The true story of Stink and Stank

One of my dad’s favorite television shows was Sanford & Son, which aired through most of the 1970s. I was a little kid then, but what I remember most about the show, other than its iconic theme song, was the way it made my dad laugh. He’d sit in his recliner, slap his leg, and laugh so hard that tears would come to his eyes.

The show was about Fred Sanford, a junk dealer in Los Angeles, and his son Lamont, who helped run the family business. Part of the reason Dad loved Fred Sanford was because they had so much in common. Like Fred, my dad was cantankerous but kind. Playful teasing was his primary love language. And both men really, really loved junk.

Of course, Dad didn’t think it was junk. His work as a landscaper meant that he was constantly in other people’s yards and would often see their junk. And because he was an impulse shopper, Dad would offer to take it off their hands. He always had a reason for dragging home engines or cars that didn’t run or broken-down lawnmowers. He’d swear that he’d save tons of money by using the parts in those old jalopies or fixing them up.

This infuriated my mom because she knew he didn’t have time to transform trash into treasure. And she hated how the junk accumulated in the vacant lot next to our house, sitting idle in the rain, snow, and blistering heat year after year until it was worthless.

So one day, Dad brought home a used Quonset hut and set it right next to our backyard. In case that’s a new term for you, a Quonset hut looks like a giant metal can that has been cut right down the middle, leaving only a half-moon shape. They’re popular in the rural South because they’re often used on farms for storing tractors, supplies and machinery. Dad thought Mom would be thrilled about the hut because he could move all his junk into it. But he never got around to enclosing the hut with a floor and doors, so it essentially functioned as a junk carport. (Mom was not thrilled.)

The ongoing argument over the junk hut was resolved many years later when a storm with strong, straight-line winds lifted the whole thing up one night and blew it several blocks away. Dad thought it was a catastrophe. Mom called it answered prayer. With no more hut, she eventually convinced him to take the stuff he’d put under it to a real junkyard. Fred Sanford would’ve been thrilled to get it.

Dad’s impulsiveness often drove my mom nuts, but it also meant that things were never dull around our house. One time, when I was 6 and my brother was 13, Dad brought home two baby squirrels that he’d rescued from a tree he’d trimmed that day at work. He’d noticed that the mama squirrel had been hit by a car on the street below, and he couldn’t stand to let the infants starve.

My brother and I peered at the tiny babies cupped in Dad’s hands, and we were thrilled. This was so much better than another rusty carburetor. He said he’d need our help to follow the veterinarian’s instructions on bottle-feeding and keeping them warm. When they got big enough, we all agreed we’d let them go back to the trees where they belonged.

Because he was the oldest, Dad let my brother name the squirrels. And because my brother was 13, he named them Stink and Stank. Dad made a nest for Stink and Stank in a box he put on a desk in my brother’s room. The built-in desk was enclosed with folding closet doors, making it the best way to ensure the squirrels stayed in one place. The three of us doted on those squirrel babies day and night.

After a month, they grew big enough to start moving around, so Dad brought home a small tree branch and nailed it to the built-in desk, allowing Stink and Stank to have their own jungle gym. We loved watching them run and jump from those indoor branches. It was like American Ninja Warrior for pet rodents, and the neighborhood kids came over to marvel at the makeshift squirrel sanctuary.

Then one day while we were at school, Stink and Stank escaped their designated area and climbed up to a shelf above the desk that held a television. By the time we got home, the wires on the back of the TV had been chewed off. That same day, Dad and my brother decided Stink and Stank were ready to be released into the wild.

They stayed in our backyard trees for a while and then went off to do whatever squirrels do. Maybe they set up shop as junk dealers in the nearby Quonset hut, just like Fred and Lamont Sanford. Dad would’ve watched that show for sure.

Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.