By Gayne C. Young
My father died in early July, and I ran over a skunk Friday morning. What do these things have to do with one another? Glad you asked.
After my father died, I began the long, arduous task of going through his property. Although my father had a fairly large home, he didn’t really have much that I was interested in taking the possession of. In the end, all I took were some pictures, a workshop full tools, a standing freezer, five cases of Miller Lite from the outdoor fridge, and his truck. I didn’t really need a 2016 Ram, Lone Star edition, but decided since my Toyota FJ just crossed over the 200,000-mile mark, it wouldn’t hurt to take on something with far less milage. Driving his vehicle reminded me of the joys of driving a larger vehicle, and after a few weeks I decided I’d trade both my new and older vehicle in on a new truck. I contacted a few dealerships and made a preliminary deal.
Then I clocked a skunk with my newly inherited truck. A big one. Probably the biggest skunk I’ve ever seen. I clipped him on the Llano Highway here in Fredericksburg, Texas early Friday morning. The half-a-German-Sheperd-sized animal rolled under my front passenger tire and sprayed probably a good gallon and a half of stink into my tire well and upon the engine block. Needless to say, my father’s truck now reeks and I’m going to have to wait to trade it in.
Family Tradition
My hitting the skunk actually came as no surprise as my family has a long history of hitting living things on the road. The first instance that comes to mind involved my maternal great grandparents. They were driving to their 50th wedding anniversary celebratory party when they hit a mule. The not-quite-a-horse rolled up over the hood of their Cadillac, smashed through their window, and landed in their chests crushing them both dead. This pretty much ruined the party that evening. Or so I’m told. I don’t know. I wasn’t born yet. But I did see the news report that confirmed the wreck.
Another memorable collision in my family occurred outside Williamsburg, Virgina. This came a year after my paternal grandfather suffered a stroke. I flew up for a visit and was picked up from the airport by my grandparents in their brand-new Buick, which was equipped with a lift for my grandfather’s motorized scooter.
My grandmother didn’t like how large the car was and drove it like she was afraid to do such. We were driving on the highway in the dark when a large semi came up behind us. Fearful to share the road with something that large and afraid she wouldn’t be able to stay in her lane, my grandmother decided to drive on the shoulder until she hit our exit a few miles ahead of us. Our headlights caught a woman walking on the side of the road before us.
My grandfather warned my grandmother in his post-stroke slur, “Wat out fer tha la E!” My grandmother didn’t and ran right into her. The woman summersaulted over the hood, rolled up the windshield, over the roof, and fell off the back. My grandfather loudly declared, “Ew! You-ah ‘it ‘er!” My grandmother stopped the car, and I ran back to the woman lying on the road at strange angles. “Are you ok?!” I screamed as I approached. “NO!” The woman bellowed back. “You hit me with your car.” I quickly corrected the lady by telling her it was my grandmother who hit her and began performing first aid. I am an Eagle Scout after all.
Stranger Than Fiction
The result of that collision was that woman getting her scalp stitched back on her head, her arm and leg set in casts, and her being ticketed by state police for abandoning her broken down car and walking on the highway, both of which were illegal in Virginia. My grandmother got a ticket for being combative and refusing to cooperate with the police as she refused to tell the officer on scene her age. Yes, this is all true.
I’ve never hit a mule or a person (yet, I’m still young). But I have taken out several deer, a few snakes (I might have aimed for those if I’m being honest), a nutria, some possums, and a raccoon. These collisions were all accidents (again, not the snakes), and on each occasion I did my best not to hit the animal in question. Maybe my family’s just cursed to hit things. I’d certainly hope not.
