Ever seen an opossum run at night? It’s about as entertaining as being an eyewitness to a likkered up moonshiner, buck dancing on the back of a moving ‘bacca trailer. They certainly wouldn’t win the Arthur Murray salsa competition over at the VFW spring fling. However, they might eat the leftover nachos if placed in a garbage bag on the service porch. Being almost blind and half deaf, they don’t navigate well under the cover of darkness or, well, anytime.

They resemble a matted Wobble Wag Giggle Ball with sharp teeth and a personality only a hyena can appreciate. I truly believe, if pitted against “Hercules”, the Mastiff in the movie, ”The Sand Lot”, the opossum would win the fight. Heaven forbid you corner one in a crawl space. That sucker will be in no mood to negotiate a peace treaty. Either he dies, or you do. If you emerge victorious, be sure to reassess your blessings ‘cause you just cashed one in.

Some people think opossums are cute, furry, and have a toothy smile only a mother could love. Their skinny, hairless tails would garner them no favors in the Junior League beauty contest but it’s quite handy for hanging from tree limbs, an appendage most five-year-olds would love to have. As a marsupial, its precious how they harbor their little dumplins’ in a pouch, much like a toddler would guard a bag full of Toy Story dolls.

In reality, opossums are mean as the devil himself. They’ve been known to eat cats, which I suppose is not a bad thing. They also eat ticks. When threatened, they have a personality which falls somewhere between a feral hog on meth and a pre-schooler who’s been told he must eat the fruit cup side instead of fries. Just dreadful. If you’ve ever been witness to an opossum feigning death, it’s a hoot to watch but a memory you’ll soon want to forget. My mama always said, “nuthin’ good ever happens after midnight”. Being a nocturnal opportunist, after midnight is when these creatures excel. Trash cans beware and, for Heaven’s sakes, lock your doggie door lest you must call 911 to eradicate an unwanted intruder.

All in all, I guess we can coexist, one with the other. Like two competing board spinners advertising furniture stores on the brink of bankruptcy, I’ll stay on my street corner and he, on his.  I’ll be more mindful not to leave table scraps on the service porch. I’ve grown weary of retrieving morsels of spoiled chicken, decaying vegetables, and other unmentionable toiletry products from my bushes. And to you, ol’ possum, please do not squat in my crawlspace anymore as there is no vacancy for vermin such as yourself. Carry on my wayward scavenger of the night and stop loafing on the highway. As ugly as you are on the outside, your innards are equally as displeasing.

My father-in-law, who passed away in 2017, would’ve been 81 years old today. As I marinate on his life, I retreated to the archives of my journal and found this entry regarding a few thoughts surrounding the day we laid to rest, Tom Wilson, one of the greatest men I ever knew.

To most, this photo may seem like a benign climb along a path shrouded by Rhododendrons and White Pines. To dreamers, a simple question may arise. Where does the path lead? For goal setters, where does it end? For the pragmatic minded, why is it here and what’s its purpose? And, for the imaginative amongst us, we create characters in our minds of mythical creatures formed from the silhouettes of tree limbs and the sounds of critters moving about.

This path actually represents a journey of a thousand tales.

A journey of many families who have walked this old fire road for decades. The effort put forth, never so in vane. The reward realized, never disappointing. The sense of peace, never hard to find. It’s a path which leads to inspiring mountain vistas where silence is sought and rest is assured.

A thousand tales told by dozens of families fills a guest book that reads like a Hemingway novel. The adventure, romance, wildness, and spiritual connection to God’s creation is a common theme that runs through this land at Cherry Lane Farm in Sparta, NC. However, on this day, this climb was of a more somber tone.

Today, we buried the ashes of Tom Wilson, husband of Alice Wilson. His ashes were placed in a small, nondescript White Oak box made by a local mountain carpenter, and nestled carefully and peacefully into a small grave, dug by human hands, hands of those who loved and cherished Tom. As Genesis testifies, we were formed from the dust of the ground and true to scripture, Tom returned to the ground as dust today. But, we rejoice as his body has now been made whole in Heaven.

As I reflect on those faithful friends and loving family climbing that hill today to Tom’s internment, I wonder if I’ve lived a life worthy of that climb? Will I be loved such that those who dream will rejoice in the journey to where my life’s path had lead? Will the goal setters be encouraged and pleased with where my path had ended? Will the pragmatic minded understand what my purpose was and why it was so important? And, will the imaginative see the creativity of life in me they so hoped for?

Only time will bear out who will make a similar climb on my behalf. However, the path I will walk will not be one paved with conviction of who I want people to think I am, but by who God has created me to be. Upon that path, I will stake my life and upon that hill, I will rejoice with Tom in Heaven one day.

As a middle school kid, I burned through several college ruled, spiral bound notebooks writing these dreadful sentences. It was my own fault, I suppose. My teachers insisted scribble was unacceptable which made this monotonous task of mid-evil torture even more effective as a means to cease and desist my wayward classroom behavior.

Even worse, was the public shame that oozed from my hand as I would write these same six prophetic words on the chalkboard while my “friends” snickered behind me. Because the school principles and P.E. coaches of my day carried big wooden paddles and were well trained in guerrilla warfare, this little exercise usually was the medicine that cured my mischievous ways.

I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits.

It’s a crying shame public humiliation and corporal punishment are no longer accepted by the Helicopter Moms and Dads of America as a means of reinforcing proper manners and respect for those in authority. I raise my #2 pencil to all my educator friends and ol’ ball coaches who serve in the land of behavioral misfits. Although pens and paddles may not be the swords of justice they once were, perhaps they should be.

Or, as an alternative, those of us who gave birth to these precious dumplings who lurk through the hallways of our institutions of learning, we could begin holding our own more accountable when they misstep, allow them to feel the consequences when they misjudge, encourage them to take responsibility for their behavior when they’re misdirected, and stop handing out trophies for doing little at all. I’m afraid if we don’t, our altricious offspring will live on the perpetual chalkboard of life writing the words, “I will not…” after every poor decision they make because they knew no better.