editor

I got this e-mail a long time ago.  Since we’ve had our own Possum Adventures, it makes me laugh … a lot.  I can just see this happening.  And I laugh some more.  I have no idea who wrote it – I’d love to give them credit or, delete the post and link to the correct authors website.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
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Now, I live in the woods and, by definition, I’m surrounded by trees.  Yet, for some unknown reason, the only lumber yard within 100 miles of my house is located in the industrial district of downtown Newport News. My wife, Helga, also being a person of rural descent, is very apprehensive about the inner city. Understandably, she insists that I make my journey during periods of extreme daylight. So, one morning early last month, I set off on my most recent expedition.

For those of you who have never had the good fortune of visiting Waterfront Lumber, it is a vast stockpile of extraordinary wood. The sheds are jammed with seasoned lumber of every variety and I’m always surprised at what I find. Being a regular customer, I parked the station wagon in front of the oak shed and made my way to the front office. A quick nod to the manager, and a young apprentice was sent to help me load and tally the booty.

As I said, the contents of the wood barn never fail to surprise me…

The young boy slid back the shed door to reveal the much anticipated stack of rough oak.  Of course, what neither of us had expected to find was the enormous, furry, bug-eyed possum that was sitting like a cherry on top. I turned to the apprentice, hoping to comment on our circumstances, but found nothing but a dropped tape measure and a dust trail.

Now, where I come from possums are a regular and equally unwelcome occurrence. In fact, the last one that dared to encroach on Helga’s territory was batted over the back fence with a broom stick. She takes no prisoners. Unfortunately, she wasn’t with me and most of my dealings with possums had transpired through a windshield.  I decided to follow the boy’s lead.

Upon arriving back at the office, I caught my breath while the young man painted a disturbingly accurate picture of the beast… describing him as a ‘greazy, red-eyed fiend’. I nodded in concurrence… he was greazzzy. The yard foreman, a renowned naturalist, set his jaw and delved into the closet looking for the right tool for the job… something heavy.  He emerged with a broom. I should have known, this was the expert’s tool of choice.

We promptly departed the office and marched lock-step to the frontlines, emptying a 50 gallon drum of rainwater along the way. In a raspy whisper, the foreman began to reveal his plan of attack. He would throw open the shed and give the animal a good shove, whereupon one of us would catch it in the drum where it could be ‘disposed of’ at our leisure.  Needless to say, no one was volunteering for the second part.

As it happens, though, when we rounded the corner it became clear that we would be spared this trial. Elvis had left the building.  He was now, instead, sitting comfortably in the front seat of my wife’s station wagon. I resolved that Helga must never know about this as I watched the ‘greazy-eyed fiend’ glare at me over the steering wheel. As they say, the ‘great circle of life’ was now complete.

I took the broom stick and moved forward, intent on putting mankind back in the driver’s seat. The foreman grabbed the drum and moved to the passenger’s side door. We threw the doors open in unison and with one tremendous thrust, I lunged at the beast. It was in that precise moment that I realized the flaw in our planning. This was no ordinary animal. He was a city possum: streetwise and crafty. He latched on to the broom and quickly reinforced his grip by wrapping a prehensile tail around the broomstick. I jumped back with the broom (and the possum) in tow.

Now, on the upside, the possum was out of the car… unfortunately, I was now the proud owner of 20 pounds of hissing meat at the end of a four foot stick. The spectators backed away quickly, choosing to watch the negotiations from a distance. They were brief. For those of you who have never tried something like this, I recommend that you get in shape first. After running around the car twice, I tripped over the 50 gallon drum and we tumbled to the ground. I landed with a thud, his landing was reminiscent of a grocery bag full of wet newspaper. The time had come for a deal. As I lay there, face to face with the angry possum, we reached an understanding… He would amble back to HIS oak pile, and I would purchase a load of walnut instead.

Hours later, as I sat at the gas station washing the stains out of my wife’s upholstery, I realize that she had been right. The inner city really was a dangerous place. I beat a hasty path back to Seaford… home of the country possum.