An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story
Night Twenty: The Second Squirrel
The twentieth evening arrived beneath a sky full of stars. The threat of rain had finally wandered off to bother somebody else. Hughes Street looked almost festive. Lanterns glowed. Folks chatted. Children chased lightning bugs near the sidewalk. The Porch Club had become its own little community.
Uncle Toby emerged carrying sweet tea and a slice of pound cake. The crowd applauded. Again. The old man stopped. Looked at them. And shook his head. “Y’all are encouragin’ me.”
“We know.” The crowd laughed.
Toby settled into the peacock chair. Took a bite of cake. A sip of tea. Then nodded.
“All right, where were we?”
“The promise.” Maybelline.” “The fence.”
The old man smiled.
“That’s right.”
And once again, Hughes Street disappeared. Winter came. Then spring. Then summer. The Golden Squirrel survived its first year. The scratch remained. The stories grew. The legend expanded.
By the following autumn, the town was preparing for the second award ceremony. Committees formed. Meetings happened. Arguments flourished. Exactly as nature intended. Meanwhile, life carried on.
Clayton Reynolds helped organize a coat drive. Assisted with repairs at the graveyard after a storm. Spent several weekends helping an elderly couple repair their porch. Nobody kept score. Least of all Clayton.
Back on Hughes Street, Pearl nodded.
“He never stopped.”
“No ma’am.”
“He really never stopped.”
The old man stared into the darkness.
“Some folks are built that way.”
In 1949, the second Golden Squirrel ceremony arrived. A new winner was selected. A new banquet was held. A new speech delivered. And just as promised, Sam Mickelsen surrendered the squirrel. The tradition had begun. The old winner received a smaller replica. The new winner received the original. Simple. Elegant. Reasonable. Which is why Piedmont immediately complicated it.
The crowd on Hughes Street laughed knowingly. Of course it did.
In 1949, young Maybelline watched the ceremony carefully. The squirrel changed hands. The applause sounded familiar. The speeches sounded familiar. Everything felt familiar. Then she noticed something. The replica. A smaller version. A personal version. A permanent version. The recipient could keep it forever. The thought lodged itself quietly in the back of her mind. Not a plan. Not even an idea. Just a thought.
Back on Hughes Street, Toby nodded slowly.
“Sometimes that’s how big things start.”
Nobody interrupted.
“Not with a scheme.”
A pause.
“With a thought.”
Another.
“A tiny little thought.”
The crowd sat quietly. Because everybody knew he was right.
In 1949, Maybelline and Clayton walked home after the banquet. The evening was cool. The town was quiet. For a while neither spoke.
Then Maybelline asked:
“Do you think you’ll ever win one?”
Clayton chuckled.
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
A shrug.
“Too many good people.”
The answer seemed entirely satisfactory to him. Not so much to Maybelline. She looked back toward town. Toward the banquet hall. Toward the squirrel. Then she made a decision. A tiny decision. A harmless decision. The sort of thing nobody would’ve noticed. She was going to save every newspaper clipping. Every program. Every article. Every photograph. Not because she expected trouble. Because she expected forgetting.
Back on Hughes Street, Uncle Toby smiled. A fond smile.
“That’s when she started.”
“What?” asked Earl.
“Buildin’ the archive.”
The crowd sat up.
“The archive?”
The old man nodded.
“Boxes.”
A pause.
“Folders.”
Another.
“Scrapbooks.”
The smile widened.
“Enough material to terrify a librarian.”
The crowd laughed. Then Toby stood. Immediately. Without warning.
“Tobe.”
“Not yet.”
The old man grinned. At the screen door, he turned. And said:
“Tomorrow night… “Maybelline saves the wrong newspaper.”
The crowd froze.
“What does that mean?”
The screen door closed.
olbigjim 