THE FEDERALIST.COM – I spent my young adulthood at East Coast ivy leagues. Unfortunately, my grandmother Bookie was somewhat disturbed by this. As part of her campaign to remind me of my Southern roots, Bookie called every fall to announce that hunting season had officially opened.
Now, when my Alabama relatives talk about hunting, they don’t mean rooting through the freezer case at the Winn-Dixie, looking for a Butterball big enough to feed Uncle Jimmy (itself a daunting task). No, they’re talking about the real deal, where you get up before the crack of dawn, dress in several layers of camouflage, hop in the bed of the old pickup truck, bump along country back roads, tromp through the forest, climb up into the tree stand, and sit. And sit. And sit. And sit. [full article]