Our skunk is back. We can tell it’s the same skunk, because it’s a bit of an outlier when it comes to color. It’s not so much black with a white stripe as it is white with a black stripe, with the white extending right up the sides of the tail. Except, the white parts are actually yellow, sort of a medium blond. This color combination turns out to be good camouflage, making it hard to see the animal’s overall shape. The first time I saw it was before dawn, and the yellow parts were all that showed. Largely due to the tail color, I think, the critter looked to be lolloping its way along the side of our back yard, under the pines and spruces.
My best guess as to what it could be was a kitten—specifically the cat named Peekaboo in the Rose comic strip—but there was something decidedly un-kitten-like about it. I told my husband about the odd sighting, but it wasn’t till a few days later, when the beastie returned, that we were able to see clearly what it was. In the bright light of a sunny day, it was clearly a skunk. We’ve seen it both in the evening and in the daytime, now; when you’re a skunk, apparently, you go where you want, when you want, with im-pew-nity.
We mentioned it to our daughter when she was visiting, and she reminded us of the time, at our previous house, when, coming home at night, I dropped her off to go in the front door, while I put the car away. Before I’d even gotten the car back in gear, she came flying back and hopped inside. “There’s a skunk on the front porch!” she reported. That’s where the memory ends, for both of us, but my guess is we tiptoed into the house through the back door that night.
Another night a few years ago, when my sister was visiting, a skunk took serious issue with our house. Or with some critter right next to our house. Either way, the upshot was that we all woke to a mire of skunk smell, right there in the house with us. Despite determined showers, the smell clung to us all day. My sister and I made our usual rounds—Treasure Mart, ReUse Recycle, Habitat’s ReStore. And everywhere we went, people would ask us, “Do you smell skunk?” We would nod miserably and say, “It’s us.” And they would answer, “No, seriously, do you smell skunk?” Skunk smell: the gift that keeps on giving.
Summer temperatures have arrived with a vengeance, so the dog and I have been going for our walk earlier in the morning, when the day is cooler. The light comes in at a lower angle then, and changes how the world looks. Bluegills busy in the shallows of one of the ponds in Traver Lakes are clearly visible, and far more numerous than they appear an hour later. Every drop of water on the leaves in the Northbury gardens is rounded and perfect. When the mallard drake on the bank of a no-name pond suddenly plunges into the water, the sun lights the splash so brightly that the shape leaves a negative image of itself in your eyes.
The yellowwood trees around the neighborhood are blooming magnificently this year. Blossoms trail from the ends of the branches like white wisteria. So robust and numerous are the flowers that the weight of them curves the branches downward. And they smell heavenly. Edible. Walking under one of these flower-laden wonders is like entering a dome of fragrance. It takes willpower to walk back out.
Also in bloom and smelling great is our smoke tree. It took quite a hit this winter, but, oh, that fragrance. It smells like a spice. Rhonda’s fringe tree is blooming, too, so abundantly that it looks more like a huge ball of flowers with a trunk than like a tree in flower. Word has it that fringe tree blooms smell good, too. Rhonda’s specimen is so tall that it’s hard to tell.
By happy chance, this evening, my husband and I strolled past a mock orange in bloom. The house we had that once had a skunk on the front porch, also had a mock orange bush that flowered every spring and treated us to the sweetest smell. The bush grew against the back fence, and we could smell the fragrance of its flowers from the house.
As fondly as we remember that mock orange, it’s just possible that in years to come, we will remember this year’s lovely spring—skunk and all.
June 2023