'Possums"

Whether or not they were the first Americans no one will ever know. What we do know is that the word “opossum” originates early in American history, a gift from Algonquin people, with whom it existed in a slightly different spelling and meant, essentially, "white beast."  Captain John Smith recorded it already in 1608. 

But calling an opossum a "beast" is a stretch. A grizzly is beast for sure. A buffalo? --of course. But possums are a footnote beneath a page of American beasts. They're fat little guys to start with, so shy they'll go stiff, freeze so tight they take on a particular scent and go dead-rigid--involuntarily too. They're the only American mammal that can be scared silly. 

Assessing beauty is, of course, impossible, but that doesn't mean we can't rig a scale. To me, a mink is a far sight more beautiful than a muskrat, and a mule makes a quarter horse look like an angel. An opossum?--you can't help but wonder exactly what the Creator of heaven and earth was thinking.

Years ago, when I was sitting at a kitchen table trying to painstakingly grade papers, one of the brothers or sisters came up on our deck and sat on our picnic table bench in the middle of a dark night, just sat there and looked at me. 

Of course, I wasn't scared--it was only an opossum. But horrified?--sure. Ugly?--no kidding, nose like a pig and a tail like a fat snake. Let's be blunt: Since 1608, as far as I know no possum ever won a beauty contest, much less tried. They're homely, downright homely. Try to find one at your local pet store.

Years ago, a neighbor couple across the alley decided to take down an old garage. When they did, they chased a few baby opossums out of a nest they hadn't known was there. It just so happens that some neighborhood kids, including ours, were close by when that old farm couple simply up and killed those kits, whacked them with a shovel.

I understand how, on the farm, amidst the animals, life and death is pretty much an everyday thing. I get that. Anyone whose lived on a farm has likely murdered something or other alive--too many feral cats, too many runt piglets for available spigots. Those old folks who whacked baby possums in front of my kids thought nothing of crunching their little skulls, one by one, and tossing death into the garbage. Today, forty years later, my kids still remember just about everything about that morning.

Maybe, like so much else, opossums have to die before we care. On the very first night I was legal to drive my dad's '64 Chev, I hit one--they're not quick--on a country road west of town. It was prom night, my first prom, and most of the rest of the night all I could think about was having killed that lousy opossum. 

Last year on a hike along the Floyd River, a kid came up the path toward me as if I wasn't the enemy. I walked right up to my boot, smelled it, then kept on walking as if I were of little consequence. He/she was small and likely freezing in midwinter, but I didn't offer him a place in front of our fireplace.

Standing beside me right now in our new place is a few canvas prints I had made, waiting to take a place on our wall. One of them is a close-up portrait of that little kid opossum who, on the banks of the Floyd, came right up as if I was just another cottonwood. 

Cute little thing really. That's him up top of the page.

For months that little guy--he's called a "joey," like his Aussie relatives--stayed in his mom's pouch. They're North America's only real marsupial, you know.

Oh, and I forgot: you got to hand it to 'em. . .opossums love ticks and eat more than their share. Isn't that wonderful? 

All that bad stuff I said?--let me just reconsider a bit.