
This story was first published in the September 2006 issue of Wildfowl magazine.
âWhat is it with these places, anyway?â I asked as we got we got into our car.
My wife and I had been visiting my mother-in-law at a retirement home.
âWhat do you mean?â
âTheyâre all so⌠well⌠feminine.â I nudged the car out into the stream of traffic and we headed for home.
âThe walls are all peach or beige. Doilies everywhere. A man doesnât feel comfortable in that environment.â
âTheyâre so feminine because ninety percent of the residents are womenâ, replied my wife.
âSureâ, I said. â We work ourselves into early graves trying to keep you ladies happyâ. She shot me a hostile glance.
âHow would you like them to be tricked out?â she asked. âWood paneled walls? Spittoons?â
âYou bet! Nice dark walnut with a prominent grain. And shiny brass spittoons for the dippers and chewers.â
âOnly slightly less disgusting than carrying a paper cup around to spit in like some of your buddiesâ, she said.
â And who needs all those wimpy paintings of flowers and Parisian street scenes? â I was rapidly warming to my subject. âAt least one room in the place should have wildlife art on the wallsâŚmallards or pintails coming in with their wings locked. Some mounted teal and wood ducks. And you know what would really set the whole thing off? A big old Canada goose hanging from the ceiling by a piece of monofiliment, right over the dining room table like he was coming in to join us for dinner.â
Carol cringed as she fished around in her purse for a pen. âDo you want me to take notes in case you actually have some input when your time comes?â she asked, only half facetiously.
âMaybe a deer head or two.â I was really getting into it now. âAnd a moose or elk if there was room.â
âFish and big game would make it more inclusiveâ, said Carol, scribbling furiously to keep up with my rapid thought process.
As I drove toward home I kept thinking of more things Iâd want in my customized retirement home.
âYou know those rails they have along the walls for the inmates to hang on to?â
She shot me another glance. âI believe theyâre called âresidentsâ or âpatientsâ.
âYeah, residents. Anyway, the rails in this place were obviously fake. Some sort of composition material or plastic. Why couldnât they be made of nice burled walnut or cherry like a fine old gun stock?â
âThat might workâ, she replied. I got the impression she was humoring me.
âAnd speaking of woodâ, I said, âA few old decoys sitting around would make me feel more at home. Maybe a pair of Mason snakey head mallards and a nice old Madison Mitchell canvasbackâŚand a big wood burning fireplace for cold weather.â I was on a roll.
âNot one of those fake jobs like they had here, with phony ceramic logs and little blue flames.â
âProbably a risk management factorâ, said Carol, always the practical one. I had to give her that one.
My hypothetical retirement home was getting better all the time but something was still missing. When I thought of it I was amazed it had taken me so long. âWhat would really make us old guys feel at home would be a few muddy dogs laying around on the floor. Say⌠a Lab in each of the three colors: black, yellow, and chocolate. And a big old yellow-eyed Chessie laying in front of the fireplace licking hisâŚ. well⌠licking himself, and growling at anyone who tried to pet him.â
We drove in silence for a while until Carol asked. âWhat would you call this place?â I was glad she was at least pretending to go along with me.
âI donât knowâ, I said. âI havenât gotten that far yet.â
âHow about âGeezers Galoreâ?
âNow youâre making fun of meâ, I said as we turned into our driveway. âOkayâŚ. what about⌠say⌠Worn Out Waterfowlers?â
âWellâ, I said, âit does lend itself to a catchy acronym. WOWâ.
I opened the door and let her go inside ahead of me. I briefly thought of myself as the cautious buck allowing the doe to enter the danger zone first.
âI can see the promo material nowâ I said. â A grizzled old duck hunter with a droopy white mustache sitting before the fireplace in a rocking chairâŚâ
âLicking hisâŚâ interrupted Carol.
âNo noâ, I said. âThatâs the Chessie. Anyway, heâs wearing a rumpled old brown Jones hat like they used to wear before camo, and a plaid wool shirt. Heâs got a glass of bourbon in one hand âŚâ
âWith a mallard or a Labâs head engraved on the sideâ, chimed in Carol.
âNow youâre getting itâ, I said, delighted. âAnd heâs petting his old white- muzzled retriever whose head is resting on his knee. And thereâs a wooden decoy, riddled with shot holes, sitting on the hearth.â
She had the big picture now. âAnd he has an ammo belt looped over his shoulder, only instead of shotgun shells, the loops are full of suppositories.â
âCome onâ, I said. âGet serious.â
âSorryâ, she said. âI got carried away. Anyway, the headline could read, âWhen itâs time to case the old pump gun, Come to WOW and spend your golden years with guys like yourself, reminiscing about those hallowed days in field and marsh, surrounded by the things youâve always loved.â
âWOW!â I said. âI think youâve got it!â
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