Skunks Like Bratwurst

by Lydia Daffenberg

Back in the late 70's, my family owned a Winnebago which we would drive to Door County, Wisconsin for a week of RV camping. We always stayed at Wagon Trail Campground at the very tip of the peninsula. Often, my brother, Scott, my mother and I would stay the whole week and my dad would drive up to meet us on weekends--when he wasn't working.

On one of those weekday evenings my mother was doing laundry at the lodge. My brother and I remained back at the campsite, sitting at the picnic table eating our brats by the smoldering fire. I heard noises from the edge of the forest. I quietly signaled to Scott. We both turned around in time to watch three skunks meander out from the woods and into our campsite.

Ignoring us, they wondered toward the fire which sat between us and them and circled it--their striped snouts sniffing all the while. Scott and I sat, petrified. We had heard stories of people getting sprayed who had to take tomato juice baths to get rid of the smell which, we had also heard, didn't work very well. We thought that if we moved--they would spray. We didn't communicate this, we just knew the other knew. Both of us remained very still.

We waited for them to go away, but they didn't. Instead the three skunks waddled under the picnic table and began rubbing on our legs--acting like they were our pet cats. Scott and I stared directly into each other's eyes, our terror easily discerned by the other. Being the oldest and my protector, Scott took the lead. He whispered his plan to me so quietly that his orders were nearly telepathic. "When I count to three, we'll get up and run for the camper. Ok?"

"Ok." We waited for the skunks to move away a bit--so they weren't touching us. Then came the count.

"One--two--three!" We swung our legs over the bench and sprinted toward the camper door. Scott threw open the screen, then the door. We dove in. He slammed the door shut, sealing us from harm and stink. We had made it. We sat in our sanctuary breathing hard, feeling our heartbeats, listening. In our minds, the skunks were under the camper. We were sure of it. Then we remembered our mother. She would return soon and surely get sprayed--we had no way of warning her. A moment later, the door opened. We both jumped, but it was just mom carrying the basket of warm, folded clothes. She was safe and so was the laundry. We rattled off our story, but could see through her astonishment that she slightly doubted the extent of our skunkly encounter.

I looked down at what was in my hand. To Scott and I, it was proof of our ordeal. My brat was squished. I had been squeezing it so hard that, after I opened my hand, its outline remained. Our laughter calmed us. I finished my brat. Turns out, it was the best tasting one I've ever had. Now that's comfort food.