The letter W.

Hi, I’m Julie. I’m married to Scott. We have two daughters, Emma and Kate.

We are the Burtons.

Unless it’s September through December.

Hi, I’m Julie. I’m married to Christine. We have three daughters – Emma, Kate, and Elle and two sons – Wyatt and Lane.

We are the Burton-Bentons.

The letter W.

Wife.

I met Christine years ago at a Eric Church/Kenny Chesney concert. We ran into each other in the parking lot of Arrowhead Stadium in Kansas City. We realized we were neighbors, of all things. She told me my house was on the way to school and she could tell I had a husband who hunts. She said her husband is a hunter too.

We became good friends after that fateful meeting in the Arrowhead parking lot. My first time in Christine’s house lead me to reach for my cell phone to text Scott, – “You need to come over here and meet these people. She showed me their room of death and they have a deer feeder in their backyard. Get over here NOW.”

The next week, Christine posted a picture on Facebook. It was a picture of a bottle of No-Scent soap with the caption “Fall has arrived. My house stinks.”

That’s when I fell in love.

I now pronounce you hunting wife and hunting wife.

Our husbands are outdoorsmen. If you don’t know what that means – it means they hunt. A lot. It’s not just a hobby. Their soul belongs in the woods. If we lived during the 1800s, we would be the fattest in all the land of Kansas. I never thought I’d meet a man with more hunting stories than Scott. Yet, Christine found that man and married him. I couldn’t believe my luck in such a friend – a wife, excuse me. A wife. 

Christine and I put our heads together to show the world our lives as hunting wives. They’re in the form of memes because that’s all I do now. We don’t lead an easy life but in the end, we all live happily ever after.

___________

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The letter S.

I have to hand it to the man.

I’ve been writing on this blog for eight years. The majority of those blog posts are starring Scott, my husband.

Scott doesn’t care what I write about on my blog. Or doesn’t know. Scott doesn’t read my blog because “I live the blog.” He’s right. He hears “blog posts” from me every day. But that doesn’t stop me from putting him in the center of some classic posts – The Jockstrap, Men Get Epidurals Too, and The Rack.

I think he’s the funnier one of the two of us. He’s the easier one to talk to and he has a quicker wit when put on the spot. You know how sappy newlyweds say, “he makes me a better person.” Well, I say Scott makes me a funnier person.

The letter S. 

Scott Duane Burton. Yes, that’s his middle name.

Oh, wait. He won’t like that picture.

That’s better.

I decided to interview Scott for this post. Much like our daughter, Kate, he needed a little bit of coaxing to open up.

Me: I’m going to interview you for my blog.

Scott: How long is this going to take?

Me: It’s mostly questions about hunting. Your hunting lifestyle and hobby.

Scott: Oh, ok then.

Told you.

Me: Let’s start with your name. Do you like the name Scott?

Scott: Sure.

Me: What about your middle name? Do you like Duane?

Scott: As a little kid, no, I didn’t. As I’ve gotten older, it is what it is.

Me: Adding to your boyhood – how did you imagine yourself as a man? What did your wife look like in your mind? How many kids did you think you’d have?

Scott: I never imagined myself as a man. And as far as a wife and kids, I never thought anyone would marry me.

Me: So you never had cute names for your future kids picked out?

Scott: Uh, no. I was a boy.

Me: Do you find it weird that I’m interviewing you right now?

Scott: (laughs) Yes.

Me: Are you aware I’m doing an A to Z Writing Challenge on my blog and every day I write about a new letter?

Scott: Not until the letter R.

Me: That was yesterday.

Scott: Yeah, you asked me to read it before you posted it. Then I figured out you must be writing a Sesame Street challenge or something.

Me: Who is your best friend?

Scott: Hunter.

Me:

Scott: Brett is my second best friend. Why are you staring at me?

Me:

Scott: Best friends aren’t wives! You’re my wife. Hunter and Brett aren’t my lovers.

Me:

Scott: I don’t like it when your pen starts scribbling. Hey wait, will you write Brett is my other best friend? Take out second best friend. Write other best friend. He’ll whine at me for that.

