SQUIRREL TALES: 4
by Mary Lee CorlettBUNDLE FOUR: KEEPER OF TALES
Mrs. Such is the Keeper of Tales. Her knowledge of Squirrel History and Legend is, well, legendary. No squirrel I know remembers a time before Mrs. Such, nor has even been told of such a time by grandparents or great-grandparents. Mrs. Such is definitely old, but at the same time she seems ageless. It’s strange, but when you get to know her, you begin to think maybe her life has spanned generations. She is, I suppose, a little bit “eccentric” (I love that word. I want to be “eccentric” some day!) And she is unusual because her fur is snow white, and as far as anyone knows, always has been. Her movements are slow, sometimes a little labored, but she has a knowing smile, and a compelling grin. Her gravelly laugh is downright contagious, and her red eyes sparkle with that wonderful combination of intelligence and humor. Never a squirrel to prattle on just to hear herself chatter, she does, however, sometimes say things that seem a little odd. But later, sometimes much later, the meaning of her words suddenly becomes clear to those who are willing to give it some thought.
“Exactly how old do you think Mrs. Such is?” Nutmeg questioned as she set the Leaf she was reading on her lap. “You know, I can’t even guess,” said Hazel. “But I somehow think she’ll still be around even after we are all gone. Strange, isn’t it? Mrs. Fidgets says she remembers being told by her parents that she was not to pester Mrs. Such at home unless she saw her feet!”
Mrs. Such lived in the hollow of a giant sycamore tree. Although her nest was quite low to the ground, the surrounding branches were dense and leafy enough to provide the essential protective camouflage. She liked to sit out in front of the hollow, gently rocking on her favorite bough, nestled in among the foliage and hidden from view, all except for her feet, which somehow always managed to be visible through the screen of leaves.
Hazel grinned. “We all knew Mrs. Such was available and welcoming young visitors when we could see those feet below the leaves! It was definitely one of my favorite places to hang out.”
“She called us ‘the peanut gallery,’ remember? I guess because we were so small. Mrs. Such would tell the most amazing stories about the Boxels,” said Nutmeg. “At least, they seemed pretty amazing back then. Now, I think I would believe anything where Boxels are concerned!”
“My favorites were the stories about the world long ago, when there were very few Boxels around.”
When Mrs. Such told those tales, there would always be some in her audience, and Hazel had to admit that she was occasionally in that group, who looked at the storyteller with narrow-eyed disbelief, simply unable to imagine the way things were so long ago, without Boxels and Box Houses. Hazel had always been one of the first to ask probing questions, but oddly, Mrs. Such seemed to like that, and even appeared to encourage it.
Hazel still loved to listen when Mrs. Such described that time long past, a Boxel-less place where, on clear summer nights before the moonrise, the heavens would glitter with thousands of tiny twinkling stars. “But no more,” Mrs. Such would sigh. “Not since the Boxels came and began building more and more Box Houses and such, using all of those nightlights so that the evening sky is never really dark anymore. Now the sky always has such an orange glow from those lights, making it impossible to see any but the very brightest of stars.”
“Those were definitely among her favorite stories to tell,” remembered Nutmeg. “I think she had great fun seeing the utter astonishment on our faces when she explained about how things were before the Boxel Apartments and Big Box Food Stores east of Cherry Bridge
“You’re probably right.” Hazel agreed. “Still, she has a special way of drawing you into the story, that’s for sure, even when you’re older. ‘Such a shame when that happened!’” Hazel imitated Mrs. Such’s raspy voice and unique delivery. “‘The air used to be much clearer before the Boxels took down so many trees. And the summers seemed not so humid then as they are now because there used to be such a wonderful canopy of tulip poplars and oaks and sycamore trees to keep us cool. The RBs were a little bit easier to evade then, too, because they couldn’t travel as fast when the Dodgeway was dirt and cinders instead of the hard black path it is now.’”
“Mrs. Such sure could make you feel like you were actually there.” Nutmeg added. “And I remember the first time she told us all about the Great Yard across the Dodgeway on the other side of our fence. It seemed so mysterious back then, because we could see it from the treetops, but we weren’t allowed to go over there yet. She said that although it looked a bit like the town park, except for all those curious rows of standing stones, the Great Yard was actually a place where the Boxels buried their dead. I never would have guessed! ‘In boxes of course.’ she’d say. Mrs. Such had certainly seen it happen many times over the years.”
“For sure!” Hazel continued, “’Such a great number of Boxels everywhere today!’ she would say. ‘Boxels who live in boxes, travel in boxes, work in boxes, play in boxes. And they certainly build enough Boxes, large and small, everywhere, don’t they? There are Boxes upon Boxes in every sector of the city! Why, it amuses me that some Boxels even keep their RBs in a box attached to their Box House! A Box inside a Box attached to a Box!’ And then she’d laugh that special laugh, and we couldn’t help but laugh with her.”
“And once we were all relaxed and eager for more,” Nutmeg continued, “She would suddenly become very serious, turning her great white head slowly, dramatically, as she made sure to look each one of us directly in the eye, and she’d say in her most somber tone: ‘They also make smaller Boxes and mount them on Boxel buildings or poles to hold wires and other metal bits. And some of these can be quite hazardous.’”
“’BUT, LISTEN WELL!’” Hazel shouted the words, just as Mrs. Such always did at this point in the story, and Nutmeg jumped, just as she always did back when she was young. “’You must absolutely stay away from the Boxes they put near the top of certain of the light poles!’” Hazel intoned, so wrapped up in the tale at this point that she didn’t even notice that her sister had flinched. “’The high wires connecting these light poles are treacherous enough, but those Pole Boxes have very dangerous wires attached and must be completely avoided!’”
“And then,” laughed Nutmeg, “Mrs. Such would just wait, silently blinking, because she knew someone’s curiosity would finally win out and they would ask, usually in a teeny-tiny voice, ‘Why?’”
“And Mrs. Such would answer very gravely,” said Hazel, “‘Because the Pole Boxes have very mysterious powers. They command the Boxel’s all-night-long lights, and they are most unsafe for squirrels.’ And when we were sitting there feeling all solemn and somber, Mrs. Such would crack a big, wide smile. Then she would simply shrug.” Hazel shrugged her shoulders, bending her elbows and raising her paws in imitation of the elderly squirrel as she continued, “And she would casually admit, as if she hadn’t just scared us all half to death, ‘But at least they are easier to keep away from than the RBs, since the Pole Boxes do stay put on the light pole and don’t come speeding out of nowhere, aiming straight for you!’”
“Yeah.” Nutmeg finished, “And the picture she painted in your mind of that speeding Pole Box made you want to laugh, even though the thought of a galloping, spark-spewing squirrel hazard shouldn’t have been funny!”
Hazel laughed, “But it was very effective. We all remember her Tales. And I think we always will.”
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