Hothead receives cold shoulder

I caught some flak for the cynicism in my last offering wherein I took a few jabs at the rustic lifestyle my daughter and her family enjoy.

They live in Montana where fishing, hunting and other outdoor activities are paramount.

We usually visit them in late July in an attempt to time our arrival with the thaw.

Coincidentally, my friend from childhood moved only a few miles from our daughter. Bobby and I grew up together in New York City but wound up taking differing paths. He and his family opted for the frozen north, while we chose sunny San Diego.

He’s an avid skier and moved to Montana for the abundant snowfall. He hits the slopes whenever he’s not on crutches. He’s had at least five surgeries to mend broken bones and repair torn tendons and still hadn’t recovered from his latest tumble.

I questioned the merit of even a ski buff like Bobby moving to a climate that can exact such a physical toll, but he was quick to discharge any speculation, arguing that his last fall had nothing to do with either snow or skiing since he slipped on the ice while walking his dog.

But despite the extreme weather, our daughter and her family also chose to live there.

My son-in-law is a devoted golfer and hits the links between snowstorms.

He joined a championship golf course where, after a huge deposit, it costs an additional $7,000 a year to maintain his membership. That may sound expensive, but it comes to only $20 a day. If, however, you calculate the cost over the actual number of days the course is playable, it’s closer to $300 a round.

He’s well aware of what a golfer’s dream Southern California is, but even after repeated prodding, neither he, my daughter, nor my battered buddy, are willing to swap the ice for paradise.

“Chill out,” my wife counsels. “There’s a fine line between prodding and bullying. They’re not moving to San Diego, so give it up.”

Seems like the grandkids are equally content. My grandson Wes is a hunter, even though there’s a Costco nearby. Dinner often features whatever he shoots. At our last visit, we dined on wild turkey.

It was a nice meal, assuming you don’t mind combing through buckshot.

But given the price of licenses, weapons, ammunition, travel and hunting apparel, you can argue thousands of dollars were invested in that bird. I suggested he could have bought a rotisserie chicken for $4.99.

I confessed I had a hard time coming to terms with the idea of shooting an animal, but my grandson says hunters prefer the term “harvesting.” This way it sounds less like firing a bullet into an animal’s brain and more like picking corn.

I recall the day he showed up with a 500-pound elk.

I tried to determine if I ever had an experience even remotely similar, but the closest I could come up with was that time I came home with a stray cat.

I’m not sure it’s a good analogy because the cat only weighed 5 pounds, sleeps on the bed, and we didn’t eat him.

Contact humor columnist

Irv Erdos at Irverdos@aol.com.