Me: I think everyone that knows you, knows you are an avid outdoorsman and hunter. I mean, look at your Instagram. We want to know – what is your dream hunt? It doesn’t matter how much it costs or vacation time or me bitching about you leaving. If you could go on a lifetime hunting trip – where and what would it be?

Scott: A limited entry tag during the rut for a bull elk. Doesn’t matter what state. Somewhere where there are only a limited amount of tags given out. I would also say I live one of my dream hunts right here in Kansas. A Kansas whitetail deer with a bow – you can’t get better than that.

Me: What do you wish more people knew about the sport of hunting?

Scott: There’s a sigma out there that hunters just go out to kill animals and maybe that’s true with some. In reality, that’s not why I hunt. I’m in it for the challenge. That’s why I only use my bow. The deer provides meat for the family. Ground beef just doesn’t taste as good as venison. Hunting is also a great way to get away and be in nature. You have a respect for the animals in nature. It brings you down to a primal level. I wish more kids would hunt. The sport needs an influx of people coming in. Look at the National Parks and public land – the government is selling this land off. The only people voicing for the rights of public land and National Parks are the hunters. The families that visit or hike on public grounds won’t advocate for their rights, maybe because they don’t know or it’s not their passion.

Me: What would you say to an adult wanting to take up hunting? Do you have any advice? You are obviously very good at your hobby.

Scott: Practice your weapon of choice. You need your shot to be lethal. The last thing you want is someone making a terrible shot and then there’s a 3-legged deer hobbling around a year later. People need to learn how to safely use their weapon and practice it. Also finding good land can be a challenge if you’re starting out. In Kansas, there’s not a lot of public ground. You’ll have to do what I did – literally go knocking door-to-door and asking permission to hunt on the landowner’s land.

Me: Is there an animal you refuse to hunt?

Scott: Africa big game hunts. I mean I would go if a free opportunity dropped in my lap but I don’t have an interest in Africa. You can’t bring the meat back. It might be cool to be able to help feed a village but in general, no, I don’t have an interest in African big game.

Me: Would you rather go sailfish fishing with me in Costa Rica or elk hunting with Hunter in Colorado?

Scott: Probably elk hunting.

Me: WHAT?

Scott: I mean, elk hunting is a dream of mine.

Me: A vacation with me or Hunter and you choose HUNTER?

Scott: NO! No, wait! That wasn’t the question! You asked which animal I’d rather hunt! Sailfish vs. elk and it’s elk. Always elk, number one.

Me:

Scott: So is this interview for the letter S?

Me: Yes. S is for Scott. My best friend that goes fishing with me.

Scott: I’m sleeping on the couch, aren’t I?

Me: No, it’s fine.

___________

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The white marlin.

 

You could pass this picture off as three men holding a white marlin. No one would question it. Just three friends showing off their giant fish before releasing it back into the ocean. A weeklong “man-cation,” as they say, off the coast of the Dominican Republic. 

Really, bulging veins?

I can tell you pictures aren’t always as they seem.

It was an epic battle in the open sea.

A battle against a woman and a white marlin.

And the men called her Hercules. 

___________

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And that’s why the birds fly.

“Girls, when you see birds flying in the sky, Bailey is chasing them because she can fly now.”

November. The month of thankfulness. The astrological signs of Scorpio and Sagittarius are in the spotlight. The air in November is chilly but it’s welcome by most. The crisp air feels good against the remnants of the summer heat. Ask any hunter what their favorite month is and November will be high on their list. The deer rut begins in the November. November also brings thousands of men and women to reach for that orange vest in their closet. It’s pheasant season. Ask any retrieving dog what their favorite month is and November will sparkle in their eyes.

November 10, 2014 – at 73 years old, it was Bailey’s last hunt.

She passed away exactly two weeks later.

Bailey’s death shocked our family. Every time we opened the door to our house, we walked into an empty space. She was supposed to be there. We never got used to it. She was gone. Bailey, our labrador retriever, the happiest dog breed on earth, earned her wings during her happy month.

