Fun times on the farm.

When I was thirteen or fourteen, my mother took me to visit my grandparents in east Tennessee. My grandfather had injured his leg doing something or other on the farm, and was on crutches. So we were there to help clean and cook, and try to get things around the house in order. My grandmother had always been a packrat, so we knew that we were in for tossing a lot of things out. We started in the kitchen. My mom stood on one side of a trash bag, and I stood on the other. We literally opened each kitchen drawer and threw away all the contents. We were moving along quite nicely when we opened the next to last drawer. From the inside of the drawer, out pops the head of a possum. If you have never seen a possum, let me try to explain. They are about the size of a yorkshire terrier, and look like giant rats. They have beady eyes, and a hairless, pink, long tail. They are the most disgustingly frightening creatures I have ever seen.


So there I stood, too scared to speak or move, when my mother began to scream bloody murder. I suppose all her maternal instincts flew out the window, because she ran to the other end of the house, leaving me trapped in the kitchen with the possum. I hear her announce to my grandparents in a high-pitched ragged voice that, "There - is - a - possum - in - that - drawer!" By this time I have jumped up onto the kitchen table, struggling with all my might to get out of the room with the repulsive possum. My grandfather hobbled into the kitchen on his crutches. He lifted one crutch in the air and hit the possum on the head with it. The possum was stunned, and my grandfather used this opportunity to lift it by its tail and throw it out the back door. My fear subsided, nausea took its place, and I ran to the bathroom to retch.

About two months later, my mother and I headed back to my grandparents' house. We decided not to bother cleaning for them. The thought of it still haunted me. We sat around the living room watching a baseball game, when my grandfather spoke up. "You know your possum came back. Yeah, I found it on top of the refrigerator eating the hot dog buns, so I got my air rifle and shot it." Years later, when both my grandparents had passed away, I could still see blood spatter on the ceiling in the kitchen.

I do not have the deepest southern accent, and I don't walk around barefoot, or wear overalls on a regular basis, and I have never been cow tipping. However, I have deep roots in the hills of east Tennessee. And I'm not afraid to admit that I am indeed, just a little white trash.