The Expatriates

WC 887

The Expatriates

By Jack Rawlins

Today is my fortieth birthday, which is hardly an event of pivotal significance except to me. However, now that all the guests have left, I want to record what happened in case anyone wants to verify what really did happen.

My fortieth birthday party and house full of guest was just ratcheting up to blast mode, when the doorbell rang.

When I opened the door, I thought my creeping senility had just taken a leap forward. Eight squirrels, sitting on their haunches in two rows of four each, were lined up in perfect order. Each held a small, brightly colored basket.


When my guests spotted these new visitors there was a lot screaming, cursing, scampering, and quick searches for weapons of any kind.

A spokesman for the squirrels hopped forward, put down his basket and said in a rather powerful voice for such a small animal, “My name is Filbert. We’re not going to bite anyone. However, we do hope you’ll invite us in to help celebrate your birthday and accept the gifts we have for you.”

“Wait a minute!” I yelled. “I spent the last six months getting rid of you trouble-makers and now you show up to help me celebrate? And how come you can talk?” And where did you steal those baskets? And how did you get here?” Why are you here?” How did you know about the party?”

“Slow down, Bernie,” said Filbert. “We’re here to thank you. Your use of Have-a-Heart traps and relocating us one by one to the Jersey Pine Barrens changed our lives. We have become happy expatriates in a virtual garden of eating.

“As for the ability to talk,” he continued, “by pure accident we met a recluse living in a small cabin on the Tuckahoe River. Her name is Rosetta Stone. She was a linguistics professor at Stockton State College until students drove here nuts.

“It is she who taught us to speak. We already had a large vocabulary of chatter supplemented by the sign language of tale jerks, shakes and waggles.

“She taught us to slow down, articulate, enunciate, and to only use the tail as one would hand gestures. It came easy to us.

“She also taught us basket weaving, a skill she developed while a resident in several institutions. Basket weaving was a little harder for us than speaking. But she was patient. ‘Hell, she said, If you people can build a nest in the top of a hundred-foot tree waving in a windstorm, weaving a willow basket should be a piece of nutmeg.’

“She was right, of course. We had all the necessary materials for basket making: pine needles, willows wands, sweet grass--the same materials used by Native Americans.

“As for our mode of transportation, we hopped a ride on a hopper-truck hauling sweet potatoes. We enjoyed the ride and a snack on the way here.”

While Filbert and I chatted, the room behind had become very quiet. The guests were eavesdropping on our impossible conversation. They were also intrigued.

“Why don’t you invite them in, Bernie,” said one of the guests who is very active in the ASPCA.

“Yes, by all means, Bernie. Invite them in; It’s the ethical thing to do,” said another who is very active in PETA.

“Kill them,” said my cousin Mike who owns a pest control company.

But I’m a soft-touch, kind-hearted guy; so I invited them to join the party.

Filbert made the introductions. I noted that their names seemed to be influenced by their culture: As he called their name, each stepped forward and presented me with an exquisite paw-made basket filled with products form their garden of eating.

Hazel brought bright red cranberries. Cashew presented white button mushrooms. Pecan passed me a luscious supply of blueberries. Brazil offered a basket of ripe, juicy persimmons. Pistachio gave me a basket of black cherries and said, “Bernie, disa maka gooda vino.” Peanut appropriately presented a basket of tiny bright tea berries; Almond presented a basket of wild plumbs; and Filbert gave a basket of spruce gum and sassafras root.

I was deeply touched. This was the same bunch of rascals that gobbled up expensive black oil sunflower seed meant for the birds; the same group that built a nest in our attic; the same group that caused a power outage when they chewed through our electrical service wires; the same group that made our dog, Sadie, bark so much the neighbors called the cops on us; the same group that caused me to invest in traps so I could drive twenty miles round-trip to drop them off far enough away so they wouldn’t find their way back; the same group that gobbled up all of our sweet corn just when it was ready for picking. But that’s history.

When they were done presenting the presents, I said, “I suppose you guys will want a ride back to the Pine Barrens.”

“No.” said Filbert. “We’ll get a hop on something edible that’s headed our way.”

“Just one more question before you go, “I said. “Who told you about my party?”

His answer confirmed what I suspected. It was an answer I heard so many times as a kid when my mother caught me in a fib.

“A little bird told me,” said Filbert.

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