FOR MEN ONLY

"You're going to do your own cooking?" Stella asked, aghast but also a bit intrigued. During their courtship and the first two years of their marriage, Bill had insisted that he would starve to death if he had to prepare his own food. But since their migration to his home town in Northern Ontario six weeks ago, his immaculate businessman persona had morphed into that of a wild frontiersman. 
 
"It's mainly jerky and chips and beer. We'll bring some canned pork and beans we can warm up. And the guys usually have cookies and other stuff their wives made them bring."
 
"I was looking forward to a new experience," Stella said, doing her best to sound like an adult rather than a whiny toddler.  Even though the thought of four days in a bush camp with no hydro, running water or indoor plumbing was intimidating, she wanted to find out what the big attraction was.
 
“Something always goes wrong at bush camps when there are women involved. It’s like a generational curse. Sometimes men just have to be men."
 
"If you didn't want me to go, why did you buy me a hunting license?'
 
"So we can shoot extras. We’ll phone you on Philippe’s satellite phone if we need you, and you can come out and put your tag on the carcass before a game warden shows up."
 
"How do you expect me to find your camp in the middle of the wilderness?"
 
"I put the co-ordinates in the GPS. Just follow the directions. The SUV is on a truck chassis. It goes just fine off-road."
 
"Wouldn't it be easier if I was there in the first place? I was looking forward to my first moose hunt. I’ve never shot anything bigger than a deer."
 
Bill’s eyes widened. “You’ve been hunting?”
 
“Yes. My Dad took me with him all the time.”
 
"He didn't have any sons, did he? Or nephews?"
 
"No — what does that have to do with it?"
 
"If you had a brother, your Dad would have taken him."
 
"I think he would have treated us equally."
 
"I doubt it. You have to understand, Sweetheart — some things are just for men, like being a Catholic priest. I don't barge into your quilting club meetings..."
 
Stella grinned mischievously. "You'd be most welcome." Her “quilting club” was actually a feminist consciousness-raising group – the sort of touchie-feelie affair that Bill utterly despised.
 
"Well, moose hunting is not co-ed. It's a manhood thing. We just pee off the steps of the cabin instead of using the outhouse."
 
'Be still, my beating heart! I had no idea that your manhood needs to be supported by peeing rituals!"
 
"Don't hassle me, please. This is my first moose season back home, and the guys will be watching me very carefully to see if I'm still one of them. If I brought you, they would never invite me again."
 
"Then you and I could go. Maybe with another couple. There must be other wives in town who would love to be included. The women here are not delicate flowers, you know. They're frontier women who drive muscle trucks and spend week-ends in bush camps.”
 
"Please — can you just let things be this year? I'll make it up to you."
 
"You always say you’ll make it up to me, without specifying anything definite, and nothing ever happens.”
 
Bill scratched his head. “What happened to the sweet, helpful girl I married? She'd be baking cookies and waterproofing my boots.”
 
“What happened to the business geek I married, who insisted on having his dress shirts professionally laundered, and spent half an hour agonizing about what tie to wear?”
 
“I have a different job now. Different expectations.”
 
“And I went from being a wedding finery consultant to growing tree seedlings and hydroponic tomatoes part-time. Our lives have changed, and so have we.”
 
“What are you saying?” Bill demanded. “Are we drifting apart? Is this the beginning of the end? Are we going to break up, like Lily and Don did? We all thought it was the perfect match, and they didn’t even make it to their third anniversary.”
 
Stella edged closer and took his hand. “It’s not like that. We’re living in a different world, and we have to adapt. It’s an opportunity to grow closer. We just have to keep the lines of communication open.”
 
Bill’s frown deepened. Stella waited patiently as he processed the situation. She knew from experience that he his next move would be decisive. He didn’t like talking things to death.
 
“All right,” Bill said. “What do you want?”
 
“Take me to the mayor’s Reveillon bash, without complaining.”
 
“That’s a formal party, with ballroom dancing. You know I hate that.”
 
"Because you never learned how to dance properly. I’ve signed us up for a six-session course at the community college."
 
"If I agree to suffer through that, you’ll stop bitching about my moose hunting?”
 
“For this year. But unless you’re in the hospital on life support, you have to go to that party. I have four long dresses in mint condition, and I want to wear them out before I die of old age.”
 
Bill sighed. “Deal.”
 
“Cheer up. It’s not like you’ve never worn a suit before.”
 
“I guess. So – what are you going to do without me for four whole days?”
 
“I thought I’d work on my carpentry project.”
 
“What are you making?”
 
“A hydroponic shelving unit. I want to start growing our own vegetables all year round. I’m tired of eating lettuce that has been on a truck for three weeks. Who knows? If things go well, I might build a greenhouse next spring.”
 
“Are you going to use my power tools? The router’s alignment is really touchy.”
 
Stella smiled. “I’ll be as careful as possible. Of course, if you want to be sure your router is safe, you could bring me along with you. We could set up the camper in the back of our truck and sleep there, so I wouldn’t profane the masculine sanctuary.”
 
“The guys would laugh at me.”
 
“They’ll change their tune when they smell the steaks cooking. I’ll bring the propane grill.”
 
“You’d cook for all of us? Really?”
 
“You bet,” Stella said, pressing her advantage. “Steak. Poutine. Tourtiere.  Moose stew and biscuits…”
 
“Moose stew! You aren’t thinking of hacking pieces off a carcass?!”
 
“Of course not. Aline gave us four ice cream buckets of the stuff as a housewarming present. How many people are in your party?”
 
“Six. Maybe seven. Georges’ wife will be at a conference in Montreal, so he is talking about bringing his daughter Lucie to our camp for the week-end. She’s seventeen. She thinks she’s an adult, but has no idea how to act like one. There will be some serious partying if he leaves her home alone. Her brother wants to work on his science fair project, so he’s staying at his aunt’s with the dogs, but Lucie is not welcome because of what happened last year. Georges says that maybe he needs to skip moose hunting this year. He’s pretty despondent about it.”
 
“Why don’t you phone him and tell him that you have persuaded me to come along and ride herd on her. She could sleep in the truck camper with me.”
 
Bill brightened. “And I’d be doing him a favour. Nobody would hassle me. And I wouldn’t have to live on canned beans and potato chips. Honey, that’s brilliant.”
 
“But you still have to take me to the Reveillon,” Stella reminded him. “That’s non-negotiable.”
 
Bill nodded. “I figured that. You know, I actually like the idea of having you along. My resistance was all about social pressure. I’ll make that call right away.”
 
What have I done?  Stella asked herself while Bill waited for Georges to pick up. A seventeen-year-old party girl with no WiFi or cell phone coverage would be a real challenge. Between dealing with her and food preparation, there might not be any time to shoot a moose. 
 
Oh well. No matter what happens, it will be an adventure. And we’re establishing a new tradition, opening doors for future generations.