Published Tuesday, September 09, 2008 2:03 PM
Updated Tuesday, September 09, 2008 2:04 PM
I always thought Bigfoot was a hoax, before I saw a possum on the half-shell.
I read in bed every night, and often enlighten Widdle without context, as in, ‘Wolverines will eat snowshoes,’ or, ‘The AMA says you have four pounds of undigested meat in your colon right this minute.’
One night I was reading a book on unexplained mysteries (the Bermuda Triangle, why Nicole Ritchie is famous, etc.). Widdle, who was watching ‘ How It’ s Made’ for the third time that day, heard me muttering to myself.
‘What?’ he said
‘Bigfoot!’ I announced.
Brief silence.
‘My new nickname?’ he asked.
‘No, silly. I’m reading about Bigfoot. Some people actually think there’ s an 8-foot humanoid ape running around the Pacific Northwest.’
Widdle stared at the ceiling. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘ I think there might be a Bigfoot.’
‘You also think our goats can count,’ I reminded him.
‘For the last time, let that go,’ he said, and rolled over.
‘It’ s like armadillos,’ I said to his hip.
For years Widdle has insisted that armadillos live here. ‘I know people who’ ve seen them in the road,’ he said.
And I know a man with an M&M tree.
Armadillos live in the desert; I learned that on ‘Wild Kingdom.’ Maybe some took a wrong turn in Tucson and ended up in Florida, but there’ s no way those bony-plated desert-dwellers live in the lowcountry.
‘They are here,’ Widdle said. ‘People call ‘em possums on the half-shell.’
That cracked me up, but I remained an unbeliever. We agreed to a truce on the topic, until last month.
That’s when two men claimed they’ d found a Bigfoot body in Georgia. They held a press conference, released photos, and breathlessly said scientific tests were pending.
What a hoot! The ‘body’ bore a striking resemblance to 1) my ex-husband and 2) a pile of Strom Thurmond’s toupees. A friend in Georgia swore it was a Clemson graduate.
Turns out the erstwhile Bigfoot was actually--how shall I put this--a Halloween costume topped with animal guts. (A cheap costume, at that.)
Of course I teased Widdle about the Bigfoot bust. He took it with his customary good grace, i.e., he ignored me and watched ‘How It’s Made’ five times a day.
But the laugh, as always, was on me.
I like to run (okay, walk& okay, hobble) around our village when the weather is nice. If you can dodge the 18-wheelers, you’ll enjoy fresh air, shady pines and lovely historic homes.
This past Monday, I changed my usual route and headed home on Highway 17-A South. Three blocks from the house, I spotted something in the gutter ahead. As I got closer, there was no doubt: It was a dead armadillo. In one piece, still on the half-shell.
I could not believe mine eyes. My mouth flew open, and I stood rooted to the earth. A passing pickup slowed down and a passenger hollered, ‘Are you okay?’
I pointed at the carcass and screamed, ‘ ARMADILLO!!!’ They didn’t stop.
Chastened, I called Widdle to report the news. He hooted and hollered for days.
You know how this will end: Bigfoot’s gonna turn up in my bedroom.
Julie R. Smith, who’s wrong more than she’ll ever admit, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.