An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Eighteen: The First Scratch

The eighteenth evening arrived with a thunderstorm threatening somewhere over on the other side of Dugger Mountain. The clouds never quite committed. They simply lingered. Like kinfolks after supper. The Porch Club had become so large that several folks were sitting on pickup tailgates parked along Hughes Street. Nobody seemed concerned. Least of all Uncle Toby.

The old man settled into the peacock chair. Took a sip of sweet tea. And smiled.

“What?”

Pearl asked immediately.

“I know somethin’ y’all don’t.”

The crowd groaned.

“Evidently.”

And with that, he began.

October, 1948. The banquet ended. The dishes were cleared. The speeches concluded. The arguments temporarily suspended. Sam Mickelsen carried the Golden Squirrel home. Not because he particularly wanted to. Because nobody could think of another place to put it. The squirrel sat atop the passenger seat of his truck. Glowering. As usual.

Back on Hughes Street, laughter rolled across the crowd.

“Tobe, that squirrel gets meaner every night.”

“It earned it.”

In 1948, Sam’s wife spent several minutes trying to decide where the trophy ought to go. The mantle was considered. Rejected. The china cabinet was considered. Rejected. A bookshelf was considered. Rejected. Eventually, the squirrel ended up atop the family piano. A location everyone agreed was temporary. Which meant it remained there for three years.

The crowd on Hughes Street nodded knowingly. Every family possessed at least one temporary arrangement that had lasted a decade.

A week after the banquet, Sam hosted several friends at his home.

Nothing formal. Just coffee. Pie. Conversation.

And naturally, somebody wanted to see the squirrel.

One person became three. Three became six. Before long half the gathering stood around the piano. Examining it. Discussing it. Offering opinions nobody requested.

Then disaster struck.

A gentleman named Vernon Pickett reached forward.

“You know what they oughta do?”

Nobody knew. Nobody cared. Yet Vernon continued.

“They oughta make the acorn bigger.”

As he gestured, his wedding ring scraped across the squirrel.

A tiny sound. Barely audible.

Scritch.

Back on Hughes Street, the crowd winced in unison.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

In 1948, Vernon froze. Sam froze. Everybody froze. Slowly. Very slowly. Vernon looked down. A tiny scratch gleamed across the squirrel’s shoulder. The first blemish. The first imperfection. The first mark. The room reacted exactly as though someone had wounded a member of the family. One woman gasped. Another crossed herself. The preacher looked genuinely concerned.

Sam started laughing.

Nobody else did.

“It’s a trophy.”

Silence.

“It’s supposed to get handled.”

More silence.

Then somebody said:

“Still.”

Back on Hughes Street, Uncle Toby smiled.

“That right there.”

“What?”

Asked Earl.

“The beginning.”

Of what?”

The old man pointed toward the crowd.

“People had stopped thinkin’ of it as an award.”

A pause.

“They’d started thinkin’ of it as a treasure.”

The yard grew quiet. Because everybody understood exactly what he meant.  

In 1948, the scratch was eventually polished. Mostly. The squirrel survived. The town survived. Life moved forward.

Yet stories began.

The scratch became famous. Folks discussed it. Remembered it. Pointed it out. By Christmas, some people claimed the gouge was an inch long. By New Year’s, it had apparently required emergency repairs. By spring, one fellow insisted the squirrel had nearly lost its entire head.

Back on Hughes Street, the crowd laughed until tears formed.

“Tobe.”

“I’m tellin’ you just exactly how it happened.”

The old man leaned back. The peacock chair creaked softly. Then his expression changed. Just a little. The way it sometimes did when a memory surprised him.

“Funny thing is…”

The crowd waited.

“That scratch was still there.”

Nobody spoke.

“Seventy-eight years later.”

The porch fell silent. Because suddenly they weren’t thinking about Vernon Pickett anymore. Or a wedding ring. Or a banquet. They were thinking about the missing squirrel. The actual squirrel. The one that disappeared. The one somebody stole. The one that still carried that tiny scratch. Uncle Toby slowly rose.

The crowd immediately objected.

“Tobe.”

“Not yet.”

“Come on.”

The grin returned. The dangerous one. At the screen door he paused. And said:

“Tomorrow night…”

“Somebody makes a promise.”

A pause.

“And keeps it for seventy-eight years.”