Coon Dogs, Out Houses and Corn Cob Wine

The Possum Roast

By Gale Sparks

 

            Just before the end of my junior year of high school we were handed our registration papers to fill out our courses for the senior year. At the bottom of the page marked with an asterisk was an announcement that starting the following semester there was going to be an all boys cooking class available to all junior and senior boys.

            It was the first box I checked as I scrolled down the rest of the classes reluctantly checking the rest of the prerequisites I needed to graduate the following spring. I had been in love with Miss Stouffer since the first time I had laid eyes on her my sophomore year. She was beautiful, tiny, and brown eyed and I loved her, that was the long and short of it she was beautiful and I loved her.

            Junior year was winding down. I remember I was in my U.S. History class with Mr. Werling when the pink slip came walking in during the middle of class. The dreaded pink slip attached to a pretty girl that was posted in the office during her free period just to run pink slips to classes and get someone jerked from class to go to the office.

            The slip came wafting towards Mr. Werling’s desk. My eyes shifted to the right and the left, most of the boys in the classroom shifting theirs as well. All of us holding our collective breaths waiting to see whose name would be called. I quickly tried to rewind my mind. What could I have done this time?

            I scanned the classroom, nope, everybody else in the classroom were goodies, a sweat started to break out simply from the paranoia. I braced myself; I knew it was coming before Mr. Werling called my name. I almost felt a relief, in a way it broke the tension that was building inside of me as well as the rest of the class. Walking down the hall holding the slip in one hand and my books in the other, I couldn’t recall what I could have done.

            Mr. Geyers the boys’ guidance counselor was waiting in the doorway of his office as I walked into the office. We had been on a first name basis for nearly two years. He called me Sparks and I called him Mr. Geyers. Our close relationship began during my sophomore year. It was something to do with somebody narcing about me crawling out from under the stalls after locking them in the boys and girls restrooms.

            The counselor was waving me into his office as I stepped up to the secretary’s desk. I was hoping the only reason I was being called to the office was a message or something I was hoping that going to his office wasn’t the reason for the summons.

            He closed the door behind me as I sat down. I got a smirk on my face when I glanced up and watched him walking behind his desk. He reminded me of Tricky Dickey Nixon, except his ears were bigger, his neck shorter, he was heavier, and he was meaner. My smirk managed to disappear by the time he had taken his seat and stuck his quarter mooned reading glasses on.

            “ It was brought to my attention that you signed up for Miss Stouffer’s cooking class.”

            “Yeah?” was all I could say. I couldn’t figure out what me signing up for a class next year had to do with me being called to the office.

            “ The secretary that is filling the roster for everyone’s schedule is flagging all of the boys that sign up for Miss Stouffer’s class.”

            I looked up from the blotter for a nearby funeral home without saying a word.

            “You and I both know you have a reputation as a rebel, I think you ‘re a damn trouble maker.” He stared at me over his quarter moon reading glasses and through his bushy eyebrows.

            It seems like my reputation skyrocketed when I made an erotic sculpture of both genders in art class and incorporated a Trojan in my work. My art teacher was the first gay dude I had met, and an extremely liberal cool dude. He told me personally he didn’t see anything wrong with my work, and considered my abandoned freedom of expression as creative, and also was quick to tell me it wasn’t him that had raised hell about my artwork. I wasn’t sure but I thought it was probably one of the anal girls that grasped like they had never seen a rubber before when I set my sculpture in front of the class for a critique.

            “I have to tell you that my first reaction was to turn you down for this experimental cooking class.” He continued,  “ I thought about it last night, I decided to give you a chance. But, if you screw up you will be bounced fro the class and get a zero for that credit. You and I both know that you need every credit you can get just to graduate.”

            I opened my mouth to object…he threw his hand up for me to shut it, while he continued. “ Those are my terms, you get to cook, you mess up the class and you’re out.” He got up and opened the door; I walked out without getting to say a word.

 

*****

 

 

            That summer flew by without another thought of Miss Stouffer or her cooking class. September rolled around quickly; in homeroom we received our schedules for the fall semester. My hands started shaking in anticipation when I realized my cooking class was fourth period, the class just before.

            I remembered the previous year when I smelled the all of the fantastic meals being cooked in the home ec classroom and seeing the lucky girls sitting around the tables eating. I remembered how I had to sit in the lunchroom looking at my rubber fish sticks wondering what they were eating in the Miss Stouffer’s class.

            Now it was going to be me in the class before lunch with the cute little teacher. Thank God this was only the first day of school and most of the teachers were preaching their thesis for the semester, it was going in one ear and out the other. For the first three periods all I could concentrate on was my sweaty palms and the clock that slowly crept towards 11:00 A.M. and the start of my fourth period class with the prettiest teacher in the entire school.

            When the bell finally rang at the end of the third period I ran down the stairs from my English class, stuffed my books in my locker and double-timed it into the kitchen. I grabbed a stool at the counter nearest to Miss Stouffer’s desk as possible and looked around, there were a couple of other guys in the room. Nobody I really knew, I came into the class wearing my best, the bell bottoms with the ‘shroom appliqués, my superman shirt, and denim work hat that had been confiscated twice by teachers checking to see if I had a joint tucked inside.

            Just before the tardy bell rang one of my toking buddies slipped in and sat down, I exhaled a sigh of relief when I saw Brad come in the door. Every other boy in the class was the oxford shirt, penny loafer bunch, and Brad slipped through the cracks somewhere in between. He wore his hair long, played in a band and was one of the straightest looking freaks I knew, he was also one of my regular hunting buddies. What a relief when Brad came over and sat on the stool next to me, I sat there resting my chin on my notebook daydreaming about Miss Stouffer. She sat at her desk going over her grade book, glancing up as each boy entered her classroom, almost as if she was sizing each one up before they took their seat.

            After the tardy bell rang Miss Stouffer stood, “ This class was my idea, I had to convince Mr. Geyers that this was something the boys in this school needed.” She paused as she glanced around the counters boy by boy; her nervousness was obvious as she continued. “It is up to you if this class will continue, or whether Mr. Geyers decides this is the first and last class for boys in home ec.”

            I stared down at my notebook as she talked, I felt like she was talking directly to me. My face flushed when I thought of her in the teachers’ lounge talking among the other teachers and undoubtedly the subject of my erotic artwork had to have came up.

I never really felt like I looked for trouble it seemed to always find me. Well, except for the restroom incident, that was a dare, and everyone knew my reputation, I never turned down a dare in my life.

            Miss Stouffer continued, “ I realize that many of you probably have never been near a stove and probably don’t know how to even turn one on. Today we are going to start by simply boiling water.”

            Then the lady of my dreams asked us to step over to the cook stoves and open the cabinet doors to the right of each stove, take out a two quart sauce pan and fill them with water, then place it on the stove. We were divided to three students per stove, as I glanced around I realized that every other stove was either gas or electric. Miss Stouffer walked from stove to stove reopening a cabinet door at random and taking out a lid that matched the saucepan and covering it.

            As she strolled among us, she remarked. “Our first lesson is going to be learning how more efficient it is to cover the pan,” she paused, “you are also going to learn not to leave the pan.”

            These words seemed to no sooner leave her mouth than we head the hissing from the stove behind us as the water boiled over behind her. Very dramatic, I thought, what timing.

            As the days turned into weeks we learned to fry eggs, scrambled, as well as over easy. We were taught the basics of the science involved in baking a cake along with how to bake a cake from a mix as well as from scratch. By now it became apparent that some of us were inclined to bake while others were more efficient at entrees and side dishes.

