And that's exactly why it matters.

One of the things I love about Uncle Toby is that he isn't remembering the biggest moments. He's remembering the moments that changed the way he saw the world.

At twelve years old, Toby still believes adults know what they're doing. Not perfectly. Not always wisely. But he believes they mean what they say. Then he hears:

"If Clayton Reynolds wins that squirrel, it'll be because somebody arranged it."

And suddenly a crack appears in the foundation. Not a big crack. Just enough to let a little daylight through. Because now he's wondering:

"Wait a minute. What if the best man doesn't always win?"

That's a hard lesson for a boy. And the thing is, he doesn't yet know whether the speaker is right or wrong. That's what makes it sting. If the man was obviously a liar, Toby could dismiss it. If the man was obviously telling the truth, Toby could accept it. Instead, he's left with uncertainty. And uncertainty has a way of staying with a person. I can almost see old Toby on the porch seventy-eight years later. Not angry. Not bitter. Just thoughtful. Because life eventually taught him that people are complicated.

Wilbur wasn't evil. The mystery man wasn't evil. Clayton wasn't perfect. Neither was Sam. But a twelve-year-old boy overhearing adults argue about fairness and influence? That'll leave a mark. Not a wound. A mark. The sort that shapes a person. And from a storytelling standpoint, I think this is exactly where Maybelline's story and Toby's story begin to intertwine. Because while Toby is learning:

"The world isn't always fair."

Young Maybelline is learning:

"Sometimes good people don't get what they deserve."

Those are different lessons. But they're cousins. And both of them are going to carry those lessons for the rest of their lives. Toby becomes a storyteller. Maybelline becomes a keeper of a grievance. Neither realizes it yet. They're just kids. But we're watching the roots go into the ground. That's why this part matters. The squirrel hasn't disappeared. The award hasn't been presented. Nobody has stolen anything. Yet the real story is already happening.

It's taking shape inside two children who don't yet understand that one day they'll be the last people in town who know the whole truth. And bless young Toby's heart indeed. He went into that alley looking for gossip. He came out with a piece of adulthood. And that's a heavier thing to carry than a stack of newspapers. 🐿️🌙🏆 The Summer the Squirrel Disappeared An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story Night Nine: The Man Behind the Voice By the ninth evening, Hughes Street looked like it was preparing for a revival.

Cars lined the curbs. Lawn chairs stretched halfway across the yard. Somebody had brought a battery-powered lantern. Somebody else had brought fried pies. Nobody seemed particularly interested in going home. Uncle Toby studied the crowd from his peacock chair. Then he shook his head.

"This has gotten entirely out of hand."

"Whose fault is that?" asked Pearl.

The old man considered.

"Probably Earl's."

Earl looked offended. Everybody else looked satisfied. The crowd settled. The evening quieted. The old man took a sip of sweet tea. A breeze rattled the leaves overhead. Then Toby nodded.

"All right."

And once again, Hughes Street slipped away.

* * *

Summer of 1948. For the next three days, twelve-year-old Toby McCarley became a detective. Not a good detective. Mostly because he had no idea what he was doing. But he was enthusiastic. And enthusiasm covers a multitude of shortcomings. He questioned people. Badly. He followed people. Poorly. He eavesdropped. Expertly. By the second day he had identified twelve possible suspects. By the third day he had identified nineteen. By the fourth day he had become convinced the entire town was involved.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, laughter rolled across the yard.

"Sounds familiar."

Toby pointed toward Beulah Mae.

"You're one to talk."

* * *

Young Toby's investigation eventually led him to Curtis Pope's Barber Shop. Because nearly every mystery in Piedmont eventually ended up there. The barber shop served three purposes. Haircuts. Arguments. Information. Sometimes simultaneously. That afternoon Curtis was trimming Mr. Henderson's hair. Three men occupied the waiting chairs. Two more stood by the window. Everybody was discussing the Golden Squirrel vote. Again. Young Toby swept the floor. Not because he worked there.

Because Curtis had promised him a nickel. Toby would've swept the governor's mansion for a nickel. The conversation drifted around the room. Names were mentioned. Opinions were expressed. Predictions were made. Most of them wrong. Then one of the men said:

"I still don't understand why Raymond Talley's so worked up."

The room grew quiet. Only briefly. But long enough. Young Toby stopped sweeping. Not visibly. Just enough.

"He's convinced Clayton's gonna win."

Another man shrugged.

"Maybe he is."

"Maybe?"

"He practically said so."

Young Toby felt something click. A tiny click. Like a key turning in a lock. Raymond Talley. The voice behind the newspaper office.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, Earl slapped his knee.

"There it is!"

The old man nodded.

"There it was."

"Who was Raymond Talley?"

Pearl asked. Toby smiled.

"A man who never met an election he couldn't worry about."

* * *

In 1948, Raymond Talley owned a hardware business. A successful one. He served on committees. Attended meetings. Shook hands. Knew everybody. And possessed an almost supernatural ability to suspect favoritism. Young Toby spent the rest of the afternoon listening. By closing time, he knew three things. Raymond disliked newspaper influence. Raymond disliked committees. And Raymond disliked assumptions. Unfortunately, he expressed those dislikes loudly.

The next morning Toby finally worked up the courage to ask Clayton. The two stood outside the drug store. Clayton held a cup of coffee. Toby held curiosity. The heavier burden of the two.

"Mr. Reynolds?"

"Morning, Toby."

"Do you know Raymond Talley?"

Clayton smiled.

"Sure."

"Does he like you?"

Clayton nearly choked on his coffee.

* * *

Back on Hughes Street, the crowd roared. Even Sheriff Booker laughed.

* * *

In 1948, Clayton recovered. Eventually.

"I suppose so."

"Because he sounds mad."

That got Clayton's attention.

"Mad?"

"About the vote."

Clayton studied the boy. A long moment passed. Then another.

"Toby."

"Yes, sir?"

"Have you been eavesdroppin'?"

The boy considered lying. Briefly. Then wisely chose not to.

"A little."

Clayton sighed. The sigh of a man who understood children entirely too well. Then he placed a hand on Toby's shoulder. And said something the old man would remember for the rest of his life. Something every person on Hughes Street could hear in his voice seventy-eight years later.

"Son."

Clayton looked toward the school. Toward the football field. Toward the town.

"People can disagree without bein' enemies."

* * *

The porch had gone quiet. Very quiet.

* * *

"Raymond Talley's a good man."

Clayton smiled.

"Stubborn."

A few folks chuckled.

"But good."

He took another sip of coffee.

"And if he don't think I deserve that squirrel…"

Clayton shrugged.

"That's his right."

* * *

The old man on the porch stared into the darkness for a moment. Long enough for everyone to feel it. Then he nodded.

"That was the second lesson."

Nobody interrupted. Nobody joked. Nobody moved. Finally, Pearl asked softly:

"What was the first one?"

Toby smiled.

"The first one was that adults aren't always fair."

A pause. Then:

"The second one was that good people can disagree."

The crowd sat quietly. Thinking. Then Uncle Toby stood. The spell broke immediately.

"Tobe!"

"Don't you do it."

"Oh, he's gonna do it."

The old man grinned. The grin had returned. The dangerous grin.

"Tomorrow night…"

The crowd leaned forward.

"…the voting begins."

And before anyone could protest, the screen door closed behind him. Leaving a yard full of people wondering whether Piedmont was about to crown a hero… Or start a feud.

* * *