An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night One: It Started with Football

The first person to arrive on Uncle Toby McCarley’s porch was Earl. Nothin’ unusual about that. Earl arrived first at most places. He wasn’t necessarily eager. He simply lacked the ability to sit still at home.

By seven o’clock, he’d settled into his customary chair and was studying Hughes Street like he thought somebody might try to move it while he wasn’t looking.

A few minutes later, Pearl arrived, with a hand-held funeral home fan valiantly tryin’ to stir the moist air about her face. She occasionally used it to swat at the gnats that dared to try enterin’ her orbit.

Then Beulah Mae arrived carrying information. Nobody knew where she got most of it. Some folks privately suspected that she manufactured it herself.

By half past seven, there were six folks scattered across the porch and front yard.

The evening air hung warm and still. A mockingbird carried on from a pecan tree down the block. The screen door creaked open. Out stepped Uncle Toby. Ninety-one years old. Thin as a rake and stubborn as a government mule.

He lowered himself into the great wicker peacock chair that occupied the center of the porch like a throne.

A Mason jar of sweet tea rested on the table beside him.

The gathering fell quiet. Toby took a sip and looked at the street. Looked at the sky. Looked at nobody in particular. Then he took another sip.

Earl, to no one’s surprise, finally groaned.

“Well?”

Toby blinked.

“Well, what?”

“You know what.”

“I reckon I do.”

“Then tell it.”

Toby nodded thoughtfully.

“Earl, if I tell it, you’ll interrupt me forty-leven times just like you always do.”

“I won’t.”

“You interrupted before I started.”

Pearl laughed, waving her fan at Toby.

Beulah Mae pointed at Earl.

“That’s true.”

Earl folded his arms.

“Then start.”

Nobody spoke for a moment. The sun slipped a little lower. The shadows stretched longer across Hughes Street. Finally, Pearl leaned forward.

“Tobe?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“What really happened to the Golden Squirrel?”

The old man smiled. Just a little. The kind of smile that meant trouble was makin’ its approach.

“Well now.”

A collective groan rose from the porch.

“Tobe!”

“I’m gettin’ to it.”

“You’ve been gettin’ to it for ten minutes.”

“Good stories don’t appreciate bein’ rushed.” He settled deeper into the peacock chair. The wicker creaked. A dog barked somewhere down the street. Uncle Toby said:

“Most folks think the story starts with a stolen squirrel.”

The porch grew still.

“But they’re wrong.”

Another pause.

“It starts with football.”

Several people nodded immediately. Nobody in Piedmont would’ve found that statement strange. Football had sparked marriages, feuds, church arguments, and one memorable fistfight that began behind Purdy’s Drug Store and spilled over into the Pool Hall. A stolen squirrel hardly seemed beyond its reach.

Toby pointed a crooked finger toward the darkness.

“Summer of 1948.”

And just like that, Hughes Street faded into the humid air. In its place stood a Friday night beneath bright lights. The Piedmont Bulldogs were losing. Again.

The uniforms looked tired. The jerseys had been patched so many times that nobody could rightly say what color they were originally. One player’s number appeared to have been stitched on with flour sacks. Another boy’s britches ended somewhere just north of his kneecaps.

The band sounded enthusiastic if not necessarily coordinated. Yet the stands were full. Because this was Piedmont. And Piedmont loved football the way some folks loved religion.

Maybe more.

Up near the top row sat a broad-shouldered man named Clayton Reynolds. Beside him sat his daughter, Maybelline. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

“Why are they all dressed different?” she asked.

Clayton looked down toward the field.

The Bulldogs had at least three different shades of royal blue represented among the uniforms. One jersey looked nearly white. Another looked maroon. A third appeared to have surrendered entirely.

“Because,” Clayton said, “those uniforms are older than most of the players.”

Maybelline giggled.

The Bulldogs fumbled the football. The crowd groaned. Clayton watched quietly. Not the game. The boys. The worn knees. The torn sleeves. The patches. The pride. Something settled into his mind that night.

A notion. The kind of notion that starts small. Then grows. Then changes everything.

Back on Hughes Street, Uncle Toby took another sip of tea.

“Now I didn’t know it at the time,” he said. “Course, I was only twelve.”

“You were twelve for half a century,” Beulah Mae observed.

Several people laughed. Toby ignored her.

“But what happened that night started everythin’.”

He pointed toward the crowd.

“The uniforms.”

“The fundraiser.”

“The award.”

“The banquet.”

“The disappearance.”

“The whole blamed mess.”

The listeners leaned forward.

Even Earl.

Especially Earl.

“And before the summer was over,” Toby said softly, “half of Piedmont would be accusin’ the other half of stealin’ a squirrel that hadn’t even disappeared yet.”

The crowd erupted.

“Tobe!”

“What does that mean?” “You can’t stop there!” The old man stood carefully. Slowly. Deliberately. Exactly as if he’d planned it. And judging by his grin, he probably had.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

The protests followed him all the way through the screen door.

The last thing anyone heard before it closed was:

“Y’all come back tomorrow.”