We cremated Bailey. We explained what would happen to Bailey’s body to the girls. With tenderness and thought-out words, we told the girls her body would be burned to ashes. We could spread her in her favorite spot, her hunting fields. Her body would go back to the earth but our Bailey would fly. Our 8-year-old and 5-year-old couldn’t grasp the concept of cremation. All they heard was the word, “burned.”

We decided the girls had been put through enough grief. We would keep Bailey’s ashes a secret. We told them the vet buried her.

We miss Bailey and talk about her often. I guess, as many parents do, we compare our newest family member, Stella, to the one up there chasing birds. Stella’s personality is different than Bailey’s. Stella likes to cuddle in bed. Bailey liked sleeping alone. Stella “talks” when she yawns. Bailey was the quiet type. Stella pulls pizza off the kitchen counters. Bailey pulled steak.

This weekend was Stella’s first pheasant hunt with the boys. She found Bailey’s happiness in western Kansas. She listened to Scott’s commands and ran each field. She returned to Scott with a colorful prize, just as Bailey used to. She even wore Bailey’s old orange collar. Stella fell in love with November.

Of course, in true Bailey fashion, Stella got a thorn stuck her in her paw during one of her runs.

Stella’s ok. Her paw is a little sore.

And right here, in this exact spot, Stella posed for a few pictures.

It’s the spot where her big sister’s ashes were set free. A place where all those birds fly high in the sky, field after field, because they’re chased by dogs with wings. There’s a flying dog named Bailey up there.

And Bailey is so happy it’s November.

___________

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The history of Dick.

Google search: Why is Dick’s Sporting Goods named Dick’s?

Dick’s Sporting Goods was founded in 1948. The sporting goods store is named after its founder Richard “Dick” Stack.

Google search: Why is Richard named Dick?

In the 12th and 13th centuries everything was written by hand and Richard nicknames like Rich and Rick were common just to save time. Rhyming nicknames were also common and eventually Rick gave way to Dick. Dick, of course, is the only rhyming nickname that stuck over time.

Richard’s Sporting Goods would be a fine name for such an establishment in 2016. But no, we are left with the name that stood stiff as board through nine centuries. Dick.

Me: Ready, kids? Time to see Trolls! Buckle up!

Friend: Which movie theatre are we going to?

Me: Town Center.

Friend: Is that the same as Legends?

Me: No. Town Center is in Leawood. Let me think. Hm, there’s a Dick’s Sporting Goods next to it. And the outdoor mall across the parking lot.

Emma: Ohhh, I know which theatre you’re talking about. By Dick’s. Did you know if you take out the “s” in Dick’s, it’s a really bad word?

Kate: Mom, what’s a dick?

The car went silent. I stared at the red light.

Kate: Mom, what’s a dick?

Me: Ask your dad. He’ll be back tomorrow after he’s done hunting cock in western Kansas.

___________

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The Bachelor.

As a blogger, I can see a lot of things.

I can see how many people read my blog. I can see how you found my blog, such as Facebook or Twitter. I can see how many read my “About” page (that tells me you’re probably a new reader). I can see which pictures get downloaded. I can see which country you live in – United States, Canada, United Kingdom are my top 3. I can see how many times you watch a video. I can even see what google term you used to find my blog.

The only thing I can’t see is you.

Are you male or female? Are you 90 years old or are you 18 years old? Are you single, divorced, widowed or married? Do you have kids or no kids? Do you live next door to me or do you live in New York City?

I don’t know.

All it took was one or two ladies out there to suggest a topic for me to write on this 30-day writing challenge. And single ladies, do I have a treat for you! (I’m clapping)

Hit it, Beyonce.

His name is Brett Cannon. He’s single.

Brett is 32 years old. He lives in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. He was born in Texas. He still carries a Texas accent. I know this for a fact because Scott starts talkin’ like he was born n’ raised in Texs when he starts talkin’ to Brett on the phone. Scott adapts to how his friends speak. It’s just one of his mannerisms I picked up on when I eavesdrop on Scott’s phone calls.

I’ve known Brett for, oh, 13 years. Brett has known Scott for 27 years. Scott and Brett grew up in Ft. Lauderdale. They met at church. Ladies, I am going to read some scripture from the Bible. Turn to Genesis 1:27. Ah hem. Sorry, I have a little tickle in my throat.

