Really? More Squirrel Stories?
In all my years at teaching of teaching at New Covenant School, I have run across a number of characters. Students who have mixed up Helen Keller for Ann Frank. People who thought the woman “holdin’ that torch thang” (the Statue of Liberty) was in Paris. Students who have saved my butt while doing Shakespeare’s Hamlet by feeding me my forgotten line using a fake line that sounded Elizabethan (THANK YOU Alicia!). Students who have groomed themselves in my class all short of shaving their legs. Julianna thought NOTHING of plugging in her hair straightener one morning while the rest of us looked at her with the confusion you sense when you watch any news story that deals with a Kardashian.
One of the students who brought me the greatest amount of confusion AND joy was the talented Aaron Fortune. He had the gift of storytelling passed down in the Celtic genes like the Appalachian fiddle. Sometimes his stories were so surprising and comical, you were left with no words but “you made that up.” And, Aaron, being the godly sort he was would oft-times reply with a resounding “Yeah.” It was a mixed bag. Some of his stories, even the really odd ones were, on occasion, wholly true! Some time during his first year, I noticed the students all calling him “Squirrel.” To this day, the most I’ve determined is that it has something to do with a supposed bit of road kill he had eaten and declared to the students as a suitable meal. I don’t know if any of either side of the story is true, but I know his nickname is still “Squirrel.” His nickname stuck out in my mind, given my other strange interactions with squirrels and squirrel stories.
Yesterday, I mentioned my step-grandmother’s gift with the natural world. In Gardner’s theory of Multiple Intelligences (more on that later), she would have been labeled as having a strong Naturalistic Intelligence. Well, despite my ability to drop out of Chemistry in high school and having gained any limited scientific understanding from the childish quips of Mr. Wizard’s World on Nickelodeon, her ability to tame squirrels was something I inherited. Having no Naturalistic Intelligence, I can just play dumb when you all try to scathe me for my misunderstanding of genetic code’s inability to pass to step-grandchildren. Nonetheless, while I was a junior in college, I lived on the first floor of the dormitory building I was in. Second semester, I would come back to my room every day after lunch. For a while, I kept hearing a squawking sound outside of my room. It was as though a bird was being stabbed repeatedly in the back of the neck, or Fran Drescher was repeatedly hitting an F sharp while being pinched. Could have gone either way.
As I looked at the window, I saw a squirrel in the big grassy field. It looked like he was giving himself the Heimlich. Was he choking? Was he sick? I grabbed the first thing I could find – a chocolate-peanut butter nugget. It was Reece’s brand, but not as small as a Reece’s Pieces candy. I don’t know that they make them any more, but it was the size of a marble. I chucked it in his direction. I thought I’d see if he would respond. He did; he ran towards it, grabbed it, and took off running. I think the little stinker played choking so he’d get food. It’s the new “opossum playing dead” trick.
I humored him. Over the next several days I was throwing chocolate-peanut butter marbles a little bit closer to my window. Within 2 weeks, he was right outside my window. By week 3, I had him eating out the palm of my hand. I WAS my step-grandmother! Maybe I wasn’t as good at making pancakes, but I sure did a bang up job feeding squirrels.
Now my nephew, Jake, had some interaction with squirrels before too. Maybe my step-grandmother had passed the genes to him somehow too? One afternoon, he and his dad were hunting in rural South Jersey. It’s true, the deer frolic in the forests where the Delaware and Lenni Lenape Indians once roamed. Granted, they now ran the risk of running into a factory or high rise if they “frolicked” more than 20 minutes in the wrong direction, but they were currently in the security of a rural setting. As my nephew began scouting out a good spot for a tree stand, he came across a small squirrel. Perhaps it had been abandoned, maybe it was ill. Either way, he was alone and not afraid of Jake’s gentle touch. So, Jake, the great 10 year old man and killer of all things meaty, picked up the squirrel and decided to take him home.
As he returned home, he showed his sister Chris his recent find. Chris was so proud of him, “Jake, that’s so sweet. He can be our new pet. We should name him ‘Jake’ after you!” Jake and Jake had a special bond, and Chris had taken quite the liking to their new furry family member as well. Things went on normally, as normal as they can be when your household pet is a rodent, until one busy evening. Nancy, my red-box-story life saver, and I were . . . again . . . working at CVS. I think I was probably having a rebellious heart that evening and begging to get some man cards back, so I had unbuttoned my vest and hid my feather duster. In between customers, I heard a semi-squealing voice over the speaker “Jack to the office, Jack to the office.” Her voice strained like the squealing breaks of a subway train in New York City. I knew something was wrong.
After I got my line down, I passed over my register duties and ran to the back room. Nancy was sobbing. “What is going on?!” She handed me the phone. On the other end was my niece, the lovely and talented Christina (Chris). I picked up to hear sobs on the other end. “Jacky! Jake died!” I didn’t know what to do. A swift kick in the gut for sure. I didn’t know how to handle the news. My default when I hear tragic news? Hyperventilate and have a panic attack. It’s true. I know most see me as calm, subtle, and contained, but I don’t handle big news well. But here I was surrounded by two of the closest women in my life gushing salt water quicker than Niagra, and my response was the only potential dam. “Play cool. Level your head. Get the facts. Make an assessment,” I thought. So I asked Chris, “Chris! Calm down. Get it together. What happened?” Then came the reply that put all things into perspective. Chris let out a slow but thoughtful squeak, “He choked on a peanut.”
Then it was clear. My mind raced between all the scenarios. I sat, eyes jerking like a dog chasing a cruel master who waves a bone back and forth. Then I said it, “Jake . . . the SQUIRREL?” My guess was correct, my glassy eyes turned into the Sahara and I turned to my sister. “Jake the squirrel is no more. Jake the nephew is likely sad.” Nancy’s head tilted like a dog listening to the aforementioned subway train squeaking. She dried her tears, wiped her 6th grade playground child’s snot, and reached for the phone. Within minutes, I was ringing up fresh customers with the pleasantries of a used car salesman. I simply smiled and pondered when I would ever have an opportunity to share this random squirrel story, and here it is, polished from my repertoire of squirrel stories – one of a number of them catalogued away to be used at any time a blog post should I need them.