            By the middle part of October we seemed to have mastered many of the basics and had the ability to prepare a simple but complete meal. I remember it well, it was Friday, and I couldn’t wait for the weekend. We had just had a hard frost; it was towards the end of the class as we loaded the dishwashers.

 Miss Stouffer called us to her attention, and my affection for her grew by leaps and bounds as she asked, “Boys? How many of you are hunters?”

            Brad and I noticed we were the only two in the entire class to raise our hands, as we looked around, we didn’t know if it was a good thing or not. We were out numbered something like sixteen to two.

            Finally, Miss Stouffer spoke and my affection for her soared even higher, “I know that some hunting seasons will be opening soon and I just bought this cook book that has nearly every recipe for any wild game you can imagine. When you go hunting if you think you will want to learn to cook any game bring it and we will find a recipe.”

            The class ended for the day, and the rest of my classes were shot. I spent the last three periods daydreaming of taking Miss Stouffer hunting with me. When the final bell rang, and I had resolved to myself I would show Miss Stouffer my mighty prowess as a hunter.

 I walked across the parking lot to my old truck, I decided that as soon as I got home I was going to grab my rifle and head to the woods, squirrel season was still in and I thought that possibly the way to my teachers heart and attention was with a fine bouquet of fresh fox squirrels.

            When I got home I tossed my books on my bed, and grabbed my .22 out of the closet, I hollered to whoever was home and in listening range that I was going hunting for school, and hit the door.

            I slipped into the woods quietly and eased up and leaned against a tree, to let the woods settle down. While I stood there resting, waiting for the blue jays to knock off their racket, a squirrel tried to sneak undetected from one tree branch to another. The slight rustle of the leaves caught my attention and I stared intently at the branch until I finally made out the critter flattened out on the branch lying perfectly still.

            Resting my rifle on a tree branch in front of me I drew aim and squeezed the trigger, I watched in shock as the shot only barked the varmint. I watched in disappointment as the shot peeled the bark from the limb the squirrel was resting on right beneath him. He jumped onto the trunk of the tree, turned looking down at me cussing and screaming letting the entire woods know there was a gun in the woods.

 It goes without saying that nothing was to be found the rest of the afternoon, I dejectedly walked back to the truck. The thought of taking Miss Stouffer a bouquet of fox squirrel tails dashed by one big mouth in the small scope of woods.

            I quickly bolstered my ego with the fact that the next weekend was the opening of rabbit season as well as coon season. I hadn’t told anyone in class about my plan to present Miss Stouffer with a mess of fresh squirrels. So no one had the opportunity to rub it in.

            During the following week all I could anticipate was the opening of rabbit season. I knew from growing up on rabbit and squirrel, that rabbit was tender and required less time to cook, which I decided would help out a lot in the preparation during class. Friday night finally came. I couldn’t wait for Saturday morning the only thing on my mind was fresh meat for Miss Stouffer’s class the following Monday.

            Near the end of the class that Friday I asked if I could look through her wild cookbook, I thought she actually seemed thrilled that one of us had asked to study her new book. She picked it up from her desk and carried it over to the counter where I sat. When she bent slightly to sit the book down her hair was inches from my nose, the fragrance of her freshly shampooed hair caused me to momentarily fade out.

            “What is it you are interested in hon.?” she asked, bringing me back to earth.

            I sat there dazed for a moment; I had lost any trace of memory for what seemed like an eternity, finally realizing it was me, me that Miss Stouffer had called hon! I regained control of myself and recalled what I wanted to look for.

            “Rabbit!” I suddenly blurted.

            As I was trying to regain my composure, she appeared to ignore the outburst and turned to the pages that were recipes specifically for rabbit. As we both looked through the recipe book I had a hard time concentrating on the pages as the smell of my teacher seemed to intoxicate me. Finally I saw something I recognized on the next to the last page of the rabbit section, Rabbit Fricassee, that was it. I knew it as soon as I saw it.

Consciously, I knew the only reason I had picked the recipe was I had heard that said a hundred times on the “Bugs Bunny Cartoons” and that it was Elmer’s preferred recipe for rabbit. While I was still high from Miss Stouffer’s fragrance, I decided if it was good enough for Elmer it was good enough for me.

I was ready for bed early that Friday night, I couldn’t wait to get up early the next morning, and follow our beagles through the tickets chasing rabbits. I was so intent on the hunt the next morning that I turned down the chance to go to Artie Bringham’s kegger party.

To turn down the invitation to one of his parties was unheard of, the only time Artie ever threw a party was when his parents were out of town. Now I didn’t do it but the last time Artie had a party there was so much smoke around Artie’s momma’s Macaw got stoned, I remembered seeing him swaying on his perch while the whole house rocked to Uriah Heep!

Sleep didn’t come easy that night as I dreamt of Miss Stouffer in a pair of skintight Levi’s, hunting boots, and a black and red plaid flannel shirt. She held her shotgun at the ready as we walked the edge of the railroad tracks ready for a rabbit bust out of the brush at any second. In my dream I was following her watching her cute tail wiggle instead of watching for the rabbits.

 

 

*****

 

           

            Rabbit Fricassee
2 cups red wine
2 tbs. lemon juice
2 bay leaves
1 tsp. thyme
¼ tsp. marjoram
Salt and Pepper
1 tsp. garlic powder
2 rabbits, cut into serving pieces
2 tbs. olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
2 tbs. cornstarch

Mix wine, lemon juice, bay leaves, thyme, marjoram, salt, pepper and garlic powder to make marinade.  Place rabbit in large baking dish and pour marinade over rabbit. 
Cover and refrigerate overnight.  Remove rabbit from marinade when ready to cook and dry well.  Strain marinade and save.
 Heat oil in a large skillet.  Sauté onions and garlic. 
Cover and simmer 1-1 ½ hours or until tender.  Servings: 6-8

 

           

 

            Monday morning I jumped out of bed before the alarm sounded. I washed my face, frizzed my ‘fro, then grabbed a biscuit and hit the door. Lying on the seat next to me and my books laid a half a dozen dressed and frozen rabbits. I guess I felt the way somebody’s cat must feel when it walks up to the breakfast table in the morning and drops a dead mouse at everyone’s feet.

I couldn’t wait to walk into Miss Stouffer’s room and lay the rabbits on the kitchen counter and see if she would pat my head and say, “What a good boy!”

 

It felt like it took an hour to drive to school rather than the usual thirty minutes. I felt all numb and nervous as I finally pulled into the parking lot and parked the truck.            Miss Stouffer’s room was the first door to the left as soon as you stepped inside the school from the student’s parking area. In a way this was a kind of relief.

Even though my heart belonged to Miss Stouffer, I knew that realistically I had to keep my options open. I didn’t need any of the squeamish girls walking around in the halls before the homeroom bell screaming and carrying on as I walked through the door with a Wonder Bread sack full of dead rabbits.

Although I thought I was early that morning Miss Stouffer was seated at her desk glancing through the latest Good Housekeeping magazine. She looked up when she heard me walking across the floor.

“Did you hunt over the week end?”

“Yes.. ma’am.” I stammered.

“Well?”
            “Well ma’am?”

“What did you bring in? Is the rabbits for us to fricassee?”

My God, she smiled with anticipation, her eyes beamed with sparks of light I had never seen at that time of the morning from anybody. My heart, I couldn’t feel it. I stood there quivering like the mess of rabbit livers I had left laying on the newspaper during the weekend. I held the bread sack up to show her, and finally, I felt my heart, it was still working after all.

