distinctly heard the word 'soap'. It seemed a strange time for them to be concerned with hygiene, skunk musk or no. A few minutes later Dad was up the ladder again, and he had news. I felt his hand near the top of my head, and he seemed to be feeling the tree.
"I didn't want to have to do this, Pumpkin," he said, "but I don't think there's any other way. I'm smearing some hog grease in here to get it real slick, then I'm going to pour some really soapy water down there and see if that'll free you up. Then I can maybe push you up the rest of the way from below, out this hole. Going to be tight, so you'll have to help all you can."
Good Lord, I was going to be rammed up the tree like a cannonball out of a barrel. I didn't protest, though. I obviously had no ideas of my own, and no say anyway. It was a strange sensation, the helpless inevitability of it all, and it reminded me of something other than a cannon--birth. I had watched many animals come into life on our farm, and I felt like I was about to experience the biggest event of my life for the second time.
I guess they spent several more minutes lathering up the water, which wouldn't have been easy with all the minerals Peach Creek carried. But finally I heard Dad on the ladder again, and he hesitated long enough to give me fair warning.
"Close your eyes, Ab. This is going to be cold, and it might sting. Just let it come on down and get you wet as possible."
His warning proved on the mark. The water pooled up around my chest before it began to subside, and then something reminding me of a swarm of bees alighted in my eyes. In those days our soap was the product of water poured through ashes and set to work on rendered hog grease--lye soap. And it began to roam around in my eyes like a whole nest of disturbed bees, eager for mischief.
"My eyes! My eyes!" I wailed, and I began to screech. the other baby raccoons, still on the shelf above me, didn't seem to appreciate it either, and they mewed and squalled pitifully.
"I told you to keep your eyes closed," Dad said. "I'm hurrying fast as I can."
Again Dad braved the innards of that oak, and this time I felt him push against the bottom of my feet. "Use your hands," he said. "Pull!" and we strained together, pushing and pulling, inching upward. Finally I felt Ben grab my hands and pull forcefully, and soon I could look out the upper hole. But there I stuck fast again, and Dad had to climb up climb up into the bole of the tree and make one last, mighty shove to set me free. At last I emerged from the wooden womb and sucked at he night air as though it were my first gasp. Ben wanted as little to do with me as possible, but he had to help balance me as I got myself turned around and my feet on the ladder. Eventually I reached the ground, and though I was shivering uncontrollably, my relief overcame my discomfort and I pranced around, squealing and trying to get my coon out of Ben's shirt.
"Don't touch me, will you?" he said as I clawed at him. "You really stink."
I finally cradled the coon in my arms, and Ben and I stood looking at the tree. A silence descended on the forest, and we waited. A few muffled grunts were heard, and then more silence. Finally the tree seemed to speak.
"Ben? Abbie? it said.
"We're out here," we said together. More silence greeted us, along with some scratching sounds.
"Ben, I'm stuck."
I looked at Ben and he looked at me, and then we both looked at the two buckets sitting on the ground, one with hog grease in it, and the other with a gleaming white cake of soap in the bottom. Good old, slippery lye soap.
"Don't worry, Dad," I said. "We'll get you out."
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