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Skunk Fart Story

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At a. The distinct smell of skunk wafted through my open window and filled me with the kind of fear one only develops after their house has ly taken a direct skunk hit. Upon further investigation, I concluded that we were in the clear. The vile smell swiftly dissipated, and I returned to bed, confident that all was well. Several hours later, with the near-miss skunk attack fading into distant memory, I headed to work. I am lucky to live close enough to my barn to be able to walk, and as I strolled up to begin my day, the smell of skunk began to sneak into my nostrils once again.

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I remember, when I was four years old, a striped skunk that burrowed under the back of the barn on our farm in rural Niagara in southern Ontario. Somehow one of those skunk dens landed in our farming backyard. My sister Kathy stepped out one spring morning to gather eggs for breakfast, and discovered a skunk caught in the wire of our chicken fence. My family owned a fruit farm.

Seven acres. Peaches, cherries, plums.

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Which we sold to the fruit market and canning factory. One row of Concord grapes, and a plot of vegetables. The barn of weathered board. Tall, with a gable roof. Green diamond shingles. We kept a Jersey cow in that barn.

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For milk, cream, butter. We kept two sows and a boar. The piglets. Birth was a common event. So was death. Sometimes the sow rolled over in her sleep and we found her young dead in the morning. We kept a fattened calf and slaughtered it in fall. Father stuck it with a knife and hung it under the willow tree so the blood could drain. We kept a bay horse. Clydesdale cross. In those days we still farmed with horses.

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We threw the manure from our livestock through a hatch in the wall of the barn onto a pile. Threw table scraps as well.

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The youngest of many, I mostly got the job. We hitched Molly to the stoneboat, loaded the manure, and spread it with our pitchforks in the orchard in fall.

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Should we this? Should we that? Or how much we paid.

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Father had been a blacksmith on the prairies. He and Mom watched their savings shrivel as farmers bought factory equipment.

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We borrowed money for the farm. Some from the bank, some from aunts and uncles. Though everyone agrees it was a terrible mess.

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When we bought that farm inthere was still bush on the property. Those few years and acres to separate me from the wild frontier. Mennonites and the environment. That acre of remembered brush clattered in my imagination.

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I imagined foxes and white-tailed deer. Imagined wild turkeys wandering in from the story of the Mayflower. Imagined oak, hickory, dogwood.

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Birch trees and drums. Imagined Huron, Iroquois roaming our orchard. In those early years I already experienced doubt about the benefits of fence, car, civilization. I wanted something wilder, untamed. My father cleared the last wild brush.

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He had a debt to pay, children to feed. Rasp of a bucksaw. Blow of an axe. Rattling chain. Pull, Molly! Whoa, Molly! Eight hundred kilograms [ pounds] of horse heaving and farting. A gathering of live trees, he cut, and chopped, and Molly dragged them into a heap of drying tinder. And then the bonfire, leaves and branches crackling in the breeze.

Fire song. A wretched kind of music. The bush was gone, and in its place we planted cherry trees. I notice how one image of skunk and chicken wire bumps a series of other images. The way dominoes fall in a row. I remember cow, barn, and their stories.

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Remember a patch of wild brush. Remember Molly, the feel of her skin. This collection of stories. But not quite stories either. I notice that memory comes in fragments. With only a few details attached. And thinking about the skunk, I see how little I do remember.

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Who really discovered the skunk? Was it Kathy? Who called the Humane Society? But Jake and Kathy do. New skunk images begin to emerge.

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The image of the leg-hold trap, for instance. That skunk caught in our fence because of a leg-hold trap clamped to her hind leg.

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I wonder now where the trap came from. How many kilometers had the skunk dragged it before appearing in our lives that morning? Had she dragged it from the neighbors? From the creek nearby?

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Or hauled it from another of her burrows? And suddenly, I wonder whether Father planted the trap near the manure pile behind our barn. Jake is quick to defend.

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He says, no, no! We construct our lives from memories. And, much as we enjoy the cascade of images, talking to siblings about family history often causes trouble. We notice how our stories have become misshapen. We remember the Bible and our God-given right to dominion. But we forget to ask about the rights of skunks.