Thursday May 14, 2026: Sven & Ula: "Da Hole Trute."

Da Hole Trute an' Nothin' But Da Trute So Hep Me Gud."

   “Looks like you got yourself some skunks diggin’ ‘ere, Ula,” Sven said, spying the many divot-like holes off the corner of Ula’s porch near the basswood tree.

 

   “No Sven, you’re mistaken, den. Dose 'oles are made by Tamiasciurus 'udsonicus, da red squirrel as da locals call dem,” Ula replied authoritatively seeing as he’s Palmville Township’s official squirrel trapper. “Not skunks.”

 

   "Uh, I beg to differ Ula. I vas over to da 2nd Palmville Pub da udder day an’ Festus dere showed me vat skunk ‘oles look like--an’ make no mistake, dey look yust like dis,“ Sven said, peering up at Ula on the porch.“Look at all dese! You’ve got a ton of dem! Must be a whole family of skunks ‘ereabouts, an’ probably livin’ right ‘ere under your porch.”

 

   “You look more intelligent den you actually are Sven,” Ula snorted. “Even Festus Marvinson vud agree vit me dat dese are made by red squirrels burying dere nuts an’ seeds against da ruthless onslaught of vinter, an’ not Mephitis mephitis, da Striped Skunk, as you suggest.”

 

   “Festus Marvinson vudd say his dad, da dearly departed Marvin Davidson, vud be out ‘ere settin’ traps for all dese skunks, er... methodist methodist, who are makin’ all dese holes in your yard--dat’s vat Festus Marvinson vud be agreein’ to. ‘e knows skunk holes, dat vun,” Sven retorted, amazed Ula could be so stubborn.

 

   “Besides, if Erin catches a viff of your nonsense, you’ll be out dere trappin’ ‘em ‘neath da moon. You got yourself a skunk trap?”

 

   “Don’t need no skunk trap, Sven. An’ dey ain’t ‘methodists’, dere ‘mephitis mephitis, da Latin term for Striped Skunk. I ain’t gonna argue vit you anymore. Squirrels ‘ave been diggin’ dese holes an’ I’ll catch dem soon enough. It’s yust dat I’ve been busy lately,“ Ula sighed. “Erin’s got me finishin’ da new cow shed for ‘er Circle Meetin’s on Vensday nights so I ‘aven’t been trappin’ too hard.“

 

   ”Dem squirrels vill ‘ave to vait,” Erin told me.

 

   “She didn’t say anyt’ing about da skunks ‘aving to vait, Ula. You best be gettin’ yourself a skunk trap--or she’ll be takin’ you to da voodshed straight avay,” Sven said knowin’ all too well Erin’s firebrand Irish temper.

 

  “Don’t need no stinkin’ skunk trap...”

 

   So it was that very evening when Erin was pushin’ her mower out near the new cow shed when a big skunk waddled out from under the old chicken coop, sniffed around a bit, and then hid itself under some corrugated roofing panels that were leaning against a tree not too far away. Shrieking, she hoofed it to the house where Ula stood stirring the evening’s stew. 

 

   “GOOD GAWD ULA! GRAB YOUR GUN! DERE’S A SKUNK OUT BY DA COW SHED! she shouted into the house. “C’MON QUICK!”

 

   Throwing his ladle onto the counter, Ula whipped off his apron and careened out the open door and was down off the porch in an instant.

 

   “GOT YOUR GUN, ULA?” Erin gasped, her gaze riveted on the corrugated roof panels.”ULA?”

 

   Ula had turned around and went back to the house closet where he was uncasing his twenty-two semi-automatic rifle and looking for shells at the same time.

 

   “ULA JOSEPHSON VERE ARE YE?? ‘E’S GOING TO GET AVAY!” Erin yelled, frantic now, looking toward the house and back to the panels ‘til her neck hurt.

 

   “Vell, you tell me you don’ like no guns in da ‘ouse an’ now yer yellin’ at me to get me gun an’ now I can’t find me shells because you likely hid dem in some ‘safe’ place, an’ now you’re comin’ back to da ‘ouse mad as...” Ula broke off, talkin’ to hisself as he was, just as Erin jerked the door open.

 

   “ULA! DERE’S A SKUNK! DONCHA ‘EAR ME YELLIN’ FER YE?”