Suddenly I heard her talking again “ I was counting on you bringing something in for us, you saw the recipe and that it calls for wine?” My heart sank. “ I had to talk to Mr. Geyers to keep myself from getting into trouble for bringing alcohol onto school property.”

I felt my knees start to weaken at her mere mention of the boys’ guidance counselors name.

She smiled and looked down almost in a form of embarrassment as she continued, “You know you aren’t one of Mr. Geyers favorite students, don’t you.”

My throat had already seized up I couldn’t manage a croak. I simply nodded; I knew if Geyer had it in for any boy in the entire school it was me. My head dropped as she started to continue.

“Mr. Geyer said that during the summer of your sophomore year there was an incident?”

I felt an embarrassing sweat pop out over my forehead and a single bead ran down my back. I knew that Geyer was bound to torpedo the rabbit fricassee just because it had my name tied to it. I swore he had never forgave me for the girls restroom fiasco, I really thought his vendetta had gone far enough.

 Miss Stouffer continued, “ It seems his main concern stems from the rumor about you being barred from the wrestling team? For drunken and lewd behavior?”

I couldn’t believe he had told her. My sophomore year, I has been a starter on the varsity wrestling team. The wrestling coach was a huge man and a strict disciplinarian that insisted that we carry the name of wrestler with respect year around.

The summer in question, Stan Fox had thrown an end of the year party in his backyard and around his pool, over the Memorial Day weekend. The party was kind of impromptu, when Stan’s folks decided that they were going to take another couple up to their lake cottage. The Fox’s backyard was rocking and the slow gin, cheap wine and Pabst Blue Ribbon ran freely. Apparently I wasn’t able to handle Slow Gin Fizz to well.

After my sixth gin fizz Tracy Borden, and myself had convinced two of our classmates…Rita Ruth…and Stephanie Miller into diving in the pool and go skinny-dipping with us. Everything was fine and we were having a big time, this was the first party of the summer and it this point was shaping up to probably be the best of the season.

That was until Stan’s parents came home, apparently there was a thunderstorm up in the lake region that had knocked out the power all around the lake. They decided to come home and spend quality time with their son. The music was cranked up, and Tracy, Rita Ruth, Steph and I were dancing in the shallow end of the pool.

Mrs. Fox’s scream could be clearly heard over the Jethro Tull wailing “Locomotive Breath” over the stereo speakers. Our clothes were hanging on the bushes down at the deep end of the pool where we had tossed them as we dove off of the diving board.

All we knew at that moment in time our classmates had scattered like a covey of quail, diving over the chain link fences into neighbors backyards. Some dashed into the screened patio, ran through the house and out the front door. The four of us stood there naked, sober, in mid conga and shivering in front of Mr. and Mrs. Fox.

Stan was sitting in a folding chair totally ripped leaning back with the last remnants of a Pabst resting on the arm of the chair. By now the four of us were sober and embarrassed, Mr. Fox escorted Mrs. Fox inside. Returning with a stack of dry beach towels sat them down wordlessly at the end of the pool and returned to the house.

The Foxes were members of longstanding in the PTA and active in nearly all school-sanctioned functions that were affiliated with the football team. We slowly stepped out of the pool in my gentlemanly way I wrapped a towel around my waist and held up towel for each of the girls as they exited the water.

The following school year when Tracy and I reported to the first day of wrestling Coach Welton called us immediately to his office, we were told that do to our lewd drunken behavior last spring we were not what he considered wrestling team material.

I felt embarrassed at the thought of Miss Stouffer being told in detail about our mini conga line to the tune of “Locomotive Breath”.

Finally after what felt like an eternity she continued, “Mr. Geyers gave me permission to bring the wine to school, for cooking purposes only. After we use the wine in the recipe I have to return the bottle to Mr. Geyers with a line marking the cups of wine used. Now how many rabbits do we have?”

“Six,” I mumbled.

“Fine that will be enough for everyone. We will start making the marinade to soak the rabbits in during class.”

The following Tuesday, the rabbit fricassee was a huge success with everyone in the class. Secretly I told Brad that we were going to go coon hunting the next weekend. I had found a recipe for a roasted coon that sounded like a main dish for a feast.

 

*****

 

The next Friday after our lunch of pork chops, baked potatoes, and fried apples, Miss Stouffer stood after daintily dabbed the corners of her mouth with her cotton napkin and cleared her throat. We all looked up from our plates.

“Boys?” she spoke, “I have something I need to say, I have been bragging about your cooking skills and in two weeks, the Friday before Thanksgiving…Mr. Geyers, a couple of the coaches and several of the girls from the senior girls cooking class and a couple of the boys from the basketball and football team, are coming here for a meal prepared entirely by you.”

You could have heard a pin drop as we sat there stunned. The bell rang signaling it was time to head to our next class. I walked down the hall heading to my locker when it

dawned on me what she had just said. Two of the men I dreaded seeing more than Satan himself were coming to eat our Thanksgiving meal this us.

            I felt something ominous creeping through me at the thought of the upcoming meal we were going to have to prepare. The fact that the future of the cooking class may hinge on the man who thought I was the devil’s son could shut off my beloved’s pet project with one sorry bite put a fearful chill running through me.

 

****

 

            That night was the first night of coon season as the state always seemed to find fit they coincided the opening night with the first full moon of November. In their infinite wisdom they seemed to assume that if the first night of coon season was on a full moon the coon hunters would spend the night chasing their dogs that were chasing deer, possums, fox or coyotes.

            I always thought of this as the Wildlife Fish and Games little inside joke, I seriously thought that they considered the coon hunters a lowly bunch. My theory was that since we prowled at night following our quarry it caused the game wardens a tolerable amount of aggravation. They were often called out in the middle of the night to run down some unfortunate hunter whose dogs had treed in somebody’s yard or trespassed on someone’s property.

            Brad was meeting me at my house around 8:00. My plan was we get a couple of coon knocked out early dress them out stick them I the fridge. Once again I would impress my beautiful little teacher. I had got our carbide lanterns out and had already and filled the reservoir of the little canister with the carbide pellets and the water then carried them out on the back porch to get them lit up.

            For some reason everyone pitched a fit whenever I lit the lanterns in the house, just because every once in a while the lights would fart, the farts weren’t really that bad. They smelled what you would picture as the room in a miner’s shack in the middle of the winter and a half a dozen of them had been eating pinto beans for a week. As soon as I had the lanterns glowing constant I shut them off to conserve the gas and waited for Brad. He pulled in at 8:00 on the nose I had our dog tied to the tailgate of my truck waiting for him to show.

            I had decided during my supper that we would probably hunt down at my grandma’s farm. No one else would be hunting it; we would have the woods and river to ourselves. On our way down to the river we talked about how impressed Miss Stouffer was going to be when we brought a couple of fresh coon into class to roast.

            I had never confessed to anyone not even Brad about me secret crush on Miss Stouffer, for all he knew we were heading to the woods for a night of hunting and possibly scoring a few extra brownie points with her.

            While Brad was going on about the recipe we had found in the wild game cookbook for roasted coon. I was thinking back to the morning I had carried the rabbits into Miss Stouffer and the light in her eyes and the hope that I could see that light again with new meat, coon.

            On our way down the farm lane along the river a possum crossed in front of us. I caught my breath and said a quick and silent prayer that this wasn’t a sign of things to come and sped the truck up slightly hoping that my hound hadn’t had a chance to catch the whiff of possum as we passed the varmint.

            We turned Sue out right off of the tailgate of the truck, and I quickly hit the Zippo like strikers on the side of the lanterns and got our lights fired up. The lanterns had no sooner flamed on when Sue stuck a hot track and drove it a short ways into the woods and fell treed at the edge of the river about a hundred yards inside the woods.

