Here’s an old story of a boy I once knew and identified with. I bet some of you will feel the same about this boy and his adventure.
Trapping would be perfect if it weren’t for the pretty good chance that in this part of the country you’ll catch a skunk, the boy thought, wistfully. That is unless he could catch and skin them without the spray of toxic scent. Skunk pelt will bring a good price, he thought. And here he was now, face-to-face with a trapped skunk. A .22 would have made the job simple. Now, he had to figure a way to kill the skunk before it sprayed him. The boy balanced his hatchet, and let go. It sailed beyond the skunk and buried in the snow.
“Dern it.”
A long stick. That’s it. Hit him on the tail bone and paralyze it. Uh-oh. The skunk pulled his foot out of the trap, and the boy’s fears came true. ‘Look out! He’s got his business pointed at you,’ he thought.
“Oh, Lordy. I’m ruined for sure,” he moaned, and dry-vomited.
The boy rolled in the snow, he broke cedar branches and rubbed the sap over his face and clothes. Finally, he unbuttoned the coat and hung it on a limb and finished his trap line. No fun, in spite of three more rabbits and a possum. His spirits raised, though, when he walked through a covey of quail and they sprayed snow in his face as they burst from the roost and buzzed through the timber. “Bang, bang, bang,” he shouted, aiming the .410 that still remained in Sears-Roebuck catalog. How many rabbits would it take to buy it? A winter’s catch. He’d never have it.
He trotted back to the home place, lantern blind now, for pale light rose in the east and promised a bright day. He circled the house, although he could have used some biscuits and gravy, and went directly to the barn to do his chores. The skunk wasn’t quite so strong now that he’d shed the jacket; still, ma had a keen nose. Best let a little barn smell dull the skunk.
He slid through the barn doors, feeling the warmth, the animal odors against him like a weight. Cows grinding hay sounded like feet crunching on snow. They eyed him with mellow eyes, one bawled and he gave a tentative squirt; the thin stream spewed out and instantly, half a dozen cats came from nowhere to lick up the puddle. He wanted to milk – but was afraid if pa found he could, he’d have to.
The rattle of buckets at the end of the barn caught his attention. “Fed the horses yet, pa?”
“Nope. Give ‘em corn before you fork down timothy.”
The horse nickered at his voice and he stacked yellow ears on his arm like cordwood and carried it to the stalls for the black Percherons. Their lips curled out, showing their great yellow teeth the kid wanted to touch but was afraid to, for they bit the thick ears of corn in two like they were bits of celery. He broke the ears over the feed boxes into bite size, then scurried to the barn loft. Pigeons fluttered and he climbed the rafters toward them, but they had been harried too many times and flew away.
Downstairs, his father said, “I smell skunk,” and the hired man said, “So do I. Likely one fooling around the hen house.”
The kid’s heart skipped. He couldn’t smell it now, but he must be getting used to it. He shoved down two big fork fulls of hay, then went into the harness room and searched about until he found Grandpa’s horse linament. He dabbed some on his clothing, a little on his cheeks. Only the linament came through now, but he thought he best try it before going to the house. He walked to the other end of the barn.
“Balls of fire,” his dad said, “Here comes the skunk.”
“Yeah,” said the hired man. “Dunked in horse linament.”
“How big was he, son?”
“He got away. He’d brought 50 cents.”
“Why’d you try to kill him? Ain’t I told you better?”
He nodded, downcast, “Go on home and take your medicine, boy. Change your clothes. You can’t help butcher thataway.”
He heard the muffled laughter as he left the barn and was heartened when he heard his father say, “I remember the first one I caught, too.”
He knew what he’d catch from mother. So he just stopped to say good morning to grandmother. “Can I fill your wood box?” he said warily from the door.
Her kitchen smelled of mush, sorghum, sausage and eggs; of the hickory wood that cooked it all. The bright round face beamed and she puckered and kissed him before he could pull back. Then she wiped her mouth. “Law’s a mercy,” she said. “You didn’t mind your mother, did you?”
He shook his head. “Can I come in?”
“Old Granny never turned you down, did she? Come in and let’s see if we can find some clothes.” And for once, there was no protest as he bathed in the wash tub behind the stove, shivered at getting into the cold, but clean clothes. For gratitude, he ate all the helpings of breakfast grandmother shoved at him, while she beamed. And beamed. She touched a little camphor behind his ears. “That’ll kill it so mother won’t get after you,” she said, and he felt and unusual warmth toward her. She understood a guy… Continued Next Issue
