally healthy-looking skin would soon be covered in red blisters roughly the diameter of dinner plates.   From the scholarly walls to the ice rink, my quest to find implements of ambulation has never been without embarrassment or tears.

   Embarrassment:  Christmas is always a happy time, especially because my mother and I have a ball when together anytime, let alone on a holiday.  Ever since my parents took their final split, we made Christmas our own, taking time to open gifts, enjoying good wine, great movies and delicious sustenance that only she and I enjoy.  If there is anything that the matriarch knows of her offspring is that her little huntress has never grown up, in mentality or stature.  Hence, she obtained a pair of multi-colored polka-dotted rain galoshes that were my size in perfection.  When Christmas morning came, I unearthed the box that contained the children's sized foot coverings: red with a gigantic, smiling school bus on the front which was urging its new owner to STAY IN SCHOOL!  The school bus caricature mocked me as the galoshes were unearthed, a small THESE BOOTS BELONG TO _______ tag on the inside just waiting to be claimed with a sharpie and a keen mother's hand.   I was 23 years old.

   Tears:  Cowboy boots are the quintessential country adornment.  Hence, when I adopted all things country-esque into my wardrobe, I needed to find a pair.  One of my best friends in NY, B. Eye, had connections at a western wear store about an hour away from where I was living.  When we got there,  I stood, amazed that the selection of hand-crafted cowboy boots.  The women's section was huge and contained anything a cowgirl could ever hope or dream for.  I fell hard for a pair of square, mahogany toed, green camo boots.  The smallest size they had in the store was a 6 but they, the entirety I'm sure, would be just tickled pink to order another size.  Weeks progressed, DU came to visit and we went to pick up my order.  My perfect boots slipped on my bases easily then proceeded to fall off as if they were covered in caro syrup and crisco.  Tears advanced as DU tried to put the pieces back together by steering me to the children's section, the only collective group of footwear which had any chance of fitting.

   Least to say, my experience with properly outfitting the dual nadir of my person has been an arduous one, especially in terms of finding hunting boots.  As we have already seen in my quests to find gloves and camo that fit this improperly proportioned huntress, companies are slower than an army of iron-clad slugs to change their ways.   However, there are some companies (read: Haley Vines and Magnum Boots) that are working to make it easier not only to hunt but enjoy all the time spent in the great wilderness.

   My current hunting boots are Lacrosse behemoth things that look like they belong guarding tree trunks against hurricane-force winds rather than my sad, stumpy legs.  I am forced to wear 3-inch thick socks whenever I spot these, even during the heat of early season in North Carolina  (Read: August with 13,000% humidity).  I figured this was the only way until Magnum Boots came into my sad, dreary footwear existence.   I was approached via Twitter to review some of their boots after I expressed an interest in their tactical gear, especially a pair of Elite Spiders.  The great folks at Magnum* were quick to help and get a pair of boots out to our humble abode as quickly as humanly possible.

    My love of mail has increased ten-fold ever since we moved into the log cabin.  I'm not entirely sure why this is, it may have something to do with our remoteness and that I imagine the UPS man swathed in a brown wrap or USPS clad in his statuesque blue canvas uniform battling against overly-aggressive crocodiles, trekking up mountains of sand then getting lost, confused on a winding dirt road, each tree looking exactly as the one before it had, only to come crawling up to our house, package still in his death grip; a valiant package deliverer who, against all odds, brought happiness to our little corner of the world. Hence, when my Magnum boots made their way to my doorstep by an invisible hand whose slight knock on the door forced me out of my chair, I yearned to thank the package's protector.  But when I looked to the outside, only a hazy cloud of dust hung in the air, a silent but present reminder of the brave, brave man who delivered my boots safely home.

   After such a grand entrance, I figured the boots must be something special.  I tore off their encasement, pulled out the toe paper and delicately undid the ties.  I grasped both sides firmly and let my foot dive into the size 5 boot.  With a little bit of wiggle room which could be corrected with a slightly thick sock my feet fit perfectly.  The exterior of the tactical boots looked very geometric and slightly threatening.  Best of all, the tan perfectly matched  the camo that I would be wearing for warmer, dry-weather hunting.   I began formulating a plan for the perfect review right then and there, standing in my basement sporting 5-year old shorts and one of DU's gargantuan sweatshirts.

