I was nursing a sour mood when we pulled into the driveway seven hours after leaving grandma's house in Tennessee. If not for the awful smell that greeted us inside our home, my disposition might never have deteriorated to full-blown foul.

Had someone led me there blindfolded, I might have guessed we were in a motel room where 23 college students had thrown a keg party the night before. Either that or a rotten mop was duct-taped to the ceiling fan.

This was not a stink you could easily put your finger on or send away by cracking a window.

After a weekend away, home is supposed to welcome the senses with shades of cleaning compounds mixed with the slightest reminder of last week's breakfast bacon.

The first thing a terrible household odor brings to mind is the last thing you did — or didn't do — on the way out the door.

"It can't be the trash," Sharon said. "I emptied it before we left."

I knew she had emptied the trash. I just needed to hear her say it.

This didn't necessarily smell like garbage anyway. It more closely resembled a musty old ashtray wiped clean by a sour dishrag.

We launched into a spontaneous stink-hunting, house-cleaning frenzy. Cushions were lifted, closets opened, appliances moved and carpet sniffed.

Not one spot of spilled milk or furry piece of food was uncovered. No mold-infestations — nothing.

Science teaches us that when all else fails, revisit the original hypothesis and isolate the evidence.

I opened every window and closed every door. An hour later, the only room that still reeked was the closet that's home to the vacuum cleaner and trash can.

It was the trash can. I didn't bother looking to see what had made its way into the receptacle before our trip. I was just happy we didn't need to call in the environmental remediation team.

I was so happy, in fact, that I forgot all about the events that had triggered my original sour mood.

We had been a mere 30 minutes from the house when one of the twins let loose a scream from the top of her booster seat.

The scream reflex of a 5-year-old girl is a difficult thing to override, but we have a strict rule in our family: If you scream, there had better be someone chasing you with a knife.

I angrily delivered the old "as-soon-as-we-get-home" promise of punishment. Thanks to the distracting smell from hell, it was one such promise I didn't keep.

After some calm reflection the next day, I realized the same promise has been issued on the same stretch of U.S. 264 on countless other trips home. It's hard to sit still and be quiet when you're coming down that long, boring homestretch.

So here's some free anger-management strategy for traveling families: On your way out the door, plant a stink bomb in the trash can. By the time you get home, it'll smell so bad you can't stay mad.