"What's In A Hyphenate?"

“Hunter-Gatherers.”

Repeatedly proclaimed a TV documentary, inherited from a now sleeping spouse, a show not particularly to my liking, though I am loath to change channels, fearing a mumblingly angry, “I was watching that!”

Still, the descriptive caught my curious attention:

“Hunter-Gatherers.”

The show concerns scientists of some sort, unearthing a prehistoric skeleton and trying to “date” it on the broad spectrum of human existence.  (It turned out to be a “Farmer” skeleton.  How do they know?  They found traces of wheat under its fingernails.  Okay, they didn’t.   But somehow, they “scienced” it out.  And with no five thousand-year old farmers around to disprove it, who’s to tell them they’re wrong?)

Anyway…

Trapped in a National Geographicprogram I was disinterested in watching, waiting to inevitably be “bored to sleep”, I considered the term “Hunter-Gatherers”, wondering whence that now familiar contraction originally evolved.

And here’s what I imagined.

A prehistoric “Hunter-Father” engages in diligent activity, as his marriageable “Hunter-Daughter” purposefully approaches.

“Poppa?  I need to talk to you.”

“Not now, Daughter.  I am honing my work tools.”

“It’s important, Poppa.”

(POINTEDLY GLARING)  “You want me facing the Woolly Mammoth with unsharpened equipment?”

“This won’t take long, Poppa.  And I have to tell you right now.”

THE MAN BREAKS OFF HIS ACTIVITIES WITH SIGH, RECOGNIZED EVEN TODAY AS “FATHERLY FOREBEARANCE.”  (PROVING HUMAN EMOTIONS ARE DURABLY TIMELESS.)

“What is it, Daughter?”

“I’ve met a man, Poppa. Actually, I’ve known him for some time. But I was afraid to tell you about him.”

“Why?”

“He’s a wonderful man, Poppa.  But he’s not… ‘One of us.’”

“He walks erect, doesn’t he?”

“I’m not that rebellious, Poppa.  It’s just that…”

“Out with it, Daughter.”

“Well, it’s just… (TAKING A DEEP BREATH, FEARING THE INEVITABLE “BLOWBACK”)… Okay.  He’s a ‘Gatherer.’”

“NO!”

HE GOES BACK TO WORK, SHARPENDING HIS SPEARPOINT.  

“Please, Poppa.  He’s not just any ‘Gatherer.’  He’s from a highly respected ‘Gatherer’ family.  A ‘Prince of Gatherers’, if ever there was one.”

“I said ‘No!”

“But I love him!”

“I don’t care.  (SNEERING)  ‘Gatherers.’ I hunt the Woolly Mammoth.  They hunt nuts and berries.”

“And insects and plants.”

“Insects!  How many of those do you eat till you’re full?  And plants?  I finish a  bowlful of plants and it’s, like, ‘When’s dinner?’”

“They also collect acorns.”

“Who can eat acorns?”

“Acorns are highly decorative.  I know they’re not ‘us’, Poppa.   But what’s wrong with ‘Gatherers’?”

“‘What they do… it’s ‘unmanly.’  Did you ever once see a cave painting of a ‘Gatherer’?  ‘Confronting a Woolly Mammoth’ – that’sa cave painting.  Not a man bending down to pick up a blueberry.”

“That’s just the point, Poppa.  ‘Gathering’s’ safer.”

“‘The Perilous Challenge of the Hunt.’  That’s what life’s all about.  Look at me.  I have hundreds of scars on my body.”   

“Hundreds?”

“Okay, dozens.  And a lot of them are ugly.”

“’Gatherers’ get hurt too, Poppa.”

“By what?”

“Thorns and thistles.”

(DERISIVELY) “‘Thorns and thistles.’  ‘Ooh, my arm’soff!’ – ‘Ooh!  There’s a pointy thing sticking out of my finger.’  You see the distinction?  There’s no honor in ‘gathering.’  Missing appendages.  That’s a husband!”

“Times have changed, Poppa. The Woolly Mammoth’s not as woolly as it once was.”

“It’s still plenty ‘woolly.’ I’ve spent many a spear-point, battling its tufted terrain.”

“That’s quite lyrical, Poppa.”

“A bloodthirsty hunter can’t have a ‘flair’?  I’m sorry, Daughter.  There will be no unions between ‘Hunters’ and ‘Gatherers.’  It’s unnatural.  We’re ‘Lions.’ They’re ‘Grub Catchers.’  

“But, Poppa…”

“And that’s the end of it! This family has no place for ‘Stoopers.’ A ‘Hunter’s Daughter’ marries a hunter!”

“Oh, Poppa…”

 THE DAUGHTER BURSTS INTO A WAILING TORRENT OF UNCEASING TEARS.

“Now stop that!  You are rusting my arrowheads!” 

THE DAUGHTER’S WATERWORKS CONTINUE, MORE FORCEFULLY THAN EVER.  THE “SOFTY” FATHER FINALLY RELENTS.

“All right.  I’ll meet him.”

(REGAINING COMPOSURE, SUSPICIOUSLY QUICKLY) “Great!”  

“And tell him, I'm expecting an animal offering.  Not a basket of cherries.” 

“I promise, Poppa, someday you will love him as much as I do. And just think.  Our children will be the first generation in history of ‘Gatherer-Hunters.’”

“‘Hunter-Gatherers.’  And that’s a ‘Deal Breaker.’”

And there you have it.

A frivolous fantasy?  

Perhaps.

Still, I can’t imagine a “Hunter-Father” taking unwelcome “Gatherer” news lying down.

And yet they say “Hunter-Gatherers” like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Savvy of skeletons.

But clueless about people.