avatarCarrie Wexford

Summarize

The Night of the Squirrels

A moonlit picnic goes awry.

Photo by Alex Dudar on Unsplash

The year was 1952. It was the kind of pleasant summer evening that made you want to load a picnic basket in your Oldsmobile and drive over to a nearby city park.

So my grandparents did.

My grandmother was wearing a pearl necklace, a nifty little cream cardigan over a crisp white blouse that nipped in at her waist, a full skirt, stockings, and high heels.

There she was, sitting on a red plaid blanket on the shadowy grass in this Grace Kelly-style outfit.

My grandfather was similarly overdressed in a suit and tie, for he had just come home from work.

She smiled as she watched him open the wicker basket. “I made almonds,” she whispered slyly.

“You did?” he exclaimed.

Candied almonds, roasted with butter, sugar, and cinnamon. A special family recipe.

She recited the rest of their supper. “Potato salad, stuffed olives, and grilled cheese sandwiches.”

It would be a feast to remember.

He handed her a sandwich. “Are you saving the almonds for dessert?”

“No, you can have them now, if you like.” She tilted back her head. “Look at all the stars!”

She could barely see his face in the moonlight. She heard him making loud, crunching noises.

He lowered his fistful of almonds. He detected something moving in the distance.

She took a bite of her sandwich. “What are you looking at?”

“I don’t know,” he said uneasily.

Suddenly he leaped to his feet.

A furry creature skidded across the blanket and froze an arm’s length away from them.

She laughed. “Aw, it’s just a squirrel.”

She found an almond her husband had dropped. She held the morsel out to their visitor. “Here, you want to try one?”

My grandfather was aghast. “Don’t touch it! It’s a wild animal!”

The squirrel edged closer, seized the almond from her fingers, and skittered off into the night.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she said, amused.

Her husband leaned forward, straining to see deeper into the meadow. He felt in his jacket pocket for his cigarette lighter.

He clicked it open and raised the flame.

To his astonishment, a hundred pairs of eyes glistened in the murky distance.

He took a step closer…then another…

He halted.

Twenty paces away awaited an army of squirrels.

The small, muscular beasts sat a stone’s throw apart from each other. If a large chessboard had been painted on the grass, the squirrels would have occupied one square apiece.

They faced him with defiance. They were motionless, except for a few who lifted their faces and sniffed the air.

My grandfather stealthily retreated. He glanced down at his wife and pressed his index finger to his lips.

Mystified, she stood up. She saw him hastily packing their meal.

He snatched up the plaid blanket. He considered charging at the squirrels. That works with bears, right? he thought to himself.

He felt it was too risky. He shoved the blanket and the wicker basket under his arm.

“What —” she started to ask.

“Shh.” He rushed her down the narrow path to the parking lot as fast as her high heels would allow.

Behind them, he thought he heard the muted roar of thousands of blades of grass being trampled by tiny feet.

When he spotted the Oldsmobile, he did not waste time opening the trunk to put the picnic basket away. He handed the food to his wife along with his car keys. “Get in!”

While she unlocked her door, he waved his cigarette lighter in a big arc before him.

The little brutes had stalked them to the parking lot. They stared at him insolently and made eerie sounds.

He dashed around the car and threw himself into the driver’s seat.

He slammed his door shut — just as the first squirrel landed on the hood.

It slammed its paws on the windshield and complained at my grandparents.

More followed. Their mischievous faces swung about, examining the outside of the car.

“Is your window rolled up?” my grandfather yelled.

“Yes,” his wife replied.

“Where are the keys?”

“Erm…out there.” She pointed at the empty parking space beside them. “I dropped them.”

He made a strangled sound in his throat.

Their eyes shot upward. More cranky creatures bounced onto the convertible’s cloth roof. It would only be a matter of time before —

“I’ll get them,” he said bravely.

“No, wait.” She opened the wicker basket. Out came the jar of candied almonds.

She cranked her window down a few inches and threw a handful of almonds at the hood.

The entire squad of squirrels leaped upon the treats with ravenous glee. The car bounced under the weight of their many writhing bodies.

She cracked open her door, retrieved the keys from the ground, and jumped back into the car.

Her husband gunned the engine.

She put her hand on his arm. “Hold on…”

She cranked down her window and scattered the rest of the almonds on the ground.

The bushy-tailed horde abandoned the Oldsmobile. The little beasts rushed about, snatching up the candied nuts.

She called through her window, “Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

Her husband threw the Oldsmobile in reverse.

When they were safely on the road, she looked down at the jar.

“Oh. There’s one left. Do you want it?”

He shook his head hard. “Save it for the next picnic.”

More of my grandmother’s adventures:

Memoir
Nonfiction
Family
Squirrels
Carrie Wexford
Recommended from ReadMedium