A few months ago, my husband decided to pick up archery. Crafty as usual, he designed and built his own bows. He purchased his arrows at our local Academy, and he used old delivery boxes for target practice. At least, he did until the last box, riddled with holes, succumbed to rain and fell apart. My son decided to buy a target for his father, and he suggested we venture across town to experience The Pro Bass Shops in San Antonio.
The half-hour drive proved worth it. I entered the huge cabin/warehouse with mouth agape. Pausing in the entryway, my eyes drifted upward three stories. To the right, snuggling around a fireplace, sat plush leather couches. Ahead, I spied rock walls with waterfalls pooling into another seating area where several couples sat on wooden benches. To the left grouped clothing and further on a restaurant. To the right moored several different models of boats.
We didn’t linger downstairs, but instead headed straight up to the archery gear. Well, after we meandered by millions of knives, billions of bullets, and trillions of toys to temp hunters of all shapes and sizes. Once my husband settled upon the perfect target, we wandered through camping gear, settled briefly on the camouflaged couch, planned Christmas gifts, and lusted after a canoe. I found long searched for flannel shirts in a wide variety of colors, and briefly flirted with the idea of buying one of Uncle Si’s Tupperware cups.
|From Uncle Si (thefakeunclesi) on Twitter|
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman