"The Great Pumpkins of Rolling Hills"
"The Great Pumpkins of Rolling Hills"
When we were kids, me in the 8th grade (the last year of traditional trick or treating in our neck of the woods) and Joe in the 7th, we went for it. We eventually found ourselves in another neighborhood, probably half a mile away from our own. Most of the lights were already out but we kept ringing doorbells.
One guy opened the door in his boxers and a tee shirt. “You guys are still out there, huh?” We nodded and he said, “I think we’re out of candy, you like pie?”
He tossed up a couple of mini pies, the kinds that you might bring in for a lunchtime dessert. When I showed that to my Mom the next day she was aghast. “That was probably his treat after lunch!” My Mom knew, she was working class and of course, as an 8th grader I didn’t. Never know where the lesson comes from, do you? Just a good-natured guy throwing a couple of kids a snack from his lunch pail on Halloween night.
We trudged back to Rolling Hills, the name the developer had given our suburban subdivision, with pillowcases stuffed with candy. It was once we were there I turned to Joe and said, “We have one more mission.” This is not a good nodding admonition for two adolescent boys.
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Our next-door neighbor — not the one who unsuccessfully would eventually try to sue my family for bringing the value of their property down when they sold their house and presented photos of teenaged girls coming in and out of the window above the garage late at night — but the other side. When these neighbors moved my Dad, who sat watching in a beach chair with a six-pack, gave a golf clap as each box went on the moving truck.
On the other side, however, we had this neighbor who had a vegetable garden of which he was particularly proud. He was also, a Viet Nam vet, who had what we’d likely now diagnose as “PTSD.” He had one new enemy now: the squirrels that visited his garden and he was simply not having it.
So, he’d set “Have-A-Heart traps.” If you’re from New England you know what these are: an opening at either end and a food tray in the middle. The varmint goes for the snack and both ends slap down. Trapped. The idea is that there can eventually be a kind release.
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This was an imperfect science as my Dad once learned when transporting a squirrel from the attic for a humane release while driving our locally legendary Malibu station wagon, “The Enterprise.” As he recalled, there was a trigger-like sound, a glance toward the back seat and then the feeling of four clawed feet racing across his shoulders and the back of his neck for the open driver’s side window. The squirrel launched himself out and apparently scurried down a country road, my Dad consulted a doctor about a rabies shot (thankfully unnecessary) and, with the exception of an occasional chipmunk, my family’s trapping days were over.
Such was not the case for our neighbor.
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I will not incriminate him by naming him, but he was a man on a fairly focused and seemingly sadistic mission: anything near his produce must die. Had he simply got out there with a pellet gun or the like I might have been more understanding. Without having ever fired a firearm personally, I understand the people who do and are smart and careful, and safe about them. But, firearms were not his Modus Operandi.
Instead, he’d lay out two or three “Have-A-Heart” traps and capture these little thieves. Then, methodically fill up a trash barrel from a garden hose and drop each trap in. And, that was not quite enough.
He did this in broad daylight, often with six to eight-year-old children standing in witness. He was also proud of his prowess with a machete in response to garter snakes. I saw possums and raccoons earn that same watery grave. As fledgling naturalists, this simply didn’t sit right with Joe and me.
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So, when we arrived at their driveway it was clear. We’d already discussed it on the walk back and set out spraying on his car and driveway in shaving cream (we were pretty suburban, no spray paint) “Leave us squirrels alone!” Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” obviously inspiring us.
His wife looked out the window and shrieked, “I know that is you, Tommy Kielty!” I did all I could think to do: I went to my Trick or Treat bag and launched two of the half dozen eggs I was holding as defense against older kids at her window. Then we ran!
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The next afternoon my parents took me aside and asked me about the phone call they’d gotten from them. For better or worse (maybe not better, maybe very much better, but it’s an Irish thing) my parents backed my denial tooth and nail. The neighbors wanted us to come clean and come clean up the mess and my Dad said, “He’s not doing that. That nut is killing animals in his backyard!”
Years later at a cookout in my parents’ backyard the story came up, perhaps by Joe’s brother, Dan, and my Dad laughed and said, “Of course, I knew those two did it. Nobody else here was that clever.” I got him a beer and he looked at Joe and me and laughed.
“Leave us squirrels alone,” he said grinning
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Tom Kielty and Joe are still best friends and still love nature. Pridemark Lane is a regular subdivision street in Attleboro, MA. There are still squirrels there.
