One Squirrelly New Years Eve

Traditionally, New Years Eve is a time of celebration for many people, and for Uncle Billy Roy Silas and Aunt Betsy it was no different. So, when Billy Roy and Betsy received two invitations to attend two different New Years parties, they couldn't begin to express their delight.

The first invitation was to Billy Roy's company party. The second one was to Granny and Grandpa Chimchuck's family get together. Tempting as it was to attend the company party, if for no other reason than to find out what a horse derv (hors d'ouevvre) was, Billy and Betsy knew they would be sorry if they missed the Chimchuck party. As Billy Roy would say, "Thars somthin' always a goin' on thar."

By the time Uncle Billy and Aunt Betsy arrived at the party Granny Chimchuck, along with most of the other women, was busy restoring her kitchen to its proper order. It never failed, after the grand kids, great grand kids, cousins, nephews, and nieces finished with the annual fudge making and taffy pulling, Granny Chimchuck's kitchen was virtually decimated.

Once the kitchen was put back, the board games were pulled out of moth balls and set up at various card tables for the youngsters to play. Invariably, eight-year-old Scooter Chimchuck (the youngest of the grandchildren) and Granny would end up at the same card table, opposing each other in a game. Now, before you get to wondering what's wrong with a grandmother and her grandson playing a game together, you have to understand that both Granny and Scooter weren't good losers. To complicate matters, both of them always had their own set of rules to the games, and these rules were usually made up as the contest progressed. Naturally, Granny and Scooter always ended up in heated debates over who broke what rule and what was or wasn't a real rule to begin with. Inevitably, the game ended with Scooter's mom chewing both of them out and putting the game back in moth balls before a winner could ever be determined.

Anyway, this particular New Years party turned out to be one of the most fun parties Billy and Betsy ever attended. You see, it was a tradition in the family that at 11:55 p.m. Grandpa Chimchuck would grab his shot gun, step out on the back porch, and shoot his rifle into the air at the stroke of midnight.

Well, Billy Roy's favorite cousin, Jefferson Robert Tartin, approached Billy with what he considered to be a great joke to play on Gramps. "Hey Billy," he said. "Downstairs in Gramps freezer is a couple of frozen squirrels he's been a savin' fer some time now [Grandpa Chimchuck loved his squirrel meat and always had a stock of them in the freezer]. I gotta an idee of what we can do with one of 'em fer a joke on ol' Grampy."

Billy liked Jeff Robert's idea and at around 11:30 p.m. they began to implement their plan. After putting on a pair of gloves, they snuck down to the basement and pulled out a frozen, skinned, squirrel. Quietly, they made their way outside where Billy Roy, squirrel in hand, shimmied up the huge walnut tree that hung over the back porch. Once Billy was in place, he waited for Grandpa Chimchuck to step outside with his shotgun.

Somewhere between 11:55 p.m. and midnight, Gramps stepped out of the house, shotgun in hand. When the big clock in the house began its 12 loud bongs, announcing the arrival of the new year, Grampy pointed his rifle straight up into the air and gently squeezed the trigger. BOOM!The night air was pierced with the resounding blast of the shotgun, and within seconds of the blast a dead, skinned squirrel fell from the walnut tree, landing at Grandpa's feet.

"Well, I'll be switched. Hey, ever'body, looky here. Now that there is some fine shootin', huh?!" he called out.

Try as they may, the family couldn't convince Grampy Chimchuck that it wasn't his fancy shooting that brought down and skinned the squirrel all at the same time. Finally, after all efforts to persuade Gramps that somebody had played a trick on him were exhausted, one by one family members traipsed back inside the house.

After awhile, Grampa Chimchuck sauntered into the living room, "Next fall," he announced to the family, "I'm a gonna shoot that ole shotgun in the air and see if'n I cain't bring down a plucked turkey for Thanksgivin'."

Billy Roy and Jeff Robert looked at each other and knew what the other was thinking, "how the heck are we gonna shimmy up that tree with a 25 lbs. turky?" But that's a whole other story.

A Very Skunky Christmas

Of the Christmas seasons I've experienced one of the many that stand out in my mind is the December of my tenth year. That season, Skunky Wilson, my childhood friend and partner in mischief, and I became entangled in a big catastrophe that the folks in our little town of Booger Hollow still talk about today.

One particular December morning, Skunky invited me to accompany him and his pet mouse Felix to our local supermarket. The supermarket had been advertising that Santa would be in the parking lot, and the local kids were invited to bring their pets and have their pictures taken with Santa.

"Why not?" I said, and off we went.

Shortly, we arrived at our destination and took our place in line. Within a few minutes, a little girl, who was struggling to control her hyperactive Siamese cat, joined the ranks behind us. After a long, nervous hour of concealing Felix from that cat, it was Skunky's turn to sit with Santa.

Just as the photographer was about to snap the picture, Skunky hollered, "Wait!" He then stuck greasy hand into his coat pocket, pulled out Felix, and promptly sat him on Santa's leg.

