An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story
Night Seventeen: The Most Controversial Act in Golden Squirrel History
The seventeenth evening found Hughes Street nearly impassable. Cars lined both sides of the road. Neighbors had begun parking in their own yards to make room. The Porch Club had outgrown the porch. Nobody seemed concerned.
Uncle Toby emerged carrying two Mason jars of sweet tea. One for himself. One for emergencies.
“What constitutes an emergency?” asked Earl.
“Runnin’ out of tea.”
The crowd approved.
The old man settled into the peacock chair. The wicker groaned. A dog barked. A child dropped a Moon Pie. The universe continued functioning.
Then Toby nodded.
“All right, where were we?”
“Sam was causin’ trouble,” Beulah Mae replied.
“That’s right.”
And Hughes Street faded away once more.
October, 1948. The fellowship hall remained frozen. Sam Mickelsen stood behind the podium. The Golden Squirrel sat beside him. Looking irritated.
Across the room, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody understood where Sam was headed.
Including Sam.
Back on Hughes Street, Earl frowned.
“How can he not know where he’s headed?”
The old man pointed at him.
“Earl, have you never started talkin’ before thinkin’?”
The crowd burst out laughing.
Earl considered.
“Fair point.”
In 1948, Sam adjusted the microphone. Looked out over the crowd. And continued.
“If we’re honorin’ the person responsible for those uniforms…”
He glanced toward Clayton.
“…then it oughta be Clayton Reynolds standin’ here.”
The room remained silent.
Young Maybelline felt her heart leap.
There it was. The thing she’d believed all along. Spoken aloud. In front of everybody.
Across the hall, Clayton immediately shook his head. A tiny movement. Barely noticeable.
But Maybelline saw it.
She always saw it.
Sam smiled. The nervous smile of a man who’d just wandered into a hornet’s nest carrying a stick.
“I appreciate the award.”
He rested one hand on the walnut base.
“But the fundraiser was Clayton’s idea.”
Applause broke out. Scattered at first. Then stronger.
The coach joined in. Several business owners joined in. The applause spread.
And suddenly, half the room was clapping for Clayton Reynolds.
Back on Hughes Street, Pearl smiled.
“Good.”
The old man nodded.
“Very good.”
In 1948, Clayton looked embarrassed. Which was generally his response to any hint of praise.
Sam raised a hand. The applause subsided.
Then he committed the act that would be discussed in Piedmont for decades.
He picked up the Golden Squirrel.
Turned.
And started walking toward Clayton.
The crowd gasped.
The mayor gasped. The preacher gasped. The newspaper editor nearly swallowed his glasses.
Horace Blalock whispered:
“Well, now.”
Nobody had any idea what the rules were. There had never been a Golden Squirrel banquet before.
The handbook consisted entirely of hope.
And Sam Mickelsen was currently rewriting it.
He stopped in front of Clayton. Holding the squirrel.
The room held its breath.
Young Toby held his breath.
Young Maybelline definitely held hers.
Sam smiled.
“Here.”
The entire room leaned forward.
Then Clayton did something nobody expected.
He refused.
The silence that followed could’ve been heard in Georgia.
Back on Hughes Street, the Porch Club exploded.
“He did what?”
“No!”
“Tobe!”
The old man smiled.
“Oh, yes.”
In 1948, Clayton placed both hands behind his back.
And said:
“No, sir.”
“You won it.”
Sam frowned.
“But…”
Clayton shook his head.
“No.”
A smile. Gentle. Firm. Final.
“The town voted.”
A pause.
“And they voted right.”
The fellowship hall sat in stunned silence.
Young Maybelline stared. Trying to understand.
Why would her father do that?
Why wouldn’t he take it?
Why wouldn’t he let people fix the mistake?
The questions settled inside her. Quietly. Deeply.
The old Toby looked out across Hughes Street. Toward faces glowing in lantern light.
“That was the moment.”
Nobody interrupted.
“Not the theft.”
A pause.
“Not the award.”
Another.
“The moment.”
Pearl frowned.
“What moment?”
The old man smiled sadly.
“The moment Maybelline decided the whole world was crazier than she thought.”
The crowd laughed. Then slowly stopped laughing. Because there was truth hidden inside that statement.
Toby rose from the peacock chair.
The crowd objected immediately.
“Not yet.”
“Tobe.”
“Come on.”
The old man shuffled toward the screen door.
Then paused. One hand on the handle.
And looked back.
“Tomorrow night…”
A pause.
“…the squirrel gets its first scratch.”
The screen door slammed. And fifty people immediately began arguing about how a brand-new trophy could already be in trouble.
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