The Summer the Squirrel Disappeared

An Uncle Toby McCarley Porch Story

Night Thirty: The Walnut

The thirtieth evening arrived with a hint of sadness hiding beneath the excitement. Not because anybody wanted the story to end. Quite the opposite. The Porch Club had become part of life. Like church on Sunday. Or football on Friday. Or mosquitoes in July. Folks knew there was only one night left after this one. Nobody liked it.

Uncle Toby emerged carrying sweet tea. The applause greeted him. As always. This time he bowed. The crowd laughed.

“Show-off,” Pearl called.

“You’re welcome.”

The old man lowered himself into the peacock chair. Looked across Hughes Street. And nodded.

“The walnut.”

The crowd immediately leaned forward.

Spring, 1991. The committee had spoken. The vote had failed. The matter appeared settled. Everybody thought so. Except Maybelline.

Back on Hughes Street, Earl nodded.

“That’s where they messed up.”

The old man smiled.

“Exactly.”

In 1991, several weeks passed. Life resumed. Then one Saturday morning, Maybelline drove to Jacksonville. Not for groceries. Not for church. Not for a doctor’s appointment. She went looking for a woodworker. Eventually she found one. An elderly craftsman named Walter Puckett.

Walter built cabinets. Tables. Shelves. And occasionally things people didn’t entirely explain. The best kind of customers. Back on Hughes Street, laughter rolled across the crowd.

In 1991, Maybelline carried photographs. Measurements. Notes. Lots of notes. Walter studied them carefully. Then frowned. Then studied them again. Finally, he asked:

“You want me to build what?”

Maybelline smiled.

“A trophy base.”

Walter blinked.

“Just the base?”

“Just the base.”

The old craftsman scratched his head.

“That’s unusual.”

Maybelline nodded.

“It surely is.”

Back on Hughes Street, Beulah Mae sat upright.

“Oh my.”

The old man grinned.

“Oh my is right.”

In 1991, Walter selected a beautiful piece of walnut. Dark. Rich. Elegant. The kind of wood that seems to glow even in shadow. He measured. Cut. Sanded. Polished.

Then built an almost perfect replica of the Golden Squirrel base. Almost. Because one thing was different. The brass plate.

The crowd on Hughes Street sat perfectly still. Nobody needed Uncle Toby to explain. They already knew.

In Walter’s workshop, the engraver carved the words carefully. Letter by letter. The brass gleamed. The old Toby looked out across the lantern-lit yard.

Then softly said:

CLAYTON REYNOLDS

1948

FOR SERVICE TO THE PEOPLE OF PIEDMONT

Nobody spoke. The lanterns flickered. The cicadas hummed. The words hung in the air.

Back in 1991, Walter handed the finished base to Maybelline. The old craftsman smiled.

“Looks nice.”

“It does.”

“You got a squirrel for it?”

The question lingered. Maybelline smiled. The smallest smile. Then answered:

“Not yet.”

Back on Hughes Street, the crowd erupted.

“Tobe!”

“No!”

“She did not.”

The old man held up both hands. Laughing.

“Oh, she absolutely did.”

The laughter spread. Even through the sadness. Because for the first time in thirty nights, everyone could see the shape of what was coming. Not theft. Not yet.

Preparation. Patient. Careful. Methodical preparation.

The old Toby slowly stood. The crowd protested immediately. Louder than ever. Because everybody knew.

Tomorrow was the last night. At the screen door he paused, as usual. One hand on the handle. Then looked back.

And said: “Tomorrow night…”

“Maybelline keeps her promise.”

The smile faded. Something gentler took its place. Then he added:

“And Piedmont learns who really stole the squirrel.”

The screen door closed. Softly this time. And nobody on Hughes Street moved. Because suddenly they realized the mystery wasn’t ending.

It was finally beginning.

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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