   I need boots to help me out with the following things.  So, I did the following things (see below) while wearing said boots.  A very scientific process, I thought to myself smugly while smartly stroking my chin, very scientific indeed.  I then went through the ultra-secret bookcase passage in my basement which leads to my underground science room.  With the swiftness of a menacing tiger, I began pulling out the bunsen burners and schematics from their spider-web covered shelves like a shorter version of Bill Nye the Science Guy.  But, I remembered that I did not need any chemicals in order to go about this very scientific review so I put everything back into my underground labyrinth laboratory and tuned to my ancient chalkboard.  I wrote:


Very Scientific Test #1- Cutting Grass

     I love cutting grass but I don't love snakes. 

Hence Σ[cutting grass] > [love for snakes] = √[boots must be able to make cutting grass even more fun {if that is scientifically possible} all the while being able to battle snakes if need be.]

Very Scientific Test #2- Walking with Canines

I enjoy ambulating with my canines but I don't enjoy snakes, their poisonous venom nor twisting my ankle in a hole or up a hill. 

Hence [walking dogs without injury or posion]² > [love for snakes or being injured]³ = [boots must make ambulating for long distances comfortable, sans injury {µ }, all the while being able to battle snakes or other monsters if need be.] ∞

Very Scientific Test #3- Tackling Mountains, Rivers, and Large Boulders

When hunting, one must be able to attack terrain that is not normally flat or free of inconveniencing territorial landmarks such as rivers, spiky boulders, sheer cliffs, mountain lions, or bridge trolls. So, his or her boots must be able to do the same. 

Hence π[hunting free from{∩} mountain lions and bridge trolls] > ⁿ[having uncomfortable feet when battling mountain lions, bridge trolls, and the like]¹ = {¾} boots must perform well when taking part in such activities. 

Outcome:

Each test went along swimmingly. 

Test One (1)

When mowing grass, the boots kept me agile enough to wrangle my walking mower up and down hills.  I was also able to operate the weed eater with a heightened level of balance, which helped especially in the dog's yard which is conveniently covered in puppy poop.  

Best of all, the boots did not become overly stained by the wetter grass. 

However, my legs were battered and bruised from the weed eating.  I would have enjoyed the boots being a tad taller but maybe next time, I'll just wear pants. 

Test Two (2)

When walking with my dogs,  the boots were lightweight and made waking longer distances easier. 

My knees did not flare up with the lightning pain I generally feel when walking or running. 

Best of all, I could have walked all day, even in the stifling heat.  The lightweight, breathable material will be perfect for early seasons in the spring, summer, and early fall. 

However.... I have nothing negative to say.

Test Three (3)

Battling with mountain lions and bridge trolls can be difficult but not when you're sporting the Magnum Elite Spiders!

DU and I went to Morrow Mountain in Albemarle, NC in order to try out the boots in an all-terrain setting.  With the dogs by our sides, we took the hiking trails deep into the forrest, up hills, down into ravines, through Bridge Troll Alley and out through where the mountain lions dwell. 

Throughout the entire walk, my feet felt like air, my ankles were stabilized and my knees, again, shockingly enough did not hurt. 

Best of all, I found that they not only are practical for regular outdoor wear but also for hunting-esque terrain as well. 

Verdict: 

The Magnum Boots were surprising in many ways. 

The most surprising and the best for my purposes is the fit.  I still cannot believe that the boots actually fit my child-sized feet. Generally, I must sacrifice size for function.  The footwear I receive is generally for children and thus ephemeral, their usefulness is not intended to be long-lasting. However, with my Elite Spiders, their quality and overall performance leads to me to believe that I will be wearing them for years, not months. 

I am looking forward to early resident goose season even more so now, as I have finally found boots that fit and will perfectly function as my lightweight hunting footwear.  Even better, I have the scientific evidence to prove it. 

* Thank you, thank you, thank you to Magnum Boots USA for their amazing product!  This review, as you can hopefully tell was an absolute blast to conduct.  You indeed make Essential Equipment, especially for this huntress!
** A special thank you to Alexis for all her help and prompt e-mails!

