By Robert Wyrick
To the best of my recollection, it was the winter of 1953 when my cousin Ralph came up from his home in Loyston to my place in Hickory Valley to spend a few days to help my daddy in his radio repair shop.
Now, as my luck would have it, Ralph brought along Old Rattler, his blue tick hunting dog. At the time, Rattler was known far and wide as the best possum dog to ever roam the hills of Union County.
This visit just happened to coincide with an activity I had been consumed with since the beginning of winter. I had been harvesting animals for their pelts, something polite society would frown on today, but in 1953 was an accepted role for a poor lad to put a few extra coins in his pocket.
I knew that one more successful hunt would generate enough revenue for a long-held dream to come to fruition. I would have saved enough money to buy that pink and black reversible jacket at Penney’s department store in downtown Knoxville. I knew it was the perfect garment to go with my charcoal pants with the pink stripe down the leg. Now for those who can’t remember, pink and black were the colors of high fashion around this time and every kid had some combination of these colors in his wardrobe.
I could visualize myself casually sauntering down the halls at school, past Principal Weaver’s office, heel taps clicking on the hard tile floor, all decked out in my pink and black outfit, reeking of Aqua Velva and Old Spice. Lord, I would be the best dressed kid to ever deck the Halls of Horace Maynard High.
I vividly recall the night when Ralph, Old Rattler and I set out for Buckner Ridge. We armed ourselves with a coal oil lantern, a three-cell flashlight with three fresh Eveready batteries and a sack. This was to be the hunt of hunts, as Buckner Ridge was known as the possum capitol of the county.
It was not long before Old Rattler hit trail shortly followed by his clarion call that he had treed something. We sped to the scene at a hurried gait to find one large possum ensconced in the top of a small persimmon tree. I suspect no finer marsupial ever inhabited Buckner Ridge. When he was properly dispatched and sacked, Old Rattler again hit trail to be followed shortly by his familiar call that he had found his prey. Again, another trophy to be dispatched and sacked for my collection.
In due course Rattler was off on another quest and shortly we knew he had hit trail. It was not long until his voice struck a different chord, and we knew he was in trouble. We raced to the scene but realized before arrival the nature of the dilemma.
The air hung heavy with the aroma of skunk. A dead skunk lay nearby, and Rattler was rolling on the ground trying to rid himself of the noxious odor. This meant the night’s hunt was over because it would be the next day before he could smell a biscuit within six inches of his nose.
The next day I was up bright and early to prepare my pelts for curing and eventual sale. All went well with the possums, but the skunk was another matter. I had never dealt with a skunk before, so I was unaware of the valuable lesson it was about to teach me.
When I went into the house on that cold day my parents invited me to return to the outdoors until something could be done about my foul odor. After burning pine brush and standing in the smoke and a good bath in a number two washtub, I was reluctantly permitted to return indoors with the rest of the family members. I was not scent free but could be tolerated.
All seemed to be going well the following day, even the bus ride to school. Some comments were made about a skunk, but the exact source was never identified. That is until Ms. McDonald’s English class. I arrived early in order to find a seat in back of the room and be as inconspicuous as possible. Soon all seats were filled, and Ms. McDonald entered the room, role book in hand, then abruptly stopped, paused a moment and announced to all the faces she smelled a skunk. Whereupon the room burst into laughter and every index finger pointed directly to me as I sank deeper and deeper into my chair.
Time passed and all seemed forgotten. I did get that pink and black reversible jacket to go with my charcoal pants with pink stripes. But joy was short lived as pink and black was soon after relegated to the dust bin of high fashion. I returned to Levis with turned up cuffs and a denim shirt. Dirty bucks were added with heel taps, but Aqua Velva and Old Spice remained as yore.
Some years passed when my good friend and classmate Curt Russell and his wife June came by to visit with my mother. It appears that the skunk incident came up in conversation and it was said that mother laughed for weeks at the thought of my dilemma. She later reported that this ranked near the top of my teenage misadventures.
In any event, I have given some thought to this whole incident and have concluded that just perhaps that dead skunk taught me more than my poor parents could have pounded into my teenage head with a hickory maul.
I learned that any stink you impose on others will be remembered long after the smell is gone; victory is fleeting and time can change many things. And last but not least, be mindful of what you wish for, you just might get it.
PS: To those who were in Ms. McDonald’s English class in the winter of 1953: Now you know the rest of the story.