A Piedmont Lantern Story

There are events in a man’s life that make him sit back, scratch his head, and wonder how in the world things got so far away from the original plan. And then there are events in Jimmy Matthew’s life that never had a plan in the first place, which explains a good many things.

It all started when Jimmy Matthew announced, with the confidence of a prophet and the accuracy of a broken weather vane, that he intended to become Piedmont’s first possum wrangler.

He made this declaration on a Thursday afternoon, standin’ on Jim Leroy’s back porch with a grape Nehi in one hand and a piece of cornbread in the other.

Jim Leroy blinked. “Why in the world would you want to wrangle possums?”

Jimmy puffed up like a toad.

“Because, Jim, people wrangle cows, horses, pigs, goats, and all manner of creatures. But nobody has ever took the time to train a possum. And I figure if I’m the first, folks will call me a pioneer. Maybe even put me in the Piedmont Hall of Fame. Right betwixt the high school band trophy case and the faded picture of the mayor who once choked on a moon pie at the New Year’s Eve Possum Drop.”

“You sure folks will call you a pioneer?” Jim asked.

“They will if the posters say so.”

Jim Leroy sighed. He knew that tone. That tone meant he had already been volunteered.

“Alright then, what exactly does a possum wrangler do?”

Jimmy grinned wide enough to reveal his entire collection of baby teeth, adult teeth, and a suspicious one that looked like it came from a raccoon.

“He wrangles possums,” he said. “I’m surprised you needed me to explain that.”

Jim Leroy rubbed his forehead. “Where exactly are we supposed to find a possum willing to be wrangled?”

Jimmy beamed.

“Already found him. He’s in your mama’s laundry room.”

To Jimmy’s surprise, Jim Leroy did not celebrate this news. He bolted through the door, hollerin’ something that sounded like a prayer mixed with a threat.

Jimmy followed close behind.

Now, if the average person saw a possum in their laundry room, they might holler, faint, or call animal control. But Mrs. Cartwright was not average. She was standin’ on the washing machine with a broom held like a medieval weapon.

“This creature,” she hissed, “came out from behind my dryer and looked at me with malice in its heart.”

Jimmy tried to soothe the situation.

“That is not malice, Aunt Rosie. That’s confusion. Possums always look confused. That’s part of their charm.”

The possum chose that moment to hiss loud enough to shake a casserole dish.

Mrs. Cartwright swung the broom so hard it nearly broke the sound barrier.

The possum hissed again.
Jim Leroy hollered.
Jimmy Matthew clapped his hands.

“It’s working,” he cried. “He’s fired up. That’s the sign of a trainable animal.”

“What kind of circus did you escape from?” Mrs. Cartwright demanded.

Jim grabbed a bucket. Jimmy grabbed a rope. The possum grabbed absolutely nothing because it had no interest in collaboration.

“On three,” Jimmy said. “One. Two. Thr—”

Before he could finish, the possum launched itself into the air like a furry cannonball. It cleared Jimmy’s head by a full foot, bounced off Jim Leroy’s shoulder, hit the laundry basket, knocked over a box of dryer sheets, ricocheted off the detergent shelf, and landed square in the middle of Mrs. Cartwright’s folded towels.

Mrs. Cartwright screamed.
The possum screamed.
Jim Leroy screamed.
Jimmy Matthew yelled, “Stay calm. He’s just showin’ us his athletic ability.”

The possum shot out the dog door like a torpedo.

Jimmy ran after it.
Jim Leroy ran after Jimmy.
The dog ran after Jim.
Mrs. Cartwright locked the laundry room door and announced no one would be allowed to live in the house ever again until everything had been sanitized with bleach and holy water.

The boys finally cornered the possum behind the shed, where it was considerin’ a second career as a chimney ornament.

Jimmy held out his hands.

“Easy now, fella. We can do this respectful-like.”

The possum showed its teeth in a manner that suggested it had been disrespected enough for one day.

It bolted again.
Jimmy lunged.
Jim Leroy grabbed Jimmy.
The dog grabbed Jim’s pant leg.

The four of them rolled down the hill in a tangle of dust, fur, and regret.

By the time they reached the bottom, the possum trotted away calmly, as if to say, “I’ve survived the boys of Piedmont, therefore I fear nothing.”

The boys lay in the grass, panting.

“Jimmy,” Jim Leroy gasped, “you got to stop with these ideas.”

Jimmy wiped dirt from his face.

“I can’t, Jim. The Lord didn’t give me this much imagination for no reason.”

They sat there a long moment.

Finally, Jim Leroy asked, “So, what now? You givin’ up?”

Jimmy looked horrified.

“Givin’ up? No sir. We are just gettin’ started. I’ve already got a plan to hold the first-ever Piedmont Possum Rodeo on Saturday.”

“Why Saturday?”

“Because folks will be off work and available to witness greatness.”

Jim groaned.

“Jimmy. That possum nearly sent me to glory.”

Jimmy stood and dusted himself off.

“Greatness has its risks. Now come on. We need more rope.”

And thus began a chain of events that, years later, would cause Mrs. Cartwright to ban both boys from ownin’ so much as a hamster.