Humor

---

One of the great delights of my summers as a child was spending time at my maternal grandparent’s farm in the mountains of central Pennsylvania. To this day, the thought brings delicious memories of adventure and downright fun.

My grandfather had a wonderful sense of humor, although there were times I did not understand his jokes. I just figured I was too young to get the punch line.

For example, on hot summer afternoons my grandfather would say, “It’s so hot the ticks on a hound dog won’t tock.” Then he would slap his knee, throw back his head and laugh like a mule braying for his breakfast.

To this day, I still do not get that joke, but at the time I laughed simply because my grandfather thought it was funny. I’m smiling right now thinking about it.

My grandparents, who were religious folks, went every Sunday to the little country church up the hollow from their farm. It was close enough for us to walk.

The little country church had its worship service Sunday afternoon. There were several reasons for this. First, the church was not large enough to support a full-time minister and so shared a minister with several other churches in the vicinity. Second, most of the people who went to the church were farmers and had chores to do every morning, including Sunday.
The afternoon church service suited everybody, even the minister who was sometimes rather hard to suit. He could never find one big enough for him.

Several other families also walked to church, especially if the afternoon was sunny and warm. I remember that on one particular Sunday it was plain hot. Arriving at the church, I saw my cousin coming down the road wearing a coat.

I knew that if Freddy came to church wearing a coat, on a hot day, it meant one thing – trouble.

The Right Reverend Fernadine Dunmire had been the pastor in the church for many years. I could never remember any other pastor in my grandparent’s church.

The good pastor was almost as high as he was wide and would sweat profusely when he preached, especially on hot summer afternoons.

From where I sat, I could see the pastor’s sermon notes. He always had 35 pages of sermon notes and each page took exactly one minute to preach. I know this as a fact because I timed him several times and he never disappointed me. The sermon topic for this Sunday was: “The Holy Incense in the Old Testament Tabernacle.”

Harriet Rubenstein played the piano (pronounced “pie’-an-na,” with the first syllable accented) for as many years as my grandmother could remember. Her playing style was military staccato.

She possessed the remarkable talent of playing every hymn in the book exactly the same. She was so clever that there was no difference between her rendition of “Bringing in the Sheaves” and “Amazing Grace.”

It really did not matter because the congregation never followed the piano when they sang. Their singing was biblical – every man sang that which was right in his own heart.

The worship service started and we were singing the first hymn when I espied Freddy across the sanctuary. There was something strange about the look on his face and I was curious to know what he was up to.

The service progressed and Pastor Dunmire began his sermon. About halfway through his sermon, I looked over at Freddy.
He was smiling and something was peeking out of his coat.
It had a pair of beady eyes and a twitching black nose.
Freddy looked at me and snickered. Freddy’s snicker started it all.

When Freddy snickered, he frightened the little critter in his coat, and it jumped out and dove under the pew. I saw a black streak with a white stripe and knew immediately what it was.
In perfect mime fashion, I mouthed the word “skunk” to a rather shaken and alarmed Freddy.

From where I sat, I could see the little skunk heading toward Bertha Darnsmith, who was sitting near the front of the church. Bertha was not the heaviest person in the world, but she was the fattest lady I had ever seen.

Bertha was one of those people you never forget, no matter how long you live. Whenever she got “blessed” in a church service, which was often, she would stand up, wave a white lace handkerchief and shout “Praaaaaaise de Laaaawrd.”

It was worth sweating out a summer afternoon service just to hear Sister Bertha get blessed and shout.

But I was not thinking about Sister Bertha just then; I was worried more about the skunk. It is all right to worry about a skunk, especially when it is loose in church. About this time, Sister Bertha got blessed. Normally this would have entertained me but I could not get my mind off that skunk.

It is still not clear to me just what happened next. Whether Sister Bertha jumped on the skunk’s tail, or her jumping frightened the skunk and yelling is not important at this time. All I remember is a high-pitched shriek from the skunk and a long pssssssssssst.

The little church had no air conditioning, as if that would have made any difference. The small chapel quickly filled with the most pungent odor I have ever experienced.

It was so strong that it roused Deacon Phillip from his customary sermon “slumber.” He shook his head violently and said, “Whew, that ain’t no incense I smell.”

There had never been such an exodus from the little church like that one, often referred to as the “Day of the Skunk.”
Not even the Children of Israel, with all their experience, could have made such an exodus.

The Rev. Dunmire insisted that Freddy clean the church every week until the smell was gone.

The tomato wash severely altered the walls of the sanctuary and remains to this day a permanent reminder of that fateful day.
Some things cannot be undone and frequently leave permanent scars, but there is nothing quite like forgiveness to make things right again. Mistakes do happen and the biblical admonition is: “For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you. But if ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses.” (Matthew 6:14-15 KJV.)

---

PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE