An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story
Night Fifteen: The Banquet Committee
By the fifteenth evening, the Porch Club had become so established that somebody had started bringing extra chairs for newcomers. This was viewed as hospitality by some. Evidence of permanence by others. Uncle Toby considered it mildly alarming.
The old man settled into the peacock chair. Looked over the crowd. And sighed. “Y’all are reproducing.”
Pearl pointed her fan at him. “Tell the story.”
“I was gettin’ there.”
“You was wanderin’.”
The crowd laughed. Toby surrendered.
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September, 1948. The election was over. The winner had been announced. The arguments had mostly ended. At least the original arguments. New ones had already begun. Because now Piedmont faced a new challenge. The banquet.
No award ceremony had ever existed. Which meant somebody had to invent one. That somebody turned out to be a committee. Unfortunately.
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Back on Hughes Street, the crowd groaned in unison.
“See?” Toby said.
“Y’all already know how this goes.”
⁂
In 1948, volunteers gathered above the hardware store once again. The mayor. The preacher. The coach. Wilbur Crenshaw. Horace Blalock. Several ladies from the church. A few business owners. And one unfortunate soul assigned to take minutes.
The first disagreement occurred within four minutes. Chicken. Specifically, whether fried chicken was appropriate banquet food. One side argued that no banquet could exist without it. The other side argued that grease and formal occasions rarely mixed. The debate lasted thirty-seven minutes. Young Toby timed it.
Back on Hughes Street, Earl nodded.
“Reasonable.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“It was chicken.”
Pearl rolled her eyes. The second disagreement concerned decorations. The third concerned seating. The fourth concerned music. The fifth concerned whether there should be a fifth disagreement. By the end of the evening, almost nothing had been accomplished.
Except for one thing. A local woodworker named Amos Harlan was commissioned to create the first Golden Squirrel. The room approved unanimously. Mostly because nobody could think of a reason to object.
Amos promised something dignified. Something memorable. Something worthy of Piedmont. This would later prove unfortunate.
Back on Hughes Street, Beulah Mae sat upright.
“Unfortunate how?”
Toby smiled. “Because Amos had never seen a dignified squirrel.”
The yard exploded with laughter.
⁂
In 1948, Amos worked for three weeks. Carving. Sanding. Polishing. Adjusting. Starting over. Then adjusting again. Finally, on a cool October afternoon, he unveiled the result.
The crowd gathered. The mayor attended. The newspaper attended. Half of Piedmont attended. Amos removed the cloth.
Silence followed. Then more silence.
Then a little additional silence.
Finally, Horace Blalock spoke. “Why does it look angry?”
The crowd on Hughes Street nearly came apart. Uncle Toby was laughing too hard to continue. When he finally recovered, tears stood in his eyes.
“It did.”
“Look angry?”
“Like it’d just lost an argument.”
The crowd howled.
⁂
Meanwhile, in 1948, Amos defended his creation.
“That’s determination.”
“It looks furious.”
“That’s civic pride.”
“It looks like it’s fixin’ to bite somebody.”
The argument lasted the rest of the afternoon. Yet somehow, despite everything, the committee approved it. The first Golden Squirrel had arrived.
And sitting quietly in the back of the room that day was young Maybelline Reynolds. Watching. Listening. Remembering. The old Toby grew thoughtful.
“You know what’s funny?”
“What?” asked Earl.
“Nobody remembers the chicken argument.”
A pause.
“Nobody remembers the decorations.”
Another.
“Nobody remembers the music.”
The crowd sat quietly.
“But everybody remembers that squirrel.”
The lanterns flickered. A dog barked somewhere down Hughes Street. Then Toby slowly stood. The crowd immediately began objecting.
“Not yet.”
“Tobe.”
“We just got the squirrel.”
The old man grinned. “Tomorrow night…”
He paused.
“…we finally get to the banquet.”
The screen door closed behind him. And every soul in the yard suddenly wanted to know what happened when Piedmont’s first angry-looking squirrel met its first winner.
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