 

   “Yah but, Erin--da gun’s in a case an’ I can’t find me shells. I can’t be shootin’ ‘im dat near da cow shed anyvay, it’ll stink fer days! Maybe we can yust scare ‘im avay, Erin. Maybe he’ll yust mosey on down da river, let’s try dat eh?” Ula said plaintively, closing the closet door and leaning the half-cased gun in the corner.

He walked toward her, through the open door, to where the mower still stood idling, its bluish exhaust rising against the dark tree tops of the Hundred Spruce Grove.

 

  “‘e went in dere,” Erin said nervously, standing behind Ula, pointing, “‘e’s behind dose sheets of paneling.”

 

  “Vell, let’s see if ‘e’s still dere,” Ula said. “I’ll pull dese sheets avay vun by vun. “You go vatch from upwind vere it’s safe. Tell me if you see ‘im.” So Erin ran around to the other side and watched as Ula started pulling the sheets away but the skunk was gone.

 

   “‘e must ‘ave sneaked avay ven you screamed an’ ran for da house, Erin. ‘e von’t be back now. Dey don’t like people -- especially real noisy vuns,” Ula said trying to assure his wife of almost three years that the skunk was gone. Sliding the panels back where they had been against the tree, he said, “I’ll leave some moth balls 'round dese an’ he von’t be hidin’ under dere anymore.”

 

   “Ula, vat are all dese holes ‘ere by da basswood tree? Squirrels, you suppose? I’ve never noticed so many before,” Erin asked before ascending the steps to the porch. “You’ll ‘ave to get your traps out -- after you finish da cow shed.”

 

   A day or so later Sven sees Erin in Reed River. “How are you, Mrs. Josephson?’ Vat are you doin’ 'bout town vit out your Mr. Josephson?”

 

   “I’ll 'ave you know, Mr. Guyson, dat as an Irish voman, I go anyvere I damn vell please vit or vitout da likes of me husband. An' it’s none of yur damn business vat I’m doing, or who I am doin’ it vit. You got dat?” retorted Erin, whose ire could be manipulated to no end great or small.

 

   Non-miffed, Sven said, “Vell I know dat, you’ve been tellin’ me da same t’ing for going on 2.9 years Erin MichaelOSullivan’sdottir. I’m yust a teasin’ you yust to see your cheeks get red like dis. Vere’s Ula, eh? Buyin’ skunk traps at Annie’s Trading Post? She used to sell dem at da Seed & Vool.”

 

   “Oh, he told you about da big ol’ skunk I saw by the cow shed?’ Erin replied, the ivory-like Irish complexion returning to her face. “I don’t know vy he’d be needin’ skunk traps. ‘e told me it vasn’t comin’ back.”

 

   “No, I dint know you ‘ad seen a skunk, Erin, but dat yust confirms vat I vas sayin’,” Sven said lookin’ up the street toward the Reed River Uptown Bank kittycorner and across the street from the late Dan Fulton’s Accounting Firm.

 

   “An’ vat vas it you vere a-saying, Sven?’ Erin asked impatiently, eager to be on her way to a Ladies Aid meeting being held over the noon hour at the sports bar near Ernie & Ole’s Carwash. “Vat ‘ad you been tellin’ Ula?”

 

   “You mean ‘e ‘asn’t told you it’s dat skunk an’ all ‘is relatives dat’s been diggin’ all dem ‘oles in yer yard by da basswood tree?” Sven said returning his attention to MichaelOSullivan’s daughter. “Good grief, farm girl, you didn’t believe ‘im ven he told you it vas squirrels diggin’ dem holes?”

 

   Erin’s emerald-green eyes narrowed angrily, Sven saw right away. He immediately got the sinking feeling he had let the skunk out of the bag and Ula was going to pay for it, especially when Erin wildly jerked open the heavy door of the ‘73 Chevrolet grain truck she drove to town, threw her grocery bag full of quilting patches and her huge purse up onto the bench seat, and scrambled in behind them pulling her seat belt across her ample chest and locking it like a fighter pilot of a B-52. The old grain truck roared to life.

 

   Shoving the clutch to the floor, Erin slapped the worn-smooth gear shift knob into reverse, mashed the foot-feed and the truck flew away from the curb, its rear duals shuddering for traction, spewing sand and small stones against its foreward-leaning mudflaps; opposing traffic be damned.