“So God created man in his own image, in the image of God He created him.”

Ladies, can I get an Amen? Amen!

I know what you’re thinking, “Julie, he’s from South Florida. He’s probably stuck-up and goes through 20 girls a week.”

No. Not true. He does not go through 20 girls a week. When he dates someone, it’s for a long time. And he is not stuck-up. He’s one of the sweetest guys I know. His personality is a lot like Scott’s personality, really.

Which brings me to the topic of fishing and hunting. This is Brett’s job. He fishes and hunts for sponsors like Garmin, Oakley, Salt Armour, and Interstate Batteries. He doesn’t always stay in Florida. Brett travels around the world. Brett gator hunts, hog hunts, elk hunts, whitetail deer hunts, mule deer hunts. You name it, Brett hunts it.

If you’re a vegetarian or a PETA member – just leave right now. I’m not being mean, no judgement from me. I’m just being honest. You’re not a match.

You need to like the outdoors. Scott and Brett do this thing where they start twitching if they’re indoors too long. Bonus points if you’ve killed a deer or caught a marlin or even a largemouth bass.

He would like a woman that can cook. Brett can cook. I make him cook me dinner when he visits because I’m a terrible cook. He’s pretty good but he would like to share the kitchen with someone, especially someone that dances in the kitchen too.

Brett is also looking for a woman that is smart, independent, and has a career. She needs to have great communication. Humor is a requirement because eventually you’re going to be hanging out with Scott and me. We like funny girlfriends.

Let’s see, he gave me more adjectives: trustworthy, fun, spontaneous, beautiful and drama-free.

And there you go. Brett Cannon.

 

Choose your stalking method, ladies:

Instagram

Facebook

His phone number (954) …..“JULIE!” 

I’m kidding, Brett! A little drama is ok. 

___________

Wait, don’t go! Find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. 

 

Dear Scott, part 2.

Dear Scott,

By the time you read this, you made your way down a mountain.

Welcome home! You’re alive!

You have stories to tell, of course. You have real mountain man stories to tell around suburbia’s fire pit of cushioned chairs and small decorative pillows. You found a handgun on a trail in the wilderness. You returned to camp greeted by two sets of eyes staring at you. The scratches on your face are from walking into trees in a pitch black downpour. Lightening cracked and exploded trees in front of your eyes. Temperatures dropped to below freezing. You only had a small fire to dry out your cold, soaking clothes. The earth shook below your feet when an elk bugled nearby.

While you lost the battle to bring home an elk, you still lived to tell the tales of your stay under the care of mother nature.

Oh, I have tales too.

I don’t want you to miss out on our adventures. Like how the dog’s antibiotics disappeared one morning. I figured I’d come across it at some point. I did. It was busted open in the backyard. For every pill that was missing, a diarrhea pile was in its place.

Or how Kate put my back against a wall and insisted on shaving her legs. Scott, she chased me around the house with a razor, screaming, “look at my hairy legs!”

But those are mere bedtime stories. I can handle being a solo parent. I reign when you’re away. I reign when you’re home too.

Scott, sit down. I have story for you. It involves my poor decision-making skills. You were indeed heroic in your efforts to provide the family with meat. You faced a hell most people would never attempt. I faced a hell too and I need a hug.

It all begins on your first night on the mountain.

While you were trying to figure out how to hang food in a tree and rub two sticks together to make fire, I was standing in our kitchen. I debated whether to treat my solo parent self to ice cream or wine. And do you know what I picked? Of course you do because you’ve been sleeping with me for 12-13-14 years now. Ice cream, of course.

And all mothers around the world gasp.

On that first night, the stars were 11,000 feet closer than you’ve ever seen them. You saw a sight that’s rarely photographed well. Mother Nature is a beautiful woman, Scott. And you of all people know behind every beautiful woman, there is a little bit of psycho.

You struggled to breathe. The hike up left you aching. The temperature dropped to below freezing that night. You didn’t sleep much because the cold made its way into your sleeping bag. Cuddling with Hunter for warmth wasn’t an option because you would never hear the end of the *Brokeback Mountain* coughing from me when you got home. The only thing on your mind that kept you going was your prize – a bull elk.

11,000 feet down and 842 miles to the east, I sprawled out in the middle of our king size bed with a small dish of my favorite ice cream, Baskin-Robbins mint chocolate chip. I was rounding up the last scoop when I felt it – crunch.

Well, that’s a big chocolate chip. 

Crunch. It wasn’t chocolate. It was poor decision-making.

My tongue pushed the hard piece forward and my fingers pulled it out. I examined it under my bedside lamp.

It can’t be. But it is.

A fingernail.

The fingernail most likely belonging to a member of that sweet, Middle Eastern family that owns the Baskin-Robbins. I mean, other than in between my molars, I don’t know where this fingernail has been. They probably scrubbed shampoo onto their head with this fingernail. Or stroked their spouses back. Or stroked their spouses oh God. Or maybe it was the teenager. Maybe the teen picked a huge booger with this nail. Maybe they put in contacts that morning or popped a zit. Everything this person touched was in my mouth, ground down with my back molars and touched by my tongue.

There is no doubt this fingernail wiped its own ass, Scott. Everyone wipes their own ass. A member from the sweet, Middle Eastern family’s ass was inside my moist mouth – oh yes, I said moist.

I learned an important lesson while you were sleeping on a mountain, Scott.

Wine doesn’t have fingernails.

XOXO,

Bug

___________

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Dear Scott, part 1.

Dear Scott,

Here we are. Day 4 into your wild backpacking adventure in Colorado. I wonder if you found your prized bull elk yet. I can’t wait to watch you provide for our family by filling our freezer with elk meat. Also, an Instagram picture for you to reminisce with our future grandchildren.  I already have so much to tell you when you come down to the real world with wifi, cell signals, and my honey-do list.

But don’t worry about that. That’s part 2.

This is part 1.

We’re fine, Scott. We’re fine. 96 hours of single parenting later, I am a completely sane individual.

I can’t complain, really. The kids are at school for seven hours a day during the week.

It’s not hard. I drive to the school. I drive from the school. I drive to the school. I drive from the school.

I have the dogs to entertain me during the day.

And I found a good book to keep me company at night.

I hope you and Hunter are on speaking terms since you two are stuck with each other for a good 10 days. I hope you’re healthy and drinking enough water. Is your pee clear, Scott? That’s important.

The weekend was hectic. I had to entertain the children all day. We all know I’m not the “fun” parent. I made them watch football all weekend. To catch you up – FSU lost, North Dakota State beat Iowa, and K-State won huge. It was like watching the ‘ole glory days in Manhattan, Kansas. Our house waved that flag with such pride.

The Kansas City Chiefs had turnover problems. They lost. This killed me, Scott. Killed me.

With all the estrogen flaring up and screaming at each other, you don’t need to worry about anyone breaking in at night. This house sits all night locked and loaded.

Thank you so much for the flowers you secretly sent us before you left! I was shocked when the flower lady stopped by! I mean, I’m right when I say you ordered them before you left because you can’t send flowers from a mountain with no cell phone service. I just hope you’re not dead from falling off a cliff or something because then these flowers would be extra creepy because they’re flowers sent from the grave.

So anyway, don’t worry about us. We’re fine. It’s day 4 out of 10. I’m 40% all there. 144 hours to go. I can’t imagine anything dramatic happening to me, our two daughters, two female dogs (who are complete bitches, by the way), and a female cat.

See you on part 2.

XOXO. Your wifey,

Bug

___________

Wait, don’t go! Find me on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. The skeleton loves Instagram stories.

An elk runs my fitness routine.

There’s an elk roaming a mountain in Colorado right now.

He’s 11,000 feet above me.

It’s a bull elk. His antlers tower four feet above his head. He eats grass and flowers. He drinks from the clear, cool mountain streams. His surroundings are majestic, a wilderness untouched by man. There are no roads. No trails. He screams a bugle into the thin mountain air, challenging another male for his prize of getting laid. They always want to get laid. 

