My hometown of Lansing, located at the extreme northeastern tip of Iowa, sits hard on the banks of the Mississippi River. It is the only section of the predominantly flat state missed by the last glacier, and hills, dales, and streams abound in this game-rich, scenic paradise.
My best friend, Johnny B., lived four houses south of me, and our parents were close friends. We were both eel-skinny, mahogany-tanned, butch-haircut, blue-eyed, perpetual motion machines, and we shared numerous adventures.
The incident I’m going to relate took place when we were eight, and were exploring the grounds of a ramshackle, white-paint-peeling but massive, ancient Gothic abode adorned with a cupola and a wraparound veranda, which lay two blocks north of my house. It was the residence of one of Lansing’s founding families, and their heavily timbered lot stretched for over three riverfront blocks.
Two maiden sisters dwelled within. I don’t recall ever seeing one of them, but the other was Lansing’s only librarian. Always dressed in black, this mendicant-thin, dour lady ran her domain like a private fiefdom, severely retraining the books I was allowed to check out. (Something about this wizen senior citizen scared me, and I remember her as resembling the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz, which is probably inaccurate and unfair.)
Our parents forbade Johnny and me from trespassing on their property, which made our clandestine visits even more exciting. We’d once discovered an ancient black-fence-bordered cemetery with five mossy, moldering headstones in the lot’s far northern corner. Once realizing what we’d found, we never ventured near there again.
On this sun-kissed spring day, we were exploring the southernmost portion of the front yard, a good distance from the foreboding house. We’d become fascinated by a three-inch knothole about five feet up a hickory tree trunk, because soft growls were emanating from within. I’d tried to peek inside, but even with Johnny boosting me up, I couldn’t see. I finally found the fortitude to reach into the intimidating abyss. After I withdrew a tiny, almost furless creature, a full-grown squirrel raced down the trunk toward us, barking ferociously.
In a panic, we started running and didn’t stop until we reached my house. It was Saturday, so Dad was home, and I now devoutly wished I’d minded my own business, as I sensed I was in trouble. Unlike most fathers of my youth, including Johnny’s, my dad never physically punished any of his five children. However, he didn’t need to, as my siblings and even visiting friends were intimidated by his presence. But, feeling I had no choice, I reluctantly took my diminutive captive to him.
Taking the tiny creature into his palm, Dad’s face reddened as he snapped, “What in the hell are you doing with a baby squirrel? Poor damn thing doesn’t even have its eyes open, and you’ve killed it!” I shamefacedly followed him into our house, where he took a small cardboard box, put a clean dust rag in it, then gently folded the unfortunate animal within the soft fabric. Without a word, he raced off in his car, leaving me to ponder the consequences of my act.
Returning a short time later, Dad carried a boxed doll inside. (My two-year-old sister Lyn inherited the flaxen-haired figurine.) Setting the package on the table, he removed a tiny toy baby bottle, then used a pin to puncture its tip. After dribbling it full of milk, he ran hot tap water over it, then put the tiny squirrel in his palm, from where it nursed vigorously.
Only Dad was allowed to touch or feed the male infant, who whimpered pitifully when hungry. But in a few weeks, his eyes opened, fur grew, and he became extremely active. I’d never been allowed a pet, as money wasn’t wasted on animals, but this tiny tike thrived on a little dried corn and an occasional peanut treat.
He was soon as lively as I, and my family named him Scamper by acclamation. The frisky, playful little fellow was covered with soft grey fur everywhere except his strikingly snow-white belly. He’d hold his large tail like an umbrella over his head as he ate, and when he barked, which was often, he’d twitch this magnificent appendage with every yelp. His watchfully black eyes roved constantly, but never blinked.
I don’t recall how he became potty-trained, but he’d jump on the front screen door to be let outdoors, then leap on it again when he wished to come back inside. This delightful new friend became my constant companion. He slept in my bed, and when I walked or rode my bike, he perched atop my right shoulder. If Scamper grew tired, he’d crawl inside my tucked-in shirt and nap in that pouch. I always carried peanuts because he ate them while sitting on my shoulder, mere inches from my ear, and I found the crunching sounds delightful.
The only unfortunate incident I recall occurred during one of Mom’s mid-afternoon coffee clutches. A gaggle of her lady friends was seated around our kitchen table, sipping steaming coffee, snacking on Mom’s renowned home-baked cinnamon flop, and talking nonstop. When Scamper leaped onto the tabletop, screaming women scattered like a startled covey of quail. Mom calmly put Scamper outside and apologized. Cups were refilled, heart rates slowed, and eventually, the incident became funny.
Scamper was never caged or restrained, and one fall day, he went outside and never returned. His disappearance was heartbreaking for a rather lonely boy, as he was the only pet I was allowed in my youth. Over 79 years, I’ve enjoyed numerous animal companions of various species, but none were squirrels, nor was one ever as special or beloved as Scamper.
