The
first time I went hunting with my father, after I had moved on from my hippy
anti-hunting phase, we went with a young guy named Paul that our family had
known for years. We drove up to the North Slope to bow-hunt caribou, a long
drive that we usually split over the course of two days. I remember before we
left we stopped at Safeway and got some snacks for the trip. I bought, among
other things I’m sure, a bag of Garden Salsa Sun Chips, one of my favorites to
this day. Over the course of the drive our food all got mixed together and
somehow Paul, sitting in the backseat, ended up munching on the Sun Chips. I knew
it was happening from the passenger seat, but there wasn’t really any graceful
way for me to say anything, and I figured he would stop long before the bag was
empty.
Never have I been so wrong.
We found a spot to camp for the
night, slept, rose early and were on our way again. Sometime during that first
night or next morning the topic of money or snacks must have come up, because I
said something like, “Well I bought that bag of Sun Chips and I didn’t even get
to eat any, so…” Even as I said this I knew how petty and childish it sounded,
but it was out, and it was awkward. We all moved on to other things but I
remember my pulled me aside and said in a tone I can’t quite describe, (Annoyed?
Disappointed?), “Men don’t talk about the cost of things like that.”
I thought about that in the shower
this morning. If I ever have a son, I think I’ll tell him that story.