A Southern Year, Revisited

   Fourth of July is one of my most favorite holidays, not counting my birthday, boxing day, National Old Time Fiddler's week, or opening day.  Hence, if that stunning quartet ceased to exist, then Independence day, by process of deduction, would be my lone favorite.  I have always been jealous of those individuals born on the fourth day of the seventh month, as, in my youth, I yearned to believe that all those fireworks were for my benefit alone, a blasting, ear-splitting celebration of the day of my birth.  However, I came into the world a mere fourteen days prior to the holiday so I have livd my entire life with the arduous burden of not having the perfect day of birth. But being the bigger (or shorter, whichever you choose) person, I yearly get over this struggle in order to enjoy the smells, sounds, and tastes of all that is American.

   My love of the Fourth was not all unicorns and rainbows.  In a story that is increasingly more popular in family gatherings when embarrassment is at its peak, my mother enjoys recalling the first time I ever heard fireworks.  According to the matriarch of our clan, Little Lisa Jane screamed as loud as her gigantic lungs would allow after the first burst of the fireworks I so love. I writhed, screamed, and pitched an absolute fit, much to the motherly joy of the arms that held me. Years passed and with it almost two decades of Independence days, spent in my camp in the Adirondack mountains.  Without fail, every year, the day would be sodden and the rain would only cease approximately three minutes prior to the beginning of the fireworks show.  I would be seated in whichever boat my family owned at the time or whichever vessel my friends were piling into.  The fireworks were spectacular, better with each year.  Fourth of July marks the date of my first kiss, my first taste of adolescent freedom, and my first taste of an illegal sip of beer. These memories made it so that an Independence day without the Adirondack didn't make sense to me. However, my Fourth escapades to the lake ended swiftly last year.

   July 3rd 2010 passed in a blur, DU and I struggling through the infamous, hellish 14 hour drive from NY to NC.  The next day I woke in a new house, facing a new, different life.  I was as green as I had ever been, feeling like a kindergartner in a new class; shy to the point of being terrified if anyone even looked in my general direction, lest asked for a crayon.  Titus was terrified, Oscar was absolutely freaked at his new brother, and I had a strong feeling that I would not make it in the south.  Once the Fourth of July reared up from the horizon, I was settled enough to realize that my life had changed.  That day, less than 24 hours after I moved 735 miles from home, I met DU's entire family.  Timing not being the best of friends with me at that point, I smiled, talked little and attempted to blend into the backdrop, praying that I would survive the night.

    365 days have passed since that day and I cannot comprehend how a southern year has already passed.  I not only survived my time with DU's family but also dealt with being so far from mine.  I learned many things living in the geographical opposite to my hometown, a life shrouded in love, support, and quintessential southern hospitality.

   I remember thinking that I wished there was something I could read to understand what I had gotten myself into, what exactly was this southern life all about?  Well, I've been here a year and figured I could throw out some life lessons I've accrued..

HLYH'S GUIDE TO ALL THAT IS SOUTHERN:

Southern Lessons for the Yankee Minded

Lesson #1-  You sound like a yankee, and everyone knows it. 

The first place that DU ever took me was the fabulous Bass Pro in Concord.  Awed with my surroundings, I walked like a zombie, yearning to take in each iota of hunting wonderfulness.  While passing the gun section, a Dirty Harry pistol caught my eye.  The counter help was quick in his advancing towards the gun-loving girl.  

"WhacanIhelpyuwit?"

His words came out like a tumbling of consents and vowels, mashed together without punctuation uttered in a single breath. Bewildered by his obvious master of the southern diction, I smiled, turned my heel and vanished into the waterfowl section. 

My biggest hurdle in getting acquainted to southern life was to realize that those, like Cheerwine, who were born in the south, speak the way they were taught and it was I who talk funnily. 

More than once I was faced with the quandary, "where are you from, exactly?" when I said words like hockey, copies, stocky, Rochester, hot, crayon, etc.

