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Daniel Boone lived to be 85 years old. I’m sure I’ll find that reassuring next time I sit down to a venison steak.
Yeah, it’s time to add another entry to the ever-lengthening list of things-that-are-sure-to-kill-ya. This time the experts in creative mortality have discovered hitherto for unsuspected death-dealing properties in the bullet that killed the deer you’re about to sit down to eat.
There’s do doubt that 30-06 did in Bambi, but now the state of Minnesota claims that same bullet also has big-game eaters in its sights — and they’re upset enough to order Minnesota food shelves to destroy donated venison — about 12,000 pounds of it — rather than let hungry people eat it.
The story is that officials in Minnesota and North Dakota — folks whom, I’m inclined to think don’t have quite enough to do — found traces of lead in the meat of deer shot with lead bullets and sounded the alarm. Not that anybody was reported sick, but official panic ensued nonetheless.
And folks that might have had a nice venison hotdish for supper will sit down to vegan fare instead.
Meanwhile, it’s pretty safe to say that ol’ Dan’l pretty much lived on deer — not to mention squirrel, possum, rabbits, raccoon, wood chuck, various birds and the occasional bear — shot with lead bullets and managed to live to 85 without the careful ministrations of the Minnesota Department of Health. But that didn’t appear to enter into the calculations of folks determined to “err on the side of caution.”
That “side of caution” seems to be pretty popular in some health conscious circles as of late. In recent months, several schools in the Twin Cities area cleared out students and staff and shut down after mercury — not more than a teaspoonful in any case — spilled from old science equipment or broken thermometers. To put the threat in perspective, a Minnesota Department of Health toxicologist was reported as saying the only way for a kid to get a toxic dose was to pour the mercury in a scarf and wrap it around his head.
Nobody did that, but the adults went nuts anyway.
Now nobody’s claiming mercury is a health food, but I do recall fascinating hours in high school science classes dipping pennies in a bowl of mercury — the mercury coating them with a brilliant silver, making them curiosities we carried around and showed off until the quicksilver dulled and wore off. We rolled globs of mercury around on desks and lab tables — learning all about surface tension and other scientific stuff while generally amusing ourselves all to heck. Some of us even swiped some to take home and play with there.
Of course, according to current standards, we should all be dead now — or at the very least, mad as hatters.
But we aren’t.
Even so, I suppose it’s wise to “err on the side of caution.” In fact, upon some consideration, I’d suggest we do a whole lot more err-ing.
If we’re going to close schools to prevent kids from getting sick from broken mercury thermometers, what are we going to do about sick kids sent to school feverish, dripping toxic body fluids because Mom can’t afford to take a day off work?
If we’re going to keep shot-gunned venison out of the mouths of babes and pregnant women seeking help at Minnesota food shelves, first, let’s see to it those women are getting adequate prenatal care, and those kids are going in for well-child checkups. If the state is going to step in to protect poor folks’ health from dangerous deer meat, it might want to consider protecting them with health insurance as well.
For that matter, we might want to do something so people won’t have to depend on venison from a food shelf to feed themselves and their families in the first place.
Funny how we can “err on the side of caution” when the risk is negligible. Find a few microscopic bullet fragments in some free food and the state vaults into action — leave a few thousand kids uninsured and the Legislature adjourns and the governor takes credit for no new taxes. A busted thermometer is cause for panic; a busted health care system is something for politicians to talk about.
For a bunch of ’fraidy cats, we sure don’t know what to be scared of.
Too bad for us.
Contact Jerome Christenson at (507) 453-3500 or jchristenson@winonadailynews.com.
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