An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Three: The Dumbest Idea of the Year

By the third evening, folks had started arriving early. Three more lawn chairs had appeared in the front yard. Nobody claimed ownership. In Piedmont, lawn chairs tended to migrate like geese, only slower and with more rust.

A couple of children sat cross-legged in the grass. Pearl had brought a jar of lemonade. Beulah Mae had brought a notebook. Nobody knew why. That fact alone worried several people.

Uncle Toby emerged through the screen door precisely seven minutes later than everybody thought he should. The complaints began immediately.

“You’re late.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“You are.”

“I was there when I left the kitchen.”

Nobody knew how to answer that. The old man lowered himself into the peacock chair. The wicker protested. Toby ignored it.

Earl leaned forward.

“Who said it?”

“Who said what?”

“The dumb idea.”

Toby took a sip of tea. The crowd groaned.

“You’re worse than television.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“You know exactly what it means.”

The old man smiled.

“Well then.”

And Hughes Street slipped away once more.

The meeting room above the hardware store had gone silent. Thirty people stared toward the back of the room.

The owner of the voice stood with his arms crossed. His name was Horace Blalock. Horace owned a feed store. He also owned strong opinions. The two businesses occupied about the same amount of space in his life.

“That’s the dumbest idea I’ve heard all year,” he repeated.

The coach frowned. The mayor frowned. The preacher frowned. Even the newspaper editor frowned, and editors generally enjoyed controversy.

Clayton Reynolds remained calm.

“Why’s that?”

Horace pointed dramatically toward the window.

“Because football ain’t free.”

Nobody argued. That much was true.

“Uniforms cost money.”

Again, true.

“Money comes from people.”

Still true.

Horace was building momentum. A dangerous thing.

“Which means you’re askin’ folks to pay money so teenage boys can tackle each other.”

The room fell quiet. Several heads nodded. Others shook. The coach looked ready to throw something. Clayton simply listened.

Finally, Horace jabbed a finger toward him.

“How much are these uniforms gonna cost?”

The room turned toward Clayton. A fair question. An unfortunate question.

Because Clayton didn’t know.

He’d forgotten to ask.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, laughter erupted. Pearl nearly spilled her lemonade.

“Tobe!”

“It happened exactly that way.”

“You mean he called a meetin’ before he knew the price?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s foolish.”

The old man nodded.

“Well, that’s why the story’s worth tellin’.”

In 1948, the room above the hardware store erupted into overlapping conversations. Nobody knew the cost. Nobody agreed on anything.

Within five minutes, they were arguing about football. Within ten minutes, they were arguing about taxes. Within fifteen minutes, they were arguing about the government. Nobody could remember how they’d arrived there.

The preacher finally stood.

“Brothers.”

Nobody listened.

“Brothers.”

Still nothing.

“HEY.”

The room quieted. The preacher smiled.

“Thank you.”

Then he sat back down. His contribution complete.

* * *

At last, Clayton raised both hands. The room settled.

“I don’t know the cost.”

Horace looked triumphant.

“But I’ll find out.”

The triumph faded.

“And if the town decides it can’t afford it, then we’ll leave things exactly as they are.”

That seemed reasonable. Nobody could argue much with reasonable. Though several attempted it anyway.

Clayton continued.

“But if we can afford it…”

He glanced toward the coach.

“…then those boys deserve better than patched-up hand-me-downs.”

The room grew thoughtful. Even Horace. Especially Horace.

Because deep down, everybody knew Clayton had a point.

* * *

The meeting broke up shortly afterward. Folks drifted downstairs. Some supported the idea. Some opposed it. Most hadn’t made up their minds.

Which, in Piedmont, was often the loudest position of all.

Clayton remained behind. Gathering papers. Stacking chairs. Thinking.

As he reached for his hat, he heard a voice behind him. A small voice. A child’s voice.

“Mr. Reynolds?”

He turned.

Standing in the doorway was twelve-year-old Toby McCarley. Skinny. Freckled. And entirely too curious for his own good.

“Yes?”

Young Toby shuffled his feet. Then he pointed toward the chalkboard.

“How come nobody asked me?”

Clayton blinked.

“Asked you what?”

“The price.”

“The price of what?”

“The uniforms.”

Clayton stared. The boy grinned.

“Because I know.”

Back on Hughes Street, Earl shot upright.

“Tobe!”

The old man was already standing.

“No.”

“You can’t stop there.”

“Oh, I absolutely can.”

“Tobe!”

The screen door opened. Then closed.

And from inside the house came his voice:

“Y’all come back tomorrow, and I’ll tell you how a twelve-year-old boy knew more than thirty grown men.”