This elk runs my fitness routine.

I will never see this elk, not alive anyway.

I don’t have the desire to shoot an elk. I’m content with killing my meat with a swipe of a debit card at the grocery store.

Scott will see this elk. He’ll lure this elk to him with his come-hither calls. He will pull back his bow and close one eye. And he’ll release. That’s what happens when the only thing on your mind is getting laid.

Scott is an outdoorsman. That’s what they call a man like him in 2016. But back in, oh I don’t know, 1870 circa Little House on the Prairie – Ma and Pa Burton would be chatting it up with Ma and Pa Wilder while gnawing on a turkey leg.

A turkey shot by Pa Burton. His survival instincts are incredible.

Fast forward to 2016 – the era of selfies in a cornfield. The hunt Scott is about to embark on is for elite fitness levels. Imagine carrying your house for the week on your back. Now imagine you’re carrying your house on an incline, not a smooth treadmill incline but a rugged incline. You’re going 6,000 feet up. You will be whacking down tree limbs, crossing streams and losing oxygen.

And that’s just the ascent.

If successful, descending will be brutal. Add 100 pounds to the house on your back and stumble back down the mountain. And then you do it again because elk meat weighs more than 100 pounds.

Scott will be accompanied by his friend, Hunter. They will not have any communication with the world, not even a nagging wife text. Scott and Hunter will be hunting an elk but they will also be surviving whatever mother nature decides to throw at them. A mountain lion. Freezing temperatures. Wounds that require stitches. I know how it sounds. It’s hunting at the highest level. It’s insanity.

It’s Pa Burton.

Scott’s workout routine at the gym includes a weighted vest and hiking boots. He spends hours on the stair stepper. He hikes in local parks with rugged terrain. He hikes with his backpack filled with 100 pounds of corn on the weekends. He drags me into the oven of 110 degree heat index. We don’t hunt together but we do workout together.

“I’m hot and this is bullshit.” – Ma Burton

Scott is training his body to handle the extreme and unexpected. And I am choosing random times to sprint towards Scott – BOOM! – to see how fast his reaction is to an angry bear. Have you seen The Revenant? He could die if he’s not prepared.

There’s an elk roaming a mountain in Colorado right now. He’s taking me to levels of fitness I’ve never felt before.

 

________

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Ticks and Johnny Boy.

Scott: What are you doing?

Me: Taking a selfie with a lady bug.

Scott: Why?

Me: I don’t know.

I was trying to take my mind off the blood-sucking ticks crawling up my back. I was also trying to take my mind off the boob sweat running down my shirt.

Or maybe it was a line of marching ticks.

As Scott’s wife, being an outdoorswoman is a requirement. Even if I didn’t tag along on Scott’s Polaris Ranger adventures through the woods, I would still wake up in bed with a tick stuck on me because Scott brings the outdoors home in his beard.

And I don’t mean he brings home roses.

Well, maybe rose thorns poking my ass.

Scott: WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!

Me: LICKING A SALT LICK, SCOTT.

Scott: WHAT!

Me: DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!

I’m not a hateful person. I don’t hate the outdoors. But I do hate ticks. Those little blood-sucking mother fuc –

Scott: What are you doing?

Me: Take a picture of me.

Scott: Put your feet down. No one drives like that.

Me: But this is how I drive ole’ Johnny Boy.

What am I really doing? I’m escaping the news. I’m spending time with my husband in the great outdoors while I play host to the bugs of summer. 

There is no such thing as driving ‘ole Johnny Boy in the middle of nowhere. Our communication with the world is too good. It’s a blessing but also a curse.

Within minutes, thousands – maybe even millions – know the moment tragedy strikes. And at that moment, it’s always too late. Siblings are ripped apart. Friends are never seen again. Parents bury their children. Only a memory remains when it’s too late. All we can offer is a prayer, a wish, or maybe a glance up at the stars for peace.

Who’s to blame for tragedy? I don’t know. I’m not here to argue. I don’t have time to argue. My world is much too small for that.

Enjoy your life with your loved ones.

Even if you’re crawling with ticks.

___________

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