            Brad couldn’t see it on my face but the sign of disappointment was written all over it, I knew that for a coon the track had ended to soon. I also knew that there was probably a slick tailed possum in the tree.

            We walked into the tree by walking along the river bank, as I thought as we walked in, I could see from a distance as we walked into the tree that Sue was treeing on was small and less than ten feet up I could see the green glowing eyes of a blasted possum grinning down at us. I walked on to the tree in silence. 

When we got to the tree Brad finally looked up into the small Hackberry tree,               “We gonna knock it out?”

“No”

“Why Not!”

             I looked at him and finally said, “ first I don’t want my dog to keep treeing these things, and second I really don’t want to carry a possum to cooking class.”

            I snapped Sue to the leash and drug her off of the tree and walked her a couple hundred yards deeper into the woods and cut her loose for another shot. We stood there quietly listening to the leaves and branches rustle and snap as Sue worked the woods over trying to pick up anther scent.

            A few minutes later Sue started tree barking directly behind us I knew she had slipped around behind us and started tree the possum all over again. I told Brad all she was going to do was keep treeing on the possum, we would be better off tossing her in the truck and going somewhere else.

            We went down the road back to my place and I took a quick left down an old farm lane a half of a mile down the dirt road we came to another fork in the river. We jumped out of the truck and turned Sue loose. I felt confident about this place there was corn still unpicked along the bank of the river.

            Soon we heard Sue running hard and fall treed, right at the edge of the field. From where we stood on the bank of the road I could see the eyes glowing green just above where Sue was barking. Brad was hopping around anxious to go to the tree.

            I walked around to the side of my truck and opened the door. I reluctantly pulled the burlap tote sack out from behind the seat and rejoined Brad on his side of the truck. He gave me a quizzical look as I nodded to him as I headed down off of the road down into the cornfield. We walked along the cornfield to the tree. Sue was treed on a small mulberry tree barking for all she was worth.

            I looked up and there sat two possums up the tree, one up in the left fork of the tree the other up in the right. I snapped a leash to Sue and lead her away and down the bank. I didn’t want her to see what we were doing or give her any more ideas.  I had known they were possums from the road when I saw the green eyes glowing instead of the red ones of a coon. I also was sure I had seen two pair of eyes instead of just one. I tossed the gunny sack to Brad and started climbing the tree.

            Before I began to climb I told Brad, “You catch’em when I toss’em out.”

            I began to crawl up the left fork of the tree taking my time as I trained my light on the possum that I was climbing after. When I was right under the grinner I carefully unwrapped his tail from the limb he was grasping and quickly jerked him loose from his perch.

            I quickly swung it out and away from me with my left hand while I carefully hung onto my branch with my right. I looked down as the possum dropped and couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There was Brad he had no intension of touching the live possum with his bare hands. There he stood holding the burlap bag open like he was holding the handles of a laundry basket and he was going to catch the falling possum in midair.

            I knew that wasn’t gonna work but I had already turned loose of the tail. As the possum began his descent, he clipped two branches and was knock off course from where Brad stood looking up with the open sack held nearly chest high. The possum cleared the branches and continued to free-fall hitting Brad across the arm and wrist, then quickly hitting the ground to make a hustled waddle away from Brad into the cornfield.

            Mad but holding my tongue I switched over to the other limb and began to focus on the other possum. I realized as soon as I looked at the other possum that he must have crawled higher after all of the commotion from the first possum fiasco. I stuck the finger of my glove on my left hand in my mouth and pulled it off, letting it fall to the ground.

            I had decided this one wasn’t going to get away, and I was going to need a better grip on that slick tail if was going to carry it backwards down the tree. I began to feel the thin and shaky limbs as I crawled higher into the tree. I finally decided I was as far up in the tree as I could climb; the limb my feet were planted on felt like it was at its limit.

            I reached as far up and ahead as I could reach, the only sign of luck was that this one’s tail was lying across the branch in my direction. I got a hold of the very end of its tail and with a little jerk I felt the possums grasp slip only the slightest enough for me to get a firm grip on its tail and jerk it down and away from the braches.

            The momentum of the backwards swing forced the limb I was standing on to bow even further, I stepped backwards and down with the movement and was lucky enough to find the next branch under my foot as it went down.

            It turned into quite a feat trying to come down out of the tree and snapping a shake of the possum’s tail as I climbed down. When I got around four feet from Brad and his gunny sack I got a firm grasp on the limb directly over my head and leaned out as far as I could with my possum hand and dropped the possum into the tote sack.

            I looked over my shoulder as I climbed out of the tree, Brad was dancing around the edge of the cornfield in some weird dance while he spun the bag in a circle trying to keep the top of the sack twisted shut. I could hear the possum growling and hissing as he held it out away from himself jigging and spinning.

            When I finally got back on solid ground I took the sack away from him and quickly tied a knot in the sack and told Brad to go down and get Sue while I headed to the truck with our blasted catch for the night. By the time Brad came out of the field with Sue I had already tossed the possum sack in the floorboards of the truck and was waiting for him at the tailgate of the truck.

            Sue was nearly dragging him up the bank when they got to the truck.

             “Where’s the possum?” he asked, out of breath.

            “On the floorboards.”

            “What! It’s riding up front with us?” 

            “Yeah you don’t think we’re gonna make sure it stays in the sack if we lay it in the bed of the truck do you?” I snapped, still a little mad about the first possum’s escape.

            We got home without any further attempts of a possum escape. This suited me just fine I was driving and if the possum had started to come out of the sack I knew Brad wasn’t going to be much help. I also knew that by now the possum was pretty ticked off and all I wanted was to get the blasted thing in our oil rabbit hutch. Then we could look in Miss Stouffer’s cookbook and see what we had to do when we were ready to prepare the critter.

            When we got home I walked around to the passenger side of the truck and grabbed the sack as soon as Brad jumped out. I walked around the side of the garage to the back yard, every time the burlap sack bumped my leg the possum would growl and hiss. I walked over to the rabbit hutch we had up against the back of the garage, I opened the door to the cage, and untied the top of the sack. I quickly lifted the bag and slung the possum out into the rabbit cage.

            The following Monday, I was anxious as well as nervous before cooking class I didn’t know what Miss Stouffer’s reaction would be to us cooking a possum. Somehow word had gotten to her before I got to class.

            When I walked through the door she said, “I heard you have something different to cook this week.”

            “We didn’t have any luck treeing a coon.”

            “I have already bookmarked the page on opossums in the cookbook,” she said. Then continued, “ When you and Brad said you were going coon hunting I was afraid this is what you would get.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Possum Roast

 

 

It is preferable to catch the possum alive, place the critter in a cage for a minimum of five days feeding it dried corn and apples to cleanse its system.

 

1 possum dressed

 

1 tsp cayenne pepper

 

2 tsp salt

 

1/4 tsp black pepper

 

1/8 tsp sage

 

4 large sweet potatoes, peeled and cut into 2 inch pieces

 

4 Granny Smith apples, peeled and cut into pieces

 

1 large onion, peeled and sliced

 

1/4 cup of brown sugar

 

1/2tsp ground cinnamon

 

1 cup of red wine

 

Place possum in a pot cover with cold water, add 1 tsp of cayenne pepper, bring to boil, simmer 1 hour

 

Remove and place in Dutch oven

 

Rub possum thoroughly with salt and black pepper

 

Add red wine

 

Surround with apples, sweet potatoes, and onions

 

Combine sugar and cinnamon, sprinkle over potatoes, apples, and onions.