The next thing we knew, a loud, high-pitched screech extruded from the rambunctious Siamese cat. As it leaped from the arms of its master and raced toward the mouse, Felix instinctively headed for cover. . . right up Santa's sleeve.

Unfortunately for St. Nick, the cat was evidently one of the world's best mousers. He saw exactly where Mighty Mouse had gone and did his level best to catch him, scraping layers of skin off Santa's arm in the process.

As the chase went on inside of his suit, Santa jumped out of his chair, performing moves that would make a contortionist jealous, and screamed, "Something's got a hold on me!" For a second, we thought Santa was trying to lead us in a religious revival. Oh how wrong we were.

The chase continued. Across Saint Nick's shoulders and down his back, around his stomach and up his chest they ran, peeling layers of skin with every movement of their paws.

Soon, the dogs waiting in line managed to break free from their masters and pounced upon Santa, barking and pawing at him as they chased the cat who chased the mouse. You can believe me when I tell you it was not a pretty sight.

By now, Santa had taken all the animal chasing and skin scraping that he could, and in an effort to free himself from the half-crazed animals, he began tearing off his suit. It was just about that moment when the owners of the attacking pets decided they needed to get control of their animals. They descended upon St. Nick like a swarm of killer bees, and bedlam continued as the wad of people and animals rolled and tumbled across the parking lot, yelling, grabbing, clawing, and just plain pummeling each other.

We were not long into this mess when a passerby saw the commotion and called the authorities. Well, upon receiving a call that there was a full riot in progress at the supermarket, the town's volunteer fire department arrived and, with the use of their recently purchased water cannon, brought the commotion to a quick and soggy halt.

Eventually, Skunky and I convinced the authorities that we didn't purposely start the mayhem, and, upon promising to never visit Santa at that store again, they allowed us to return home. No problem. You see, ever since then I break out in hives anytime I see "the man in red."

Front Porches

If you watch the news you can't help but be concerned over the troubles America faces today: increase in violent crime, the disintegration of the family, and the deterioration of moral values, just to name a few. Many politicians and concerned citizens groups have spent countless hours and resource trying to fix the woes of America and have failed. But I've come up with a simple solution.

After giving the matter some serious thought (yes, though it's hard to believe, I do have serious thoughts from time to time--usually while I'm in some delirium) I've stumbled upon the cure for what ails America. Porches.

That's right, porches. Now, I'm not talking about just any old porch and certainly not one of those dinky little backyard stoops. No, I'm talking about those grand front porches of yesteryear. Remember them?

The front porch had a huge wooden deck big enough to hold the whole family and a few guests. It was surrounded by a wooden railing and usually had a couple of steps leading down to the front yard. It had a roof that hovered overhead to keep the elements of the weather at bay, and sometimes it was even screened in to keep the bugs out. For sure, when we began building houses without those stately front porches we began building the foundation for society's ruin.

When there were front porches there was no need for a family to schedule a special night of the week just to be together. The porch had a mystical way of drawing family to it. On a warm summer evening you'd find Grandma in here rocker, Momma and Daddy in the glider, and a couple of kids on the front porch swing. The rest of the clan would be seated on a bench or stretched out on the floor while someone played a guitar or a harmonica and an old fashion sing-along was held.

Sometimes everyone, young and old alike, spontaneously gathered on the front porch just to talk. Parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and neighbors would tell stories of the "old days." Sometimes those stories had moral anecdotes, sometimes they were just fun historical notes. Either way, the youngsters listened intently, focused on every word.

The front porch was a place where people really did listened to each other, where mammas, snapping green beans from the garden, sat with their children, giving an ear to each youngster as she helped them find solutions to the many trials of youth. It was a place where people relaxed and meditated,where the stresses and worries of life seemed to flutter away on the wings of a zephr.

Many a romance blossomed on the front porch. Two adolescents would sit in the swing, holding hands, talking of love, life, and the concerns of youth, while Momma and Daddy lingered inside the house, peaking through the screened window, making sure nothing improper was going on.

Many young men went home frustrated at the end of a date because the girl's parents left the porch light on to discourage him from kissing their daughter good night. And a daughter returning home tardy from a date could expect to be embarrassed by her father, waiting for her on the front porch, clad in his bathrobe.

Manners, too, were taught on that front porch of long ago. It's where children were taught to say "hi" to passersby, whether they new them or not, and the passersby answered back with a kind word or a smile and a wave.

Children learned to be patient and wait their turns for their portion of dessert when family and friends gathered on the front porch in the summer to make homemade ice cream. And kids learned to be good sports there too as they played board games, hide and seek, or jacks and the like. In short, it was the hub of the family, the neighborhood, and society itself.

Yes, the front porch once played a positive role in society, and if we are going to solve our country's ills we should get back to building and using those magnificent front porches of the past. Now, is there anyone out there who will let me borrow their front porch for a few hours? Some friends dropped by and we're just itching to make homemade ice cream and hold a group sing-along. Oh, and do you also have an ice cream maker and a guitar we could use?