The Summer the Squirrel Disappeared

An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Five: Everybody Wants Their Name on It

By the fifth evening, folks had started arriving with purpose. A man from two streets over brought his own lawn chair.

A woman from Jacksonville claimed she'd merely been "driving through."

Nobody believed that, either. Three more children occupied the front yard. The teenagers had moved closer. And somebody had started selling Moon Pies from a cardboard box. Uncle Toby regarded the growing crowd.

"Well."

He settled into the peacock chair.

"I see word's gotten out."

Pearl fanned herself.

"It has."

"That's unfortunate."

The crowd laughed. Earl pointed.

"Now hold on."

"What?"

"You said raisin' money was easy."

"It was."

"And gettin' credit was hard."

"That's right."

"What does that mean?"

Toby smiled. The smile alone made several people suspicious.

* * *

Summer of 1948. Three weeks after the meeting above the hardware store. The fundraiser was working. Working far better than anyone expected. Coins filled jars. Dollar bills appeared in donation boxes. Businesses contributed. Churches contributed. Schoolchildren contributed. One little girl donated fourteen cents and a marble. The marble was returned. The fourteen cents was not. By the end of July, the total had already passed five hundred dollars. Piedmont was determined.

* * *

The trouble started when the newspaper got involved. Back then, the Piedmont Journal occupied a narrow brick building downtown. Wilbur Crenshaw ran nearly everything. Including his own opinions. Particularly his own opinions. The front page that week featured a large headline: REYNOLDS LEADS UNIFORM DRIVE Clayton nearly choked when he saw it. He marched straight to the newspaper office.

"Wilbur."

The editor looked up.

"Afternoon."

"Why'd you print that?"

Wilbur blinked.

"Because it's true."

"It ain't."

"Seems true."

Clayton placed the paper on the desk.

"This is a community effort."

Wilbur shrugged.

"You started it."

"So?"

"So, people need somebody to associate with the story."

Clayton frowned.

"Then associate everybody."

"That won't fit in the headline."

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, Earl nodded.

"He's got a point."

Pearl turned toward him.

"Whose point?"

"The newspaper man's."

The women stared. Earl immediately regretted speaking.

* * *

The following week another article appeared. This one featured a photograph. A photograph of Clayton Reynolds standing beside Coach Henderson. The headline praised their leadership. The article listed their names repeatedly. Other names barely appeared at all. That irritated people. People who hadn't been irritated before. People who hadn't even wanted credit before. Funny how that works.

* * *

One merchant complained he wasn't mentioned. Another complained his contribution had been listed incorrectly. A third complained his name appeared beneath somebody else's. The preacher wondered why the church wasn't receiving more recognition. The church wondered why the preacher was. The coach received praise. The mayor received praise. Soon everybody was counting mentions. Keeping score. Comparing paragraphs. Studying photographs. And suddenly a fundraiser had become a competition.

* * *

Clayton hated every minute of it. One afternoon he walked into Curtis Pope's Barber Shop and found four men arguing over newspaper coverage. Nobody could even remember what they were originally discussing. Only that they were upset. Clayton sat down heavily. Curtis draped a barber cloth around him.

"You look tired."

"I am tired."

"Fundraiser trouble?"

"No."

"Football trouble?"

"No."

Curtis began trimming.

"What then?"

Clayton sighed.

"Everybody wants their name on it."

* * *

The barber nodded knowingly.

"There's your mistake."

"What is?"

"Thinkin' folks give money for football."

Clayton looked up.

"They don't?"

"Some do."

Curtis snipped thoughtfully.

"Most folks give money because they want to be part of somethin'."

That thought lingered. Long after the haircut ended. Long after Clayton left the shop. Long after the uniforms had been ordered.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, Uncle Toby took a long sip of tea. The porch had gone strangely quiet.

"That's important," he said.

Nobody answered.

"The squirrel story don't happen without that."

Pearl frowned.

"What doesn't?"

The old man tapped the arm of his chair.

"People like bein' remembered."

The crowd sat silently. Even Beulah Mae.

"Most folks won't admit it."

He shrugged.

"But they do."

A breeze stirred across the yard. For a moment nobody spoke. Then Earl broke the silence.

"What's that got to do with the squirrel?"

The old man stood. The crowd erupted immediately.

"No!"

"Oh, come on!"

"Tobe!"

He shuffled toward the screen door. Paused. And looked back over his shoulder.

"Because the first person to suggest givin' somebody an award…"

The crowd leaned forward.

"…had no idea what kind of trouble he was startin'."

Then he disappeared inside. And that night, all across Piedmont, folks wondered who in the world had first suggested the Golden Squirrel.

* * *

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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