(Excerpted from the book “The Hardest Life I Could Ever Love”, a memoir chronicling the life of Mary Blahnik)
Grandpa Snyder became critically ill in the summer of 1922, and I can recall Papa was seldom, if ever, at our own house at night after that. Following a hard, physically exhausting day during grain harvest, Papa would sit up all night with Grandpa tending to his physical needs. Grandpa died on August 1st, 1922, and I can vividly recollect the strange activities that took place at our farm following his demise. I was kept very close to our house throughout all those proceedings.
Back during that antediluvian era, an undertaker brought a casket along and performed whatever preparations were necessary for burial right at the deceased person’s home. The wake–or reviewal, as it was referred to back then–was held in the deceased person’s home, and friends and relatives maintained a constant vigil with the lifeless body throughout the night. People—strange faces, people I did not recognize or come close to knowing—streamed into my grandparents’ home for hours on end, and I remember Grandma Snyder walking around her yard sobbing uncontrollably early on the morning of the funeral.
At that time I did not comprehend yet what had truly happened, and it was not until after Grandma was alone—and then gradually as days, weeks, and eventually months elapsed while Grandpa never made another appearance within their diminutive house–that I finally came to realize my Grandpa was “dead”……and that he would never, ever return to be with us again. Comprehending the grim, desolate finality of death left a tiny girl feeling terribly fearful and shaken……
Following Grandpa’s death, Grandma would sometimes visit Uncle Matt, who was a bachelor and lived near Braham, a small town located between the Twin Cities and Duluth in upstate Minnesota. Papa would transport her to Austin with the horse and buggy, and Grandma would then ride the train north from there. I remember one time it was bone-chilling cold outdoors when she returned to her home following one of those visits; the incident I am about to describe must have occurred right in the heart of wintertime.
Anyway, Grandma wandered over to our house shortly thereafter and announced in no uncertain terms that she smelled a skunk odor. Papa checked the cellar under her house–old houses always had the entrance door to the cellar on the outside back in those days—and, sure enough, spotted “Mr. Skunk” loitering down there in the relatively warm environment. Papa left the cellar door wide open, and soon the skunk–being ravenously hungry in the frigid weather–found his way outside. Papa scrambled to retrieve his gun from inside our house, and then in his unthinking haste shot the stinky scoundrel right in the middle of our immediate yard.
Big mistake, Papa!!!!! Inexcusably stupid for one so intelligent!!!
Not surprisingly, Grandma’s house, our house, and the whole yard surrounding both abodes reeked with that terrible, unmistakable skunky odor for days, if not weeks, afterward!
Fred's Soapbox 