Showing posts with label Bootlegger. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bootlegger. Show all posts

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Hygiene Problems

"We are experiencing hygiene as we know it."
~Anonymous


Skunk

Skunk Chaser

I think it must have been Monday evening when it happened. Time has been a blur this week, but my memory suggests to me that Monday was the night.

My wife and I were just sitting and chatting in the den just off our bedroom upstairs in our home. The cool weather had yet to arrive, so we were still suffering the ill winds of the devil. With the windows sealed and the A/C on, we were taking a moment to relax and catch up on our meetings and lives.

Suddenly, my wife let out, "Ohh, do you smell that? Someone must have just gotten sprayed?

"What?" Sitting just five feet from her, I smelled nothing.

"Smell the skunk? I bet the dog just got sprayed."

"I don't sme...ohhh I smell it now. That's really horrible."

I've smelled skunks before, but this was the most powerful blast I've ever experienced. It permeated the house instantly, coming through windows that are sealed so well that they allow no drafts in winter. Yet the skunk smell came through like butter melting on toast.

After a few minutes, I went outside and checked on the dog. Skunk smells were thick in the night air and when her glowing eyeballs came happily charging at me through the dark, I braced myself for an intense blast of odor. I also instinctively backed away so she wouldn't be able to rub against me. Yet when she came close, I detected no increase in the smell. But I wasn't really convinced that I'd actually be able to detect any malodorous intrusions on the dog since the air was skunk.

When it came time to put the dog to bed an hour or so later, I found her already in our basement laying on the cold concrete floor with a very sad dog face. She'd been heavily drooling on the floor, which is unusual for her. More importantly, the blast of skunk odor was so intense from the room that I just had to turn and walk away. There was nothing to do for her that night.

All night, the odor seemed to intensify inside the house as our efficient air handling system spread the offense like a mutating virus. As I sat in the family room portion of the basement watching Monday Night Football, I could feel the odor molecules attaching themselves to my body.

That evening, as I attempted to sleep, I could do nothing but toss and turn. Skunk had invaded the small hairs inside my nostrils. Every breath I took drew in more skunk which then seemed to set up a cloning facility inside my body. Abhorrent smells oozed from all parts of me like sweat dripping off me on a humid day. It then radiated from me and onto my pillow and sheets. Everywhere, it was. Nowhere was sleep.

Exhausted, I went through Tuesday with the gnawing sensation that everyone could smell skunk on me. So when I got home, I immediately broke out the dog shampoo and attacked the dog with gusto, releasing my frustrations. Over and over I washed her and rinsed her. By the time I was done, she still smelled like a skunk.

Worse than the dog, was the house. It reeked. I threw open all of the windows and doors, plus turned on all of the ceiling fans and bathroom ventilation fans. I ran the fan from the house ventilation system, but with little noticeable effect. The house was virtually unlivable.

At my "Back to School Night" PTA meeting Tuesday night, one of my colleagues told me of a recipe that she used to rid skunk smells from her hounds. They got in to them all the time at her country home. Part Dawn dish washing liquid, Baking soda, and hydrogen peroxide mixed in proportions she didn't know. She said I could easily find the exact recipe online. So on my way home I bought those items and also some powerful canned air fresheners and plug-in fresheners. You should have seen me going around the house spraying that air stuff! I hit every room in the house downstairs and in the basement. All around where the dog would lay and in her special recliner, Grandfather's old "Archie Bunker" chair, I sprayed and sprayed.

While I was at the meeting, my wife had concocted her own recipe. She mixed vinegar with dish washing liquid and washed down the basement floor and the grandfather chair. All of the efforts made the house tolerable that night, but by no means did anything we did neutralize the skunk.

As I write this, Ode to Skunk is still greeting all visitors to my house. Tomorrow, I'm mixing my concoction and nailing the dog again. Then I'm taking that recipe to the basement floor by mopping it over and over. Perhaps then, the skunk will go away.


Tuesday, July 04, 2006

The Bootlegger's Cave

I'm becoming famous in my own mind for starting projects. Here's another start. Maybe one day, I'll finish it.




The Bootlegger's Cave

Jimmy and I had heard tales of the cave ever since we were old enough to understand anything. My brothers had said that Old Man Garst, himself, actually used to use the cave as a secret driveway to the abandoned farmhouse in the cow-pasture. In fact, it was well known among the kids in the neighborhood that the old coot had actually left his '39 Chevy pick-up parked in that cold dungeon. Dark green and rusted in places, but the darned thing still looked like it could chug around the block. That's what Phillip, Jimmy's older brother, had told us one day when he actually bothered to acknowledge our existence.