 

Bake at 325 degrees for 2hrs. Transfer possum and potatoes, apples and onions on platter,

 

and serve.

           

I looked up at Miss Stouffer as I read the recipe, I read her thought before she asked the question, “Yes ma’am it’s still alive, and I have it in a rabbit cage behind the house.”

I looked dejected that I hadn’t brought Miss Stouffer a coon instead of a stinking old possum; I resumed my reading of the recipe. Then I realized why she had asked the question. The first paragraph of the recipe strongly suggested that the possum be captured alive, it went on to say that you should feed the possum a diet of apples and shelled corn for five days prior to slaughter.

I told Miss Stouffer that for the last two days it had been eating scraps from the table and that should be considered as the first day. Then I quickly promised her that I would pick up the corn and apples for the next three days and we would dress it Thursday evening.

Then was when Miss Stouffer dropped the bomb that had completely slipped my mind. She did a little mock jump in the air and clasped her hands, “That’s wonderful! It will be one of our entrées for the big dinner on Friday! Isn’t that wonderful timing?”

I could feel my knees start to quiver, besides Mr. Geyers, the wrestling coach and had disappointed when I was force to drop from the team after the restroom incident, and the Cheerleaders! Sandy Day in particular, the only other female type of crush I had at the time filled me with sheer terror.

I could quickly see my second expulsion on the horizon, as Miss Stouffer touched my shoulder. My already weak knees nearly buckled at the touch of the soft feminine hand reassuring me it was going to be alright.

“We won’t let them know what the main entrée is until after they had finished meal.” She whispered.

A second time my knees nearly let go when I felt the soft breeze of her whisper drift across my ear. I closed my eyes trying to savor the moment and could only stand there leaning against her desk with my hands on the open book using it for support. She walked to the front of the class as the rest of the boys filed in and took their seats.

Finally after I pretended that I was reading the recipe my legs finally found the strength to carry me to my stool. As I was taking my seat my love had finished taking the roll.

She stood in the middle of our simulated mini kitchens her hands clasped in a kind of praying position. The tips of her fore fingers touching her beautiful little lips and her eyes were close. I sat there my palms sweating my head fell to my chest as I stared at my spot in the floor in front of me waiting for her to begin talking. Brad he thought it was great, I could hear him snickering beside me.

Finally Miss Stouffer started to speak, “ Boys, I have a tremendous favor to ask of you all…we have had a change in the menu for our big dinner on Friday. I am asking you all to keep a very big secret…a couple of you got an opossum over the weekend. We are going to have it as one of the main entrees.” A gasp and hush fell over the room. 

Miss Stouffer waited a few seconds for the squeaking stools to cease before she continued, finally, she said. “What I am asking of you is a little unusual but…I want all of you to keep this a total secret until everyone who is dining with us has tasted the opossum.”

I had no idea how this was going to happen, there were so many dorks in here that would try to use the secret for leverage just to get close to the girls or suck up to their coaches. I expected to have my tail back in Geyers’ office everyday of school and never let my guard down until the final bell rang on the end of Thursday afternoon.

 

*****

 

Brad was right behind me as I drove home, to me skinning the possum wasn’t a big deal just another chore. When we got out at my house Brad was all jumpy to me the killing part of the end was the anti climactic part of any hunt it was a kind of finality. Brad went around to the back of the house, while I went in and got the .22 pistol and an apple. I ‘m not going any further into the dispatch except it was painless and the possum died happy. We dressed him and I carried him inside and placed the meat in a pan of salted water in the refrigerator over night.  

That night I didn’t sleep all I could thin of was the next morning, it wasn’t just the anxiety, it was the fact that I knew that since this was something entirely different from anything we had cooked before Miss Stouffer would be hovering around me during the preparation as well as the cooking itself. I half dreamt in my semi sleep of Miss Stouffer in her frilly little apron and tight tweed skirt bent over the roasting pan checking on a charred possum.

Before I knew what had happened the alarm went off for me to face the day, the day we roast the possum. This would be the first time I had seen Mr. Geyers since we had the meeting in his office over this very class, the class where I was going to feed him. I was going to feed him a possum.

Once again the mixed emotions were wrecking havoc on my nerves. Miss Stouffer had written me, and just me a pass to ditch first period and possibly my third period class to prepare and begin roasting our possum. This alone time just my teacher and me was something I had dreamt about. But thinking of Geyers sitting at the table eating with me, a couple of hours after my fantasy flopped a wet blanket over the dream scenario.

I left for school early, I had arranged with Miss Stouffer for her to meet me early and we would get the possum started with it’s par boil in the cayenne pepper and sage. She would remove it from the pot and have it drained and ready for me to finish. Second period came faster than I expected, I don’t know if it was the sleepless night and I slept through the class or it was simply my mind playing out the following three hours. Either way I walked into my History class and handed the slip to Dr.Woodard my pass and went to the home ec. room.

When I got to the room Miss Stouffer was standing there in her frilly apron a denim skirt and a tight print blouse was behind the apron. My thought of Mr. Geyers vanished as soon as I saw her standing with the refrigerator door open, smiling at me over the top of the door as I walked in.

I stepped over to her desk where the cookbook lay open, she said, “start getting all of the seasonings we are going to need and set them on the counter, I’ll begin peeling the sweet potatoes and the apples.”

I walked over to the cabinet where she stored all of her seasonings, and got out the salt, black pepper and cinnamon. After I had then spread on the counter, she asked me to peel and slice the onions. I told her I hadn’t found the brown sugar, trying to stall the onion encounter as long as possible. With her paring knife in hand she pointed to the cabinet under the counter directly below where the seasonings were kept.

I bent down and found the plastic canister of brown sugar on the top shelf sitting in front a canister of flour and white sugar. I took the brown sugar and sat it with the other dry ingredients and walked over to the fridge and got a large onion from the bottom drawer. I carried the onion over to the sink and pulled a cutting board from a cabinet next to the sink.

I glanced over to my left and Miss Stouffer was nearly finished peeling the apples, and the sweet potatoes, letting the peels fall into the garbage disposal with ease. I on the other hand was crying like a baby as onion peels hit everywhere in the sink but the disposal. I tried to casually wipe my eyes across the shoulders of my flannel shirt attempting to not be too obvious. Through my blurry eyes I could see her glancing over at me checking my progress on chopping the onion.

When I had finished chopping the onions, Miss Stouffer had placed a bowl with the apples and the sweet potatoes already inside in front of me. I tossed the onions in the bowl. Then began washing my hands before the next step, a step I surely didn’t expect a lady like Miss Stouffer to do.

I took a blue granite-roasting pan out of another cabinet and walked over to the refrigerator, took the possum out and placed it in the pan. Miss Stouffer came over with the salt and pepper; I almost as a reflex action held out my hand, and she poured the salt into the out stretched hand. While I started to rhythmically rub the salt into the meat she seemed to pick up the beat as she shook the pepper between my hands to evenly spread the pepper with the salt.

It was pretty tough trying to lean over the possum working in the salt and pepper and concentrate with the lady of many dreams close enough that I could smell her shampoo from her morning shower. I wasn’t sure if my sweat was from work or getting nervous from being in such a close situation with the one that I admired.

I was carrying the roaster over near the oven when I saw Miss Stouffer reach under her desk where she always kept her purse and brought out the bottle of wine. I was surprised when I saw that the bottle had an actual cork, a real bottle of wine. I had thought we were going to use Ripple or Night Train or one of the other $1.29 bottles I was used to having with my pizza.

