My parents are nature lovers. (For a reason I don’t recall, this moniker was often pronounced “nay-CHOO love-OOS” over the years.)

My two older brothers even went to “nature camp” back in grade school. Indeed, they each won a free week at Nature Camp for scoring highly on tests given following Saturday morning nay-choo films at the local museum in Pittsfield.

I went just once. Sacrificing Saturday morning cartoons for a chance at nature camp just wasn’t worth it to me. But Harry and Dave, they were nature boys (still are, come to think of it) and even got written up in the Berkshire Eagle for being the first brothers ever to win the top prize after months of films and tests.

Mom and Dad are bird lovers. No matter where we lived over the years, there was always an array of bird feeders in the back yard. Sometimes in the front yard, too.

Thing is, the bird feeders also served as squirrel feeders.

And still do:

My dad is like The Old Man in A Christmas Story. Only Dad’s “Bumpus hounds” are squirrels. No matter how hard he tries to communicate to the critters that they are welcome to all the acorns they can carry off, they miss his message that the bird seed is … well, for the birds.

And so the battle rages on.

Back in the late 1960s, when brother Bill (he was Billy back then) was a precocious tot, Dad awoke to the sound of noise downstairs in the living room. I can still him him roar, “Goddammit, Joan! That boy needs discipline! Why is he downstairs by himself making such a racket?”

The Old Man … er, Dad, stomped down the stairs grumbling, in rehearsal of the scolding he was going to lay out for poor little Billy.

… who was nowhere to be found, by the way. Indeed, he was still tucked away safely in bed. The noisemaker was – you guessed it – a squirrel! Down the chimney he came, and he was just as eager as Dad to scamper back to the great outdoors. Dad left the front door open for a bit and the squirrel made his great escape.

Billy got a rather confusing apology at breakfast that morning.

When I asked Dad about how far back these struggles go, he remembered that his mom absolutely loved squirrels. A kind and gentle soul, she would feed them generously. She called each one – lovingly – Jimmy.

Jimmy? Why Jimmy?

An exhaustive (not to mention exhausting) search online did not produce the answer. We’re guessing that there was a Jimmy (or Jimmie) the Squirrel children’s book back in the day. The closest I could find was Jimmy Skunk, a character in the Thornton Burgess collection. Mr. Burgess, from eastern Massachusetts, made a career out of writing children’s stories (and a newspaper column) about woodland creatures during the first half of the twentieth century. But his squirrel characters were named Happy Jack and Chatterer.

And then there’s Beatrix Potter’s rascally Squirrel Nutkin. Nap times throughout my toddler years were spent listening to this recording:

Vivien Leigh (yes, that Vivien Leigh) is the narrator. Click the “play” button if only to hear Scarlett pronounce “squirrel” repeatedly. Ms. Leigh was not a southerner after all, but veddy British. It’s delicious.

Apparently bird seed is also delicious. And impossible to resist. No matter where he lived over the years – New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Indiana, Dad remembers going to great efforts to feed the birds and discourage the squirrels. He’d rap on the windows, bang the French doors shut, slide the screen door with great attitude, and even burst forth with what he hoped would be interpreted as a predatory sound.

Nothing worked. Not more than once, anyway.

Gary and I even got in on the effort. We sent a supply of this last year:

Dad got a charge out of the spicy gift. Indeed, the birds loved it and the squirrels gave it a wide berth. Until the first rain. Sigh.

There are those in the family, though, who think squirrels are grand.

Dad shakes his head as he recalls the many bird feeders chewed to bits as squirrels found ways to overcome their carefully engineered squirrel-proofiness. There was a brief respite a few years back, which was (sadly) credited to a hungry fisher cat (which I now know is a weasel). Apparently a larger, hungrier predator snacked on the fisher cat and the squirrels eventually returned.

Nay-choo love-oos have to be tough. And patient.

At the risk of getting increasingly random with this squirrel tale, the town where I was born (but only lived a short while), has a festival called the Squirrel Slam. There are ongoing lawsuits in place to prevent its recurrence, but for years Holley, New York, hosted a squirrel-hunting fundraiser for the local fire department.

Dad’s final comment when we discussed his ongoing battle with the squirrels:

“I can’t beat them. That’s the long, sad story.”

P.S. Gary wanted me to be sure to add that when I asked Dad if he’d ever made note of the total number of squirrels he’s seen running about in the backyard at any one time, the answer was immediate: “Oh, yes. Six.”

Would you like to receive an email notice when there’s a new Too Much Brudders post? Sign up here: