The Summer the Squirrel Disappeared

An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Four: The Boy Who Knew the Price

By the fourth evening, somebody had brought cookies. Nobody admitted to it. The cookies simply appeared. That was how many good things happened in Piedmont. The crowd had grown again. A row of lawn chairs now occupied part of the front yard. Two teenagers sat on the curb. Three children occupied the grass. Even Sheriff Booker had stopped by. He claimed he was merely passing through. Nobody believed him. Least of all Earl.

"You came to hear the story."

"I did not."

"You brought a chair."

The sheriff looked down. Sure enough, he had.

* * *

Uncle Toby emerged onto the porch carrying a plate. Pearl narrowed her eyes.

"Are those the cookies?"

"They are now."

"You stole them."

"I rescued them."

The old man settled into the peacock chair. The crowd immediately began talking over one another.

"What'd the boy know?"

"How'd he know the price?"

"Was he spying?"

"Was it illegal?"

"Twelve-year-olds ain't generally illegal," Toby observed.

"That's not what she meant."

"Then she oughta say what she means."

The crowd laughed. Toby took a bite of cookie. A long sip of tea. And at last, he nodded.

"All right."

* * *

Summer of 1948. The meeting room above the hardware store. Clayton Reynolds stared at young Toby McCarley. Young Toby grinned. A grin should never be trusted when it appears on a twelve-year-old boy. Particularly not a McCarley.

"You know the price?" Clayton asked.

"Yes, sir."

"How?"

The boy looked offended.

"I asked."

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, laughter exploded. Sheriff Booker slapped his knee. Pearl nearly dropped her fan.

"Tobe, that can't be true."

"It absolutely is."

The old man pointed toward the street.

"Curiosity was my chief occupation."

* * *

In 1948, young Toby straightened proudly.

"My cousin works at the train depot."

"All right."

"And the sporting goods catalog came in Tuesday."

Clayton blinked. Young Toby continued.

"I looked up football uniforms."

"You did?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

The boy shrugged.

"Because I wondered how much they cost."

There was no arguing with that. It made perfect sense to a twelve-year-old. None whatsoever to anybody else.

* * *

Within ten minutes, Clayton and Toby had spread a catalog across a table. The pages smelled of ink and fresh paper. Toby pointed.

"Those are twenty-eight dollars a set."

Clayton whistled softly. The coach leaned closer. The mayor leaned closer. Pretty soon half the room had gathered around the catalog. Everyone started doing arithmetic. A dangerous activity. Particularly in groups. Within five minutes, six different totals had been produced. All of them different. One suggested the uniforms would cost enough to purchase a modest farm. Another indicated they might be acquired for three dollars and a pie. Neither estimate proved entirely reliable.

* * *

At last the newspaper editor arrived. Wilbur Crenshaw. Owner, editor, reporter, photographer, and occasionally janitor of the Piedmont Journal. Wilbur examined the numbers. Adjusted his glasses. Examined them again. Then announced:

"We need six hundred and forty-two dollars."

The room fell silent. That was a great deal of money in 1948. Enough money to make people nervous. Enough money to make Horace Blalock smile.

* * *

Horace folded his arms.

"Told you."

The coach sighed. The mayor rubbed his forehead. The preacher looked upward, perhaps hoping assistance might arrive from above. Clayton simply studied the catalog. Then he smiled. That worried everybody. A smiling man with a fundraising idea was rarely harmless.

* * *

"All right," Clayton said.

"We need six hundred and forty-two dollars."

Nobody argued.

"We can do that."

Several people laughed. Horace laughed loudest.

"You got six hundred and forty-two dollars?"

"No."

"Then how?"

Clayton pointed toward the window.

"Because there are five thousand people in Piedmont."

The room grew quiet.

"Everybody gives a little."

He pointed toward the coach.

"The team helps."

Toward the mayor.

"The town helps."

Toward the businesses.

"The merchants help."

Toward the editor.

"The newspaper helps."

Finally, he looked at Horace.

"And even you help."

The room burst into laughter. Everybody knew that Horace was tighter than the nuts on a new Packard. Horace scowled.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, Earl grinned.

"I like Clayton."

"You should."

Toby nodded.

"So did most folks."

A pause.

"At first."

The crowd immediately went silent. Pearl lowered her fan. Sheriff Booker leaned forward. Even Beulah Mae stopped taking notes.

"What happened?" she asked.

The old man smiled. The smile returned. The dangerous one.

"Well."

The crowd groaned.

"Tobe."

He stood.

"Tobe."

He shuffled toward the screen door.

"Tobe!"

The old man paused at the threshold. Turned back. And said:

"Tomorrow night, Clayton Reynolds discovers that raising money is easy."

The crowd waited. Then he added:

"Compared to deciding who gets credit."

The screen door slammed shut. And half the crowd spent the walk home arguing about what that meant.

* * *

About Ol' Big Jim

Jim L. Wright is a storyteller with a lifetime of experiences as colorful as the characters he creates. Born and raised in Piedmont, Alabama, Jim’s connection to the land, history, and people of the region runs deep. His debut novel New Yesterdays is set in his hometown, where he grew up listening to stories of the past—stories that sparked his imagination and curiosity for history. Today, Jim lives in Leeds, Alabama, with his husband Zeek, a tour operator who shares his passion for adventure and discovery. Known affectionately as “Ol’ Big Jim,” he has had a diverse career that includes time as a storekeeper, an embalmer, a hospital orderly, and a medical coder. There are even whispers—unconfirmed, of course—that he once played piano in a house of ill repute. No matter the job, one thing has remained constant: Jim is a teller of tales. His stories—sometimes humorous, sometimes thought-provoking—are often inspired by his unique life experiences. Many of these tales can be found on his popular blog, Ol’ Big Jim, where he continues to share his musings with a loyal readership. Jim’s adventures have taken him far beyond Alabama. For seven years, he lived in Amman, Jordan, the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city. His time there, spent in smoky coffee shops, enjoying a hookah and a cup of tea while scribbling in his ever-present notebook, deeply influenced his worldview and his writing. When Jim isn’t writing, he’s thinking about writing. His stories, whether tall tales from his past or imaginative reimagining is of historical events should read from his past or imaginative reimaginings of historical events, reflect a life lived fully and authentically. With New Yesterdays, Jim brings readers a rich tapestry of history, fantasy, and human connection. Visit his blog at www.olbigjim.com to read more of his stories, or follow him on social media to keep up with his latest musings and projects, one of which is a series that follows Bonita McCauley, an amateur detective who gets into some very sticky situations. His book, New Yesterdays, can be found at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.

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