Some folks wrote about bread baking, fresh sheets, the beach and newborn babies, but for me? It is the wonderful, fragrant aroma of the Mephitis mephitis. Otherwise known as the striped skunk.
It wasn't always this way. I used to wince at the slightest hint of that nauseating smell emanating from those anal scent glands, almost to the point of throwing up in my mouth, as I remembered our dog getting blasted by a skunk when I was a kid. But that changed in about 1994.
Tracy and I, with our little 2 year old Courtney, moved to this incredible little gold-rush-era town of Weaverville, nestled in the shadow of the Trinity Alps, living in the center of the community in a home was built when Lincoln was president. (In an earlier post I described the little town: Weaverville is reminiscent of Lake Wobegon, "Where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.") I absolutely loved our time living in such a terrific little community. Think Mayberry, but prettier.
Our old home (pictured above) had a tub but no shower, no closets so we had to use armoires, it was heated by a wood stove, and it had a crawl space underneath it. Where, one day, an uninvited guest took note of that crawl space and moved right in. Never was a squatter more appropriately labeled.
We were completely disgusted by the constant odor, which made it hard for us to do anything. We went to sleep to it, woke up to it, cooked to it. It was constant and omnipresent and overwhelming. We tried to block off access to the crawl space and prevent the little bugger from getting in, but getting in he continued to do.
Then all of a sudden the smell was gone. We figured he must've tired at our eradication efforts and found greener pastures elsewhere, until we had friends over, and they wondered aloud how we can stand the smell. Then it dawned on us . . . we were noseblind!
Pepe le Pew eventually moved out, and later, so did we. In 1997, we moved away and continued to grow our little family in Camarillo, a place that ignores the seasons, but I often think about Weaverville . . . its small townness, the great friendships, the beautiful outdoors, floating and fishing the Trinity River. But most of all I think about our young little family of three.
Where I also see Courtney and I wading in the creek that ran along the back of our property, hunting for and finding lots of frogs. I see the little neighbor girl, Taylor, sitting in our front room keeping Courtney and Tracy company reading aloud from her chapter book. I see us walking around all sides of our home picking raspberries and blackberries from the vines, and apples, plums and nectarines from the trees. I see us spread out on a blanket to watch the July 5 fireworks at the elementary school, which the town got at a discount as the other communities had their fireworks on the 4th. I see us going to the park, or down the river, or into the woods. I cannot imagine life being more perfect.
That was all 23 years ago, but smells are like time machines. The smell of mothballs puts me back in the 1970s with my angel grandma. The smell of dewy fresh-cut grass puts me back on the damp Camarillo High football field during hell week my freshman year in 1981. And today, catching a whiff of a skunk just transports me right back there to our old Weaverville home on Center Street.
As the years go by, the memories of our time there do not fade, but rather, they focus in on the wonderful experiences we had as a family, when life was simpler and more innocent. So now, if a polecat cuts loose and you see me get a little misty-eyed, you'll know why.
There once was skunk,
People said that he stunk;
But for me now, I just cannot say . . .
For a time, I think.
the little critter did stink!
But for me now, that rascal can stay.
