(or, How Hemingway Might See Sarah Palin)
He had not wanted her. He was an old man who had thought for a long time and still he had not wanted her. He had wanted Joe. But he knew that they would not like Joe, who came from a different place, or Tom, who did not think like they thought. And so he picked her. She was strong and brave and young. She had a sturdy frame and a solid jaw and a sharp tongue. She would fight a hard fight and a fine fight and a good fight. She handled the guns well. She was a fine shot and her aim was true. She would shoot to kill. Her instincts were good. And he remembered the many hunts and the blood on the knife and the look in the eye of the downed prey and the fine smell of the gut pile. He thought about riding through the small towns with the moose head high on the hood as people cheered. He knew she would soak the large liver in a bucket on the back step, and that later there would be drinking and moose pate and it made him glad. In the end, he was sorry about Joe, and about Tom, but he was not sorry about the others whom he had not liked at all. He liked her.