 

   The loose tarp over the empty grain box sagged heavily against the wind, its support bows protruding under it resembling the ribs of beached whale carcass. Erin stopped the truck suddenly; spun the steering wheel, left, using the spinner knob, then with the old V-8 screaming turned the truck down Main Street and across the railroad tracks, never stopping for the stop sign on the west side; shifting gears into first, then deftly into second, third and fourth out of town without using the clutch, an old farm girl trick she knew from ‘way back in county Cork.

 

   “Oofdah, Ula is goin’ to get ‘is butt chewed for sure an’ I von’t be dere to vatch.” winced Sven, ‘I t’ought she knew all about it...”

 

   “I t’ought he vud’ve told her, Monique,” Sven told his French-Native-German wife of three years and three months, later in the day. “‘eaven knows, I tell you everyt’ing...”

 

   Monique, a woman of some rational experience, ignored his last statement, adding only, “You had disagreed with Ula and mentioned it in passing to his wife of 2.8 plus years, whom you met in Reed River by happenchance, and who, you presumed, was waiting for him to come back with some skunk traps because you thought he had finally come to his senses. It’s not your fault, bon ami. Erin was only going home to confirm that fact.”

 

   It was close to a week before Sven heard from Ula again. He was repairing his mailbox along the county road for the third or fourth time that week when Ula swerved across the centerline in his ‘64 Ford pickup and pulled up close to Sven as he stashed an old Louisville Slugger baseball bat ahead of the seat.

 

    “Mornin’ Ula, 'ow you been eh? ‘aven’t seen you for a vile,’ Sven said as he wrapped some orange plastic bale twine around the steel post the battered mailbox sat on. “I sure vish I knew who vas beatin’ up me mailbox so regular lately. Erin been keepin’ you busy on da cow shed?”

 

   Ula didn’t answer immediately. He imagined using his baseball bat on Sven’s mailbox again as Sven watched.

 

   “Vat’s da matter vit you, Ula?” Sven asked. “You t’inkin’ 'bout who could be batterin’ me mailboxes? Dere vas a spat of dat a few years ago, I remember. Guys yust drivin’ 'round smackin’ mailboxes vit a baseball bat. Rumor vas, dey vas from da township! Can you imagine people dat know you, vud yust up an’ beat yer mailbox to smit'ereens? Now I could see if dey dint like you--an’ I ‘ave my fair share to suspect--but if you’ve done dem no wrong? I t’ink I’m goin’ to get one of dem trail cameras and ... Ula! You payin’ attention ‘ere?”

 

   Ula was paying attention. The more Sven blathered on about his mailbox the angrier Ula got. He wrenched open the driver’s door and started to slide out the cab, pulling his ball bat out from along the seat at the same time when a truck’s twin airhorns blasted his and Sven’s ears.

 

   "GOOD GRIEF!" Ula shouted, covering his ears a little too late.”Vere’d you come from, Erin?”

 

   “Oofdah, I t’ink she’s given me a migraine!” Sven said, his eyes open wide, his ears still reverberating from the decibel shattering experience. “I dint even see ‘er comin’.”

 

    “Hah! Serves you right, you two old coots!’ Erin said, walking from around the huge grill. “You over ‘ere to apologize to Sven, Ula?”

 

  “Apologize? For vat?’ Sven asked in a wee voice, his ears still full of ear drum vibration. “It’s me who should be apologizing...”

 

   Ula, never one to deny another his or her opportunity to out themselves should the need arise, said,”You can apologize to me -- if you so desire. It’s best to get such t’ings off yer chest an’ not let dem fester so. Vat vas dat you vere goin’ to say?”

 

   “Vell, I... I ..,” Sven stammered, closing his plier and slipping it back into the holster on his belt.

 

   “Out vit it, den eh,” Ula insisted, while eyeing Erin’s impatience with him build.

 

   “I’m sorry I told Erin 'bout dem being skunk ‘oles in yer yard an’ not squirrel ‘oles,” Sven said slowly, then built with speed. “I t’ought you two ‘ad talked 'bout it. I shoulda kept me mouth shut, but, I knew I vas right an’ you vas wrong an’ you know ‘ow you get ven you von’t admit it an’ keep stallin’ 'bout not correctin’ da situation by buyin’ skunk traps, not more squirrel traps, an’ ‘ow you ‘ad lead Erin, your wife of 2.8 plus years, down a merry path of deceit tellin’ ‘er a mighty fib to keep her from t’inkin’ she ‘as skunks livin’ under da porch of yer ‘ouse ven you do...”

 

“VAT???

 

VE ‘AVE SKUNKS

 LIVIN’ UNDER OUR PORCH??