My husband's Christmas wish list included an item that was foreign to me. He wanted a contraption whose purpose was to propel things he calls clay birds through the air so he can shoot them. I do not know why they are called clay birds. They are made of clay, but they are disk-shaped things that look nothing like birds to me. They do fly, I understand, under the right conditions, and it is those conditions which my dear husband was desirous of creating. He has to pay good money for these so-called clay birds, and then he and my son shoot them, which, if they are successful, destroys them. He makes the money in this family, so I am in no position to question the wisdom of this.
As this clay bird throwing-thingy was a contraption with which I had no experience, I was hoping for some guidance on selecting a suitable model. The guidance given on the aforementioned Christmas list was, "Like DM's," with DM being the name of a friend who, I am led to believe, has a very fine clay bird-throwing thingy. This was little help, as I had no familiarity whatsoever with DM's clay bird-throwing thingy, either.
It was something of a dilemma, as this was the only suggestion on his wish list that was not either clothing or a stocking-stuffer sort of item.
I went to the huge mega sports manly man (and manly woman) store and, feeling somewhat out of my element, marched straight to the department with guns hanging on the wall. As the man behind the counter was quite busy helping a very frustrated man figure out how to leap through the required governmental hoops so he could buy his son a .22, I found on my own what I thought was a stack of the desired clay bird-throwing thingies. I did the only sensible thing a woman knows to do in circumstances such as these: I picked the most expensive one. I don’t know if it was like DM's thrower thingy, but if it is the most expensive one, it must be a good one, eh?
Today hubby put together his clay bird-thrower thingy. As I was working very hard on my last blog post, he excitedly called me away to come outside and see it. There was this green metal collection of springs and levers on the driveway. He slipped a clay bird into the contraption.
"I've got my shotgun," he says, holding his arms in the air in front of him. Of course he didn’t. I was to imagine he did. "Then, I step on this." He stepped, and the so-called clay bird was propelled through the back yard, across the stream and into the woods. "Boom!" he says.
"Wow, Hun, that’s just great." (I was trying.)
Then he enthusiastically showed me how he could adjust the spring tension and the angle and how it stayed firm on the ground without having to be anchored down, so he could move it between shots and vary the trajectory.
I was too impressed to respond.
He was happy. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but he was happy. And I was happy that he was happy—and relieved that I had spent his money well.