The way Miss Stouffer whipped that cork screw into the top of the bottle it was apparent that this wasn’t the first time she had opened a classy bottle of wine. Of course I don’t know if the bottle was a high-class brand or not all I knew was it had a cork and Miss Stouffer was really enjoyable to watch as her face screwed up right along with the cork as she wrestled it out of the bottle. It was kind of awkward, this was something I had never done, I didn’t know if I was supposed to offer to help or if I was even allowed to get near the wine.

I finally decided that I may be making her a little self conscious as she fought with the cork and bottle, so I went back to the possum. I began arranging the apples, sweet potatoes and the onions around our surprise entrée. After Miss Stouffer poured the cup of wine around the possum, I finished the dish with the brown sugar and cinnamon sprinkled over the apples and potatoes, then left for my second class.

Although my Government class I was jumpy and skitterish, mind wise I was still in the home ec room instead of my government class. When Mr.Stanely called my name in class I nearly jumped out of my seat.

The question he asked wasn’t relevant to my possum cooking nearly straight below me and why should care how ant Representatives are in the house? I was worried about the dinner and the out come…the true question was whether I was going to remain in school after the meal.

After the bell ending the second period rang I race down the stairs too Miss Stauffer’s room to check on the progress, when my feet hit the floor, a multitude of aromas were coming from the room. Apparently, she had been checking different boys from classes to help prepare the meals all morning as I came into the classroom there were several boys busy at the stove.

I saw one of the “dorks” frying chicken in a high walled skillet and the wrestler in the group that had invite Coach Welton of all people, was placing some kind of a green bean casserole in an oven. Without being prompted by Miss Stauffer I walked over to my possum stove and stuck on the oven mitts I had laid next to the stove earlier.

I didn’t notice her until I was pulling out the oven rack, I really didn’t notice her I cold feel her standing next to me. I felt her I knew she was there before I raised up with my hands full of roasting pan. When I straightened with the possum Miss Stauffer stood there smiling, she had placed a cooling rack on the counter for me to place the roaster on.

It surprised me when I took the cover from the pan the possum smelled really good, Miss Stouffer stood looking around my shoulder as I lifted the lid and said, “leave the lid off and I’ll help you set it on the platter to cool before you carve it.”

Another rush of anxiety ran through me I’d never carved anything in my life. I looked at her stunned.

She smiled, she smiled and said, “ All you need to do is slice it into small pieces so everyone can have a taste.”

The rest of the class finally began to trickle on and began to set the table and the rest began to place the serving dishes on the counter next to the dining table. Miss Stauffer had been attempting to instill table manners into us as well as the art of cooking. Her plan was that we were to serve our guests as waiters.

The mere thought of bowing and serving Geyers turned my stomach, if I had the chance I would probably whiz in his chili and serve it with a smile. The pleasant thought disappeared as the man himself Mr. Geyers entered and Miss Stouffer started across the room. I swear to you right now this was the first and the last time I ever saw the old man smile. Miss Stouffer knew how to smooze she took the guidance counselor by the arm and escorted him to the dining table. 

I stood behind the counter that we had all of the dishes of food sitting on to serve all of the invited, distinguished guests from. Geyers gave me a look over his shoulder that reminded me of some old pervert, he couldn’t move his neck, when turned to leer at me his entire upper body appeared to move. Right then I decided it wasn’t just Richard Millhouse Nixon that he reminded me of it was a combination of Nixon and Ed Sullivan!

I watched as Miss Stouffer escorted Nixivan to his place at the dining table. I noticed that Miss Stouffer had placards printed and sitting next to each place setting. I began to wonder if she had gone as far as sending invitations and required RSVPs for this affair.

I also found the humor in the fact that all of this high falooting , and one of their main entrees was fixing to be a possum roast. I suddenly had to turn my back to Nixivan I was about to start laughing. I decided I wouldn’t have to piss in his chili serving him possum felt rather satisfying in itself.

Our guests had began to file in as they began to enter we were require to line up at the door and escort each patron to the table and seat them at their placard. I once again realized my ever-present sweaty palms.

Finally everyone was seated, before we started to serve Miss Stouffer stood from the end of the table and tapped lightly on her water glass for attention. All eyes turned to Miss Stouffer. I kept trying to remember to serve from the left pickup from the right.

“We appreciate all of you taking the time to attend the first dinner to be completely furnished by the boy’s cooking class. This may seem a bit out of the ordinary but…next to your plates you will find a score sheet. You will find that it is numbered to four dishes in each category of the four courses of the meal. Each of you will receive a small serving of each dish. After you have tasted the servings please rate each serving with a number from one through ten.”

How Miss Stouffer had orchestrated this virtual feast while I was completely centered on the preparation of the possum roast amazed me. I was engrossed in slicing and trying to display the possum as attractively as one can display the dark, slightly greasy portions. Miss Stouffer stepped gracefully behind me as I arranged the entrée at the counter and laid down a bundle of curly parsley next to the platter. Silently she made a circle around my plate and smiled as she slipped around me and moved on to assist the next student.

While most of us were hunched over placing the final touches to our dishes Miss Stouffer had already assembled three of the other students, dressed them in waist high white aprons and keeping them busy filling water glasses, as well as serving soup or salad.

In place of serving the possum dish as described in the recipe Miss Stouffer had decided we should place the sweet potatoes and apples in a separate serving dish to have it graded by our guests on it’s own merit. Miss Stouffer had managed to have the assortment of homemade dinner rolls, a loaf of bread, biscuits, and muffins.

I watched, as everyone appeared to be enjoying their meal, even Geyers, but still holding my breath mentally as the waiters began serving the side dishes. They had the usual baked potatoes, green bean casserole, some kind of a noodle casserole made with egg noodles and mushrooms. Miss Stouffer intentionally had selected the apples and sweet potatoes to slide in between the green beans and the noodle thing.

While Miss Stouffer was directing the waiters she still found the day to walk to the seat of each diner checking on their meals and how they grading the wide assortment of dishes the boys first cooking class had prepared.

I noticed that she appeared to be hanging back a couple of steps behind Mr. Geyers as he was sampling the side dish that had come from the roasted possum. When she saw him place and eight beside the third side dish, the sweet potato and apple dish she looked up and winked as she noticed he was writing a comment next to the grade.

When it appeared that everyone had finished with the side dishes our turn to serve the entrees came, my palms were so sweaty I felt clumsy holding the platter. It felt like it would slip through my hands as I walked towards the table. I stared at each of the guests gathered around the table.

At the head of the table of course was Geyers, and naturally he had the two cheerleaders sitting on each side of him, Miss Stouffer was good. Next to the cheerleaders were the jocks of course, the center of the basketball team, the quarter back of the football team, the captain of the wrestling team two girls from the senior cooking class and at the other end of the table sat coach Welton my ex wrestling coach.

I stood back my dish was to be served Miss Stouffer had decided in all fairness we would draw a number from an empty bread basket. I had drawn the number four, which I thought was fair, not first and not last.

Our guests were served a helping of meatloaf, followed by fried chicken, oh if they only knew the third entrée they were going to be served was a possum roast. Still nervous I thought it would be hilarious to be serving old man Geyers possum. I finally was regaining my composure when it became my turn to serve.

There I stood in my bell-bottom jeans and white apron holding the serving tongs I had seen lunchroom lady serving with behind the counter for years. Starting with Mr. Geyers I served from the left, Geyers gave me the eye as I smiled politely down at him as I plopped a healthy portion of possum on is plate. Sometimes controlling my first impulse is a very hard thing to get a grasp of, my impulse said to accidentally drop the old grouches portion on top of his balding plaited head.