Adventure was what 9 year-old boys loved most; well, actually Jimmy was 10. He'd been held back a year in school. I suppose that Jimmy was the more adventurous of our tandem. He was always building things, igniting things, and poking his nose into things. I suspect he would have become a great scientist if he were a stronger student. Jimmy was solidly built and could really take a hard fall with no apparent injury. His bald, daddy-shaved head starkly contrasted the scabs that were always to be found on his knees and elbows. Jimmy loved risk, and he relished the idea of throwing himself into unusual situations.

I wasn't nearly as adventurous as Jimmy, but I sure did love imagining all sorts of improbable situations. There was no limit to my imagination. That's why I really was floored when my brother innocently mentioned to me one day over a basketball game that it was well known that Old Man Garst was a bootlegger back during prohibition in the '30's. The story was that he'd run shine all around the valley and no one could ever figure out just how he managed his operation. Well, it didn't take my mind long before I knew how he did it, and I wasted no time in telling Jimmy who wasted little time in planning an excursion into Old Man Garst's secret bootlegger's cave.

We knew exactly where the cave was. Everyone did. It was located in the sleigh riding field, Old Man Garst's cow-pasture. Actually Old Man Garst didn't really keep any cows in the field, but I do recall him having a horse or two there all the time. Jimmy and I used to play in his back yard right beside the barbed-wire fence and taunt the poor ponies. Some days, when we bravely felt that the coot himself or his steeds weren't around, we'd secretly slip under the barbs and go off exploring the pasture.

I loved that field even though it was dotted with horse plop pies. Just over the grassy hill behind Jimmy's house, the pasture gave way to tangled brush which covered much of the steepest part of the hill. Thorns, paradise trees, and other quick growing noxious weeds called the brush zone their home. Nettles and stinging prickleys happily resided there. Beyond the wild zone at the bottom of the hill, lay a gently babbling stream leading to the ruins of the old Lackey House. Further along the bending course of this little, wet brook stood the stoic remains of Old Man Garst's original homestead. It had long fallen into neglect and disrepair. No windows were left unbroken and a variety of bird life nested in its spacious rooms.

While Jimmy and I were field experts, able to dodge horses, plop pies, stinging nettles, and poison ivy, we instinctively knew that the decrepit remains of the old Garst House were to be avoided like a demon plague. So we stuck to exploring the tangled brush.

Many days we stopped by the entrance of the cave, midway through the tangled brush of the "Suicide Run" sleigh trail. In the winter, many a dare-devil child had raced his runner sled through the tangled brush and completed a stimulated jump off the top of the cave onto the floor of the pasture ten feet below. I can't ever remember a time where anyone actually managed to stay atop their sled, but I do recall several cases of broken bones received while trying the "Suicide Run."

One warm, sunny day Jimmy and I were camped outside the cave entrance, resting and watching the clouds float by when Jimmy suddenly-out of the blue- mentioned the story we had learned about Old Man Garst. Jimmy began curiously looking toward the cave opening and thought that maybe we should go exploring the cave and find the secret drive to the old house. He especially wanted to get a hold of that old pick-up truck and drive it away.

I wasn't so sure that exploring the cave was a good idea. I had always heard that caves were dangerous, and I didn't think that I would like the dark, cramped space. Jimmy was persuasive and peer pressure was catchy. We agreed that we'd meet by the cave at 10 the next morning. Jimmy said he'd bring some twine and I was to bring two flashlights. I had insisted on the twine because I knew that you should always mark the way out of a cave with rope. One must never go into a cave without rope, flashlights, or a buddy. When the rope ran out, you were supposed to work your way back out.

I think I saw that in an episode of "The Andy Griffin Show" where Andy got lost deep inside a cave with Helen, and Barney rescued him; only, Andy had actually found a secret way out of the cave and discovered that Barney was looking for both of them, so he high-tailed it back in the secret entrance so that Barney could get the glory of finding both of them. Andy was always doing stuff like that, thinking of the other guy.

As 10am approached that morning, I wondered if maybe Jimmy and I shouldn't go in the cave. I thought of the dangers, the spooks. I thought that maybe Old Man Garst was still running the hooch. Maybe he'd have a band of thugs guarded the secret entrance and we'd be peppered with buckshot as soon as we showed our faces in there. Maybe he'd take us prisoner and send us in a crate to Alaska or somewhere. Who knew what could happen. I was scared of the seemingly endless fears that my brain produced. Yet the moment I saw Jimmy down at his house, I knew I couldn't back out. He bore the iron, chiseled face of resolve. I knew that if I chickened-out, all the neighborhood kids would find out, and I'd be laughed at forever. For a nine year old boy, there is absolutely nothing worse that being laughed at (except holding a girl's hand).

Still to come

Entering the cave

Finding the truck…

Smell of mash

Loud clangin and bangin

Lutie and Ed

Witnessing the process

Running for our lives

Escape from the cave