Most years it starts somewhere around the 4th of July. Way back in the corner of my brain, back in the part where all the stuff that hasn't been used for a while gets shoved, I get a whiff of something appetizing. It doesn't last very long, snuffed out by a beach trip or a lawn that needs cutting, but the little bugger won't go away.
August rolls around and that scent comes back, refusing to be ignored any longer. This time it triggers rumblings in my belly that become more persistent the harder I try to ignore them. Resistance at this point is futile. It's time to get the charcoal going, not exactly instant gratification like a gas grill but comforting in the fact that there is a finish line. I stock up on shells and dig the gear out of the closet, ridding it of last year's leftovers: stray feathers, bottle tops, a few twigs and an empty shell or two.
By the middle of the month it's time to season and shape the burgers. I double and triple check to make sure my license is where it's supposed to be on the desk. I get the shotguns out and work the action a few times, you know, just to make sure. Slice an onion and a tomato...
Yes it's that time of year again, the countdown to opening day. So close you can taste it and yet there's nothing you can do to make it get here any faster. Seems like an eternity since that day back in January when last season closed. September 4th is O-Day down here and boy do I wish I could find a way to squeeze the bottle.
