Man-Cave Musings
By John Luthens
I’m no anthropologist. Without the crutch of Spell Check – I’d have trouble limping out the word correctly. But I have a hunch that the beginnings of the man cave dates back to the Neanderthals. Peering into the evolutionary waters, it makes perfect sense that a fur-lined hidey hole would have been a dandy place to hibernate from the sweeping gusts of nuclear winter that rolled out like a northern, white carpet during the last ice age.
Bobbing in the cold murk of this brilliant observation, something deeper has also been tugging at me from beneath the tip of the old Paleolithic iceberg: And I’ve recently found myself spending an inordinate amount of time researching the scenario of the man cave slipping into existence on something far more treacherous than a couple of overgrown ice cubes.
Now, it’s plausible that the roots of my study originate from the fact that the winter weather here in Wisconsin hasn’t climbed out of the zero-degree cellar since the majority of the deer hunters shot their way out of the woods over a month ago. It’s also a sad fact that the Green Bay Packers have skipped town and scattered to warmer climes, and my man-cave television set is now rife with Nordic, purple men in horned helmets that seem to smack of icy conquests, even though they’re a bit too fainthearted to leave their fancy, overpriced warming house and play outside with the big boys.
Be that as it may, I’ve had ample time to rub my post-holiday belly and carve a groundbreaking line of theories with my pocketknife onto the wooden surface of my man-cave desk. I’ve been setting the wheels of evolution into motion by hypothesizing on the Cro-Magnon ancestors who planted the first, rough seeds that have since blossomed into the wonderfully savage scene spread around me. In short, I’ve reached the conclusion that the essence of my own man cave is far too streamlined to have happened by mere chance.
Fishing flies and lures are pinned on my walls, some of the bigger ones skewered to the drywall with filet knives because I ran out of tacks Backpacks stare at tents from opposite corners, with shelves of outdoor books and papers stuck firmly in the middle. I tried to use tent stakes before I made the jump to sticking knives in the wall, but the north woods seemed to have swallowed most of them up last summer. Come to think of it, I’m not sure how my tent was even standing by the season’s end.
Most of the available flat space in my man-cave is devoted to a dozen reels jumbling about in various degrees of disorder. They need new line and oiling, but I’m putting off tinkering with them as long as I can. They’re still giving off the aroma of watery conquests, and the rust spots are still stuck tight with fish scales. Some man-cave air fresheners you just can’t buy in the stores.
Every man cave needs a throne and, while the first, Neanderthal ones were likely made of fossilized stone man, mine is a ripped recliner – which is the lap of modern luxury in my estimation, and thankfully not good enough for the living room upstairs.
“Throw that moldy thing in the trash!” said the highest ranking officer in my household.
I threw it into my man cave instead, which amounts to the same thing in her estimation.
I don’t have a fireplace in my basement lair, but I got me a swiveling, ceramic space heater that comes complete with remote control, and there’s a frost-ringed window that looks out at ground level and puts me on even terms with the birds and squirrels and rabbits who cavort around the front-yard feeder like they’re still wearing shorts and sandals.
Who needs warmth? I’ve done gone and dug me a man cave – the finest place ever invented a to hide from the frigid, outside world and think deep thoughts in peace and quiet, which reminds me, I should probably unravel my man-cave research. I seem to remember that’s how this whole thing got started, but time is different down here. And speaking of deep thoughts – If it gets cold enough, I wonder if the clocks can start running so slow that they begin to go backwards:
It must have been fine and dandy stalking saber-tooth cats and flushing pterodactyls on the wing in the glory days, huddling after the hunt in grunting comradeship beneath the freshly-formed stars, debating the proper way to skin out a brontosaurus, and whether or not the new-fangled concept of fire was here to stay, or was just a passing fad put over by the sporting good’s manufacturers as a way to warm one’s shins in a pre-dawn wooly mammoth blind.
“Wife not happy. She no like mammoth tusks mounted in living room. Says they ugliest thing she ever seen.”
“I hear you brother. My wife angry, too; threw out best spear. Said she sick of the bloody thing rolling around on kitchen table and smearing up bedrock finish.”
“That nothing boys. Got you both beat. Not even married, but yesterday the love of my life erased chalk drawing of dinosaurs playing poker. Replaced it with drawing of flowers instead!”
“Speaking of dinosaurs – I not seeing many around anymore. Too many wolves, that’s what me think.”
“It getting cold out here. What that white stuff falling from the sky?”
“Don’t know. Maybe we ignore it and it go away.”
“I tried that last night with flower drawings on cave wall. But they still there this morning.”
“ Even for non-married Neanderthal – you pretty dumb.”
“Maybe so… but my club bigger than yours. Let’s see how it looks bouncing off your hairy nose!”
“White stuff already over my boots. I’m going home and dig new room in cave basement to wait it out. You ding-dongs keep arguing, and anthropologist going to find your skulls frozen in mountain of ice someday. I see you later – In a hundred-thousand years, or when it decides to warm up. Whatever come first!”
John Luthens is a freelance writer from Grafton, Wisconsin. His first novel, Taconite Creek, is available on Amazon or at www.cablepublishing.com or by contacting the author at Luthens@hotmail.com