While reading comments from the previous post, I was delighted to see that an old blogfriend, Closet Metro, had dropped in and endorsed my candidacy in 2012. I said to Jif, “Aw, someone has nominated me for President.”
“I’d vote for you,” he said (and he really sounded like he meant it).
But still, “I couldn’t be the first woman President. I can’t even kill a moose.”
“But you could talk it into submission,” he countered.
I thought about this for a second . . . “I did approach one, once.”
“I know you did. And you were FEARLESS.”
It’s the truth. Many years ago, Jif and I took a couple of long road-trip vacations through the state parks in the American west. I loved this so much. Actually, as I’m writing this, I recall that at that time, I did contemplate a future in the White House. I remember saying, “If I were President, I’d be the ‘vacation President,’ and I would make it so that every kid in the country could take this trip, could see the parts of our country that we’re seeing.”
We were in Yellowstone, shortly after the fires. And I was just falling in love with photography. We came upon a clearing where there was a bit of excitement. An enormous, magnificent bull moose had wandered near the road, and everyone was trying to take his picture. I put my trusty Minolta MAXXUM up to my face, and started inching toward the big guy, snapping away. I used the zoom, in and out, horizontal and vertical, all the while moving slowly forward and never removing the camera from my eye. I suddenly noticed that the buzz of excited whispers had died, and the only sound I heard was my camera. Then someone off to my right said, “Uh, miss? You’re a little close to that moose…”
It took me a second to realize that I was the miss in question. When I removed the camera from my face, I nearly plotzed right there. I was within about 3 yards of that moose, face to face, antlers to headband. My view through the lens had distorted my perception of my real life proximity to my subject. OH. MY. GOD. I froze. And stared him down. I was close enough to his eyes to see an actual “look” in them. If he were a hip-hop moose, the look would have said, “Aw HELL no, you are NOT all up in my grill right now;” and if he were a therapy-savvy moose, the look would have said, “I feel as though you’ve violated my personal space, and I must ask that you show more respect for my boundaries.”
“Are they dangerous?” I asked no one and everyone.
Someone answered, “Uh, yea, you’re way too close.”
So I politely and slowly backed up, with Bullwinkle watching me all the time until he broke his stare and began munching flora, to let me know I had returned to an acceptable distance.
So yea, if ever elected, I can handle myself around a moose, and I would take all that golden parachute money to help the under-vacationed. I’m Susie Fairchild, and I approve this message.