I also knew with the history me and Geyers had that absolutely no one would believe that a heaping helping of roasted possum on his noggin’. No one would ever the little oops I slipped Mr. Geyer it must have slipped excuse. Even as I grasped the meat with the togs my hand almost felt like it had a mind of its own mentally I could feel it quiver wanting to serve it on his head. Good over came evil as I politely and gently placed the guidance counselor his portion.

I went around the rest of the table trying my best to give all that were seated an equal portion and yet leave a sampling of the roast for the rest of the class that were inclined to try a sample. Which in the beginning was known to be only a couple of us. I forked myself a small serving, tasting it carefully with the first bite I was pleasantly surprised, it had the texture and hint of the taste of a grey squirrel, a little greasier than my taste preferred but very good none the less.

With my portion of the presentation and serving complete I was now allowed to eat my lunch, I was scooping a helping of the sweet potatoes and the apples on my plate and listening closely to the conversation that was going on at the main table. I could hear them discussing, I heard Geyers say something about detecting a hint of game to it but just wasn’t sure what it could be. Coach Welton was from Wisconsin and I figured he had probably tasted a little of everything.

His comment was as Mr. Geyers he was certain that it was a game dish and went on to discuss how the side dish of sweet potatoes and apples seemed to compliment this entrée. I grinned to myself as I took another bite of the possum. They had finished my dish and as the final serving was being passed they were all still questioning Miss Stouffer as to what the last dish was that they had eaten.

Miss Stouffer, bless her heart held her ground and refused to divulge any of the dishes until they had all been scored and tabulated. I exhaled and went on to finish my lunch. Actually I was enjoying my meal of roasted possum tuning out the rest of the comments. What I watched as I ate was Miss Stouffer and the graceful lady of my nightly dreams seem to float around the dining table seeing to all of the needs of her guests the effervescent hostess.

While I watched her in action I couldn’t help but wonder if this was something she had learned in college or if she came from a family of high society and it was second nature to her. I was still in the midst of my thoughts when I saw the temporary busboys clearing the table as our diners prepared to eat the final course, the desserts.

I silently shook my head at the thought of them eating a final course after everything they had eaten already. The dessert boys walked around the counters with their assortment of desserts as another batch of busboys replaced the place settings with clean dishes for the dessert course. 

The dessert crew was lining up behind me as I was finishing the last of my meal. Even as full as I was the smell coming from the desserts behind had me starting to drool all over again. I watched as each of the four boys filed past heading in the direction of the dining table, Bananas Foster (minus the flambé), a two tier German chocolate cake, a pumpkin pie, and strawberry pie covered with homemade whipped cream.

A hidden smile crossed my face as I noticed that the servings of desserts were smaller than any of the other dishes, our distinguished guests were finally getting their fill. Their portions had gotten down to the point that their portions were down to a very thin slice or tablespoons of the dessert. Even with the sadistic grin hidden on my face as I watched each of them roll their eyes at the thought of eating another bite, I did reserve some pity for a couple of the guests but, only a couple.

I was preoccupied with the thought of pity when I saw Miss Stouffer walk around the table gathering the score sheets for each of the guests and quickly walked to her desk. I could feel the suspense gathering in the room as Miss Stouffer quickly averaged out the score sheets.

After what seemed like an eternity Miss Stouffer finally rose from behind her desk and cleared her throat. Everyone looked in her direction. “The yeast rolls won hands down in the breads, followed by the buttermilk biscuits and the sweet potato, apples came in first for the side dishes.”

I felt my pride start to puff up as Miss Stouffer went on rating the also rans in the side dish category. I was still in a puffed up full banty strut when I heard the “worlds best teacher” clear her throat once again. She was getting ready to announce the way the main entrees stacked up. A long pause swept the room, not only were we as the class anxious to find out how the meat course would come out, many of our guests were curious about the third dish they had sampled.

Miss Stouffer after holding her breath as long as possible exhaled and announced, “ The meatloaf took the top place in the entrees, next was the fried chicken...” her eyes had an ornery glint as she continued, “the possum roast came in third.”

As soon as the words possum had came from her lip’s those cute pouty little lips a rumble of gasps, laughter, as well as a minimal amount of slight gagging erupted from the dining table. The repercussion was loud enough that know one seemed to care that the tough pork chops took last place, beaten by a possum roast.

The dork that had fried his pork chops too fast and too hot jumped off of his stool at the counter. I had taken note of who had taken a portion of the possum and who hadn’t, he didn’t. He began to add his two cents worth to the mix, he got as close to Miss Stouffer as he dared, nearly in tears whining about the pork chop recipe being his mom’s. He couldn’t believe his mother’s pork chops were beaten by an animal that most of them had only seen as road kill.

There he stood looking down towering over Miss Stouffer flailing his arms, his pastel yellow Izod shirt with the little spots of grease spatter that continued below his beltline leaving little dark spots on his pressed and creased khaki slacks.

Everything came to a sudden and silent stand still when the noise of feministic retching and puking came Thundering through the door from the hallway, I glanced around the room…the only seat empty at the dining table was Sandy’s. Since this was a Friday and there was a basketball game this evening, Sandy was wearing her Cheerleader’s uniform.

I began to squirm as I saw Geyers staring from one stool to another, I knew from experience not to look him in the eyes. I quickly slid the nearest dessert, the chocolate cake over near my plate and grabbed a slice and laid it on my plate as inconspicuous as I could. I was concentrating on the cake, working on it when I felt the old man’s gaze bare down on me. I could feel my hand tremble under the slight weight of the forkful of cake. I stared at my left hand trying to command it to stop, I knew it had to be shaking bad enough for the counselor to see from nearly across the room.

The constant sound of vomiting apparently had kick started one of the senior girl’s gag reflex as she went rushing through the door heading for girl’s room. Mr. Geyer’s star was broken when we heard a scream and to the sounds of Sandy’s dry heaves as the senior society chick slipped in the vomit by the door and fell. Directly what I assumed to be Sandy’s footsteps were receding to the direction of the restroom. Almost as if they were in a tag team competition, the preppy girl still spread out with the toes of her penny loafer shoes still visible from the doorway we began to her emptying her stomach into the hall also. Geyers was looking out into the hall from his vantage point, I was proud something had taken his gaze from me.

Miss Stouffer broke the tense silence that had fallen across the room as she asked, loudly, “Does anyone else need to leave the room?”

Everyone remained seated as she walked across the room and pushed the button on the intercom and requested a janitor to the home ec classroom along with a mop and pail. After making her emergency call, she walked to the nearest sink and snatched a wad of paper towels from the dispenser and walked out the door.

Moments later we watched as the girl’s feet slowly disappeared and we saw the door close to the muffled sounds of footsteps as my second casualty head to the room. Through the vertical slot of wired glass in the door we all watched as Miss
Stouffer stood upright and you could identify the action of her using the toe of her right shoe to swipe the mess from the door.

Shortly before the bell rang ending the class we finally heard the sound of clanking of the janitor as he pushed the four-wheeled bucket of mop water to the door. As he came to the wreck Miss Stouffer returned to the classroom completely composed as if nothing had happened. Geyers had resumed his stare down right to the bell.

I felt the weight being lifted when Geyers got up to return to his office I noticed that he had bent over and said something to Miss Stouffer as he walked out the door taking a quick abrupt side step to the left. I saw her drop her head a notch after he had spoken. I pretended not to notice as I placed the leftovers into the refrigerator and begin to clean up.