Lesson #2-  Y'all
Y'all may be the best word that I have ever, in all my years of English glorification have ever come across.
If you frequent this blog, you may be thinking aloud, "Didn't she graduate at the top of her class?  Wasn't she published during her junior year?  Doesn't she weekly admonish people via Twitter for their misuse of it's and its?" These allegations, while being very true and overly complimentary, make me blush which makes this all the more of an important lesson.
In Latin, conjugations may be the most annoying thing that a scholar must know in and out, whether he or she like it or not.  Conjugations bring a verb through the various persons:

                                                 

English-  I, You, [He, She, It], We, You All, They

Latin- O, S, T, Mus, Tis, Nt

English (Present) Verb: To Walk

Conjugations: I walk, You walk, He (She, It) walks, We Walk, You all walk, They walk

Latin (Present, regular) Verb: Ambulare

Conjugation:  Ambularo, Ambulas, Ambulat, Ambulamus, Ambulatis, Ambulant

Take notice that in the second person plural (You all walk), the latin form of "to walk" is ambulatis, turning the words YOU and WALK into one word, essentially an English contraction that means, simply, Y'all. 

Y'all is uttered by southerners easily, as if it were instilled since birth, however I had to work on it. But, it not only is an accepted contraction that is lovingly and overly used by my neighbors but also, amazingly, has The Writing Huntress' stamp of approval. 

Lesson #3- Waving isn't just for friends or even people you remotely know. 

Where I'm from, waving is an action that friends and family partake in.  I barely ever waved before moving here, except for when I thought that I recognized someone and had to turn the wave into some sort of strange over-the-head stretch in a matter of moments.  

DU and I were driving around within the first week I made my southern relocation when I noticed he was waving to practically anyone, a slight four-finger raise of the hand off the steering wheel move.  Thinking my boyfriend was possibly the most important person in Concord, I asked if he knew all these people.  When he responded no, I realized that southern people, for the majority, are, in a word, nice.

Changing my New York attitude to personal contact or waving had to change dramatically, especially  since we moved to Mount Pleasant (population: somewhere in the neighborhood of 1000).  I routinely feel like the mayor or princess of the town when driving home from work, as I wave like a maniac to anyone and everyone meandering past my Jeep. 

Lesson #4 Townsfolk wear camouflage to church.

As a child, everyone got dressed up as their much as their bank accounts would allow and donned the pricey outfits to church.  Everyone would check everyone else out, ensuring that no one's children looked disheveled or had smudges on their God clothes.  I remember thinking that it was all so unnecessary, that if God truly loved all of his children unconditionally, why did we have to dress up like prom queens to pray?  However, as pretentious and ridiculous as I believed it was, I went along with the status quo, at least wearing clean jeans and nice button-up to services in college.  

My first outing to a southern church roused me from slumber hours early.  Thinking that I'd be surrounded by big hats, suspenders, and shoulder pads, I wore one of my nicer dresses then made DU dress up accordingly.  We walked through the vestibule to the main room, to the main stage where our preacher stood, wearing blue jeans.  

People filled in around us, some dressed up, but most were just comfortable, wearing camo hats, partially-clean slacks and famer-esque shirts.  Part of my brain shouted SACRILEGIOUS! while the other part was comforted by the bare-bones Christianity, not a trace of pop or circumstance, just love of God and the good things he does in our lives. 

Lesson #5 Fried Pickles, Sweet Tea and Cheerwine are all God's gift to the world that he sequestered to the south...

 for good reason. 

Lesson #6 Movies set in the south do not lie. 

Sweet Home Alabama is one of my most favorite movies because of the small-town life, the dirty man who never lost sight of his love with the great dog who barks all the time, and for the girl who found her way back to her home, to her Southern Momma, where her heart always was. 

I admit, I wanted my southern adventure to be like that, full of great characters, maybe a love story and a dog who roams around whatever art shop I'll open, of course in a red barn while I drive a big, green tractor in circles.  While I can't say that I have opened a random art shop, I can say that the rest of the movie rings quite true.  I will be partial to civil war reenactments and 4-H festivals, filled with kids who wish to be farmers someday.  The cast of characters who have filled my southern memoir are richer than the memories I've accrued, their stories, personalities and influence have changed my perspective on life forever. 

Southern movies and country songs paint the south as a landscape of vivid, gracious, beautiful hospitality.  Unlike most things you see on TV or hear on the radio, you can believe what you're being told, for the songs ring true, at least in my south.

 The southern United States have deep roots whose people have made me realize that I may be from the north, but I am southern spirited.

Most of all, that I wouldn't have it any other way.