with Piedmont commentary; unsolicited but enthusiastic

A Piedmont Lantern Story

If there was ever a day that ought not to have happened, it was the day Jimmy Matthew decided nature needed reorganizin’. He woke up that morning with what he called a “vision,” which worried everybody on Woolf Avenue because the last time he had a vision it involved a leaf blower, a hornet’s nest, and him runnin’ home without his britches.

But this time he marched into Jim Leroy’s yard with purpose, holdin’ a pickle jar full of cloudy creek water.

“Jim,” he said, breathin’ like a mule that’d forgotten how, “them crawdads down at Ladiga Creek is plottin’ somethin’. I can feel it in my shins.”

Jim Leroy, who had been tryin’ to build a birdhouse but had mostly built a large pile of ruined boards, squinted at the jar.

“Jimmy… them crawdads ain’t plottin’. They’re shiverin’. It’s fifty-four degrees out here.”

Jimmy jabbed a finger toward the creek.
“Shiverin’ is phase one. After that comes mobilization.”

Now, in most towns, this sort of proclamation would get a boy gently redirected toward a school counselor or a long nap.

But this was Piedmont. And in Piedmont, folks listened.

—Town Commentary No. 1:
“I ain’t sayin’ Jimmy’s right,” said old Mr. Suttles at the Co-op store, “but I also ain’t never seen no crawdad lookin’ me dead in the eyes the way that one did last week. Gave me the shivers down to my corns.”

—Town Commentary No. 2:
Mrs. Eunice Bell declared, “There’s somethin’ unnatural about crawdads this year. I saw one walkin’ backward but starin’ forward like it was possessed. I know evil when I see it. My ex-husband had that same look.”

Well, Jimmy and Jim marched themselves to Terrapin Creek armed with a slingshot, two stale biscuits, a butterfly net, and the belief that heroism could be achieved on short notice.

When they reached the water, Jimmy gasped like he’d seen Gabriel himself.

“Look! Proof!”

The crawdads had indeed gathered in unusual numbers, all clustered on a sandbar like they were holdin’ a strategy meetin’.

“Jim… this is it. The Crawdad Council.”

Jim Leroy peered over Jimmy’s shoulder.

“Looks like they’re just sittin’ there, buddy.”

Jimmy shook his head.

“They ain’t sittin’. They’re conspiring.”

Now, unfortunately for the boys, Piedmont’s Sunday school picnic had relocated to the opposite bank that very morning, and everybody had a clear view of this nonsense. Half the congregation gathered to watch, chew luncheon snacks, and offer commentary the way other towns might watch a Fourth of July parade.

—Town Commentary No. 3:
“That boy is special,” whispered Mrs. Hattie Duke, “and by special, I mean tetched by either Providence or foolishness. Hard to tell which.”

—Town Commentary No. 4:
“They’re up to somethin’. I don’t trust a creature that walks sideways but thinks forward,” said Deacon Willoughby, who frequently misinterpreted animal behavior.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Matthew, havin’ worked himself into a heroic fervor, leapt onto a slick rock and raised his arms like Moses parting something he had no business parting.

“Crawdads of Ladiga Creek,” he hollered, “I come in peace, but I ain’t afraid of none of y’all. Surrender your plans to overthrow Piedmont!”

One of the crawdads clicked.

Jimmy shrieked.

“They’re communicatin’, Jim! They’ve started phase two!”

Jim Leroy, resigned to a lifetime of bein’ blamed for Jimmy’s decisions, sighed and stepped forward.

“Jimmy, I’m beggin’ you. Let’s not start a war with crustaceans.”

But Jimmy was already halfway into the creek, sloshing around like a prophecy in wet shoes, hollerin’ at the crawdads to repent.

That was when he slipped.

There was hollerin’.
There was splashin’.
There was Jimmy Matthew bein’ pinched by not one, not two, but five crawdads who mistook him for either a threat or a buffet.

And then the congregation of Roy Webb Methodist witnessed what became known as:

“The Crawdad Stampede of ’94.”

Jimmy flailed.
Jimmy screamed.
Jimmy ran through the creek like his britches were filled with fire ants.
The crawdads scattered in all directions, terrified by this shrieking towheaded meteor plungin’ into their council meetin’.

Mrs. Eunice Bell crossed herself.
Mr. Suttles spat tobacco.
Deacon Willoughby fainted.

And Jim Leroy, bless his loyal heart, waded in to rescue Jimmy despite knowing full well this would end poorly for both of them.

When the whole ordeal was finished, Jimmy Matthew limped onto the bank, dripping, bruised, pinched in four memorable places, and declared through quivering dignity:

“Well… crisis averted. You’re welcome, Piedmont.”

—Town Commentary No. 5:
“He protected us from crawdads?” someone said.

“No,” replied Mrs. Duke. “From himself. And that, my friend, is a ministry all its own.”