Miss Stouffer sat at her desk and spoke, “You boys that didn’t serve at lunch will continue to clean the kitchen. If you finish before I return sit down and wait for me to write your excuse slips to return to class.”

In a way I felt it was my fault, I knew she was going to the office. It was the first time I had ever heard of a teacher being called to the office. I knew almost verbatim how this interrogation was going to go I had been there too may times. I tried not to think about my favorite teacher on the carpet in front of Geyers, I thought I could feel a couple of the other fellas looking at me as I slipped what little of the possum was left into a Tupperware bowl.

I glanced around the room when I burped the lid on the bowl and placed it in the fridge. I shrugged inside as everyone seemed to be busy and not paying any attention to what I had been doing. As a whole almost all of the guys thought the possum dish was pretty cool, something they had never thought of something like a possum being edible.

What seemed like more than half of the following class were actually just a bit over fifteen minutes until we were finished and Miss Stouffer returned. Without saying a word she walked to her desk and took her seat. She quickly began writing excuse slips for us, as she finished each slip I heard it tear from the pad as she called somebody’s name but, not mine.

When it came down to just her and I in the room I knew it was for a reason, I also knew that the reason wouldn’t be for the good. I knew it wasn’t going to be for one of the reasons of my dreams. I knew it wasn’t to ask me to take her rabbit hunting, and I knew it wasn’t going to be to ask me out. 

I heard her tear my note from the pad as I walked to her desk, she asked in a quiet sullen voice, “Does Mr. Geyers have it in for you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. It was the only response I could come up with, as she looked up with those deep brown eyes, her brows knitted in a question. What could I say, I froze like a deer in a set of headlights. I was the deer and her eyes were the headlights.

“He was certain that the possum was your doing.” That comment broke the trance, I knew it was coming just as sure as the deer stops looking just before the hit. She continued, “I explained to him that you did bring the possum to class but, that you had asked permission nearly a week ago. I am sure you can expect to be called in sometime today.” There was the hit.

I knew it was bound to happen with all that puke on the floor ruining Geyers meal I knew somebody was going to get called in. Since I was the only “trouble maker in the class,” I knew it was bound to be me. I took the slip from her hand, grabbed my books for the next class and walked out the door. I knew it wasn’t her fault I didn’t feel like she had given me up. I knew the pressure Geyers could put on a person.

I had learned his game my sophomore year after the restroom tragedy, and I ended up with a couple of weeks detention. I never crumbled under his ire after that. If I had done what he was accusing me of I would plead guilty and take my licks but, if I was innocent I was willing to stand or sit in the old man’s office all day arguing. I usually still got a taste of detention just for being indicated. It didn’t matter much to him as far as he was concerned it was a lose, lose thing. You were guilty as soon as you implicated.

I hadn’t been in the following class for much more that ten minutes when the office girl came walking into class with the ever present pink slip of paper. I didn’t even bother to wait I leaned over in my desk and started to gather my books to head for the office.

I was already standing when Mr. Jacobs had finished reading the note and called my name. I heard a couple of snickers from the class, since this class was upstairs and midway on the second floor I figure about half of the class must have already knew about the catastrophe of the last period. I politely removed the pink paper from Mr. Jacobs’s fingers and headed for the door. I saw his mouth open as I turned towards the door.

I didn’t feel like dealing with a quizzical teacher, let alone a teacher who prided himself for his whit, no matter how lame it may have been. I shut the door behind me and slowed my pace as I trudged down the stairs. My purpose was to let the office prep get a good head start so I wouldn’t end up escorting her all of the way to the office.

When I got to the first floor and turned to the right down the main hallway to the office I saw that she had nearly got back to the office, I began the long trek down the empty hall. I can almost say that the feeling flooding through me might have been not too different than an inmate walking to the warden’s office, minus the escort of the armed guards.

I opened the door to the office and all eyes immediately turned to me, they knew, I felt like a felon convicted of poisoning the masses with a lethal dose of salmonella. The secretaries behind the tall counter stood as I entered, it was apparent that the preppy girl sitting at the student desk next to the door had tipped them off when she returned.

Miss Mary Champion the cute girls counselor came to the door of her office as I entered, Miss Champion always seemed to remind me of a pretty nun or something and totally 180 degrees opposite of warden Geyers. I did feel just the slightest hint of fortification as I noticed just the slightest hint of a smirk traced across her face. With that miniscule bit of encouragement from Geyers equal I knocked on his door.

“ Come in.” that was it.

I opened the door and stepped inside, as soon as I had stepped into his lair the former trace of courage had evaporated. There he sat bent over his desk looking as if he was reading a report or something. I really ticked me off when he did this it felt like another intimidation tactic that he had perfected over the years.

I stood there waiting for him to acknowledge my presents and permission to sit, stand, or bend over. After what felt like nearly an eternity he looked up nodded to the chair across from him and resumed reading the report. I knew that it was a stall tactic to drain the last shred of confidence and courage that I may have had in reserve.

Finally he laid the paper on his desk, he once again, as I seen what seemed like countless times over the two and a half years, Geyers tilted his head and glared at me over the top of his half moon, horn rimmed reading glasses. When he gave you that stare through the little gap between his bushy eyebrows, that looked nearly the size of shredded wheat biscuits and his gap it could make any human wilt.

I kept running the words through my mind that I was going to use to plead my defense. “ Lets see Mr. Geyers…I had gone coon hunting, trying to get a coon to roast, you know, something different. Something with a slight game taste to it. All my dog could tree that night was possum Mr. Geyers.” I was still running my speech through my mind as I thought I heard him clear his throat. “Hmmm…I caught the possum alive and then asked Miss Stouffer if she thought it would be ok?”

This time I definitely heard his throat rumble, my train of thought as well as my rehearsed speech slipped away, everything drained, “Interesting meal,” he opened with.

I tried staring back as I answered, “Yes sir it was different.”

After another long pause, a nerve racking long pause, “ Miss Stouffer stood in your defense, she said, your intentions on serving me possum at the luncheon was a sincere effort serve the guests something unique.”

Suddenly I felt the heaviness of the room lighten, just a bit, enough that I had managed to regain a slight bit of confidence, “Mr.Geyers, what did you think of the roast?”

The pause in response to my question became the longest of this entire interrogation Geyers sat back in his chair looked me straight in the eyes momentarily as he spun in his office chair away from me to face the wall of books to the left of his desk. I watched as he turned my eyes following trying to follow his gaze to the bookshelf.

Finally he turned to face me again and responded, “I’ll admit the roast was pretty good, a bit to greasy for my preference. But, I liked the hint of game that your entrée seemed to have, it was tender and I would have never known it was possum.”

Once again as many before in this office I felt lost in the vastness of the counselor’s office limbo. I almost felt like screaming, “Ok! I did it I served possum! How much detention does a guy get for serving possum?”

Finally, honest to God I thought I saw just the slightest hint of a smile, or possibly it was a sadistic sneer. I had never seen either of the oddities cross the old man’s face and couldn’t distinguish the difference.

Geyers was finally ready to pass sentence, “ I didn’t feel ill…until the girls started to heave. The sounds of them puking was enough to make anyone ill.” Another pause, “in the future if you have the occasion to bring something …different, don’t invite the girls to dine.”

The bell ending the class was ring muffled slightly by the confines of the office, and Mr.Geyers announced, “That’s all you can go to class.”

 I stood there stunned; as it sank in that I wasn’t about to send the rest of the school year in detention I stumbled out of the office and into the busy hall. I quietly walked stumbling to my locker; I stood in front of my locker trying to remember what class I was going to. I felt confused, how, why, he didn’t say, he said, something about possum good?