By JEFFERSON WEAVER
Staff Writer

I like possums.

There. My secret is out. Alive or on a plate, I like possums.

I am not ashamed of this affection, although (like many of what I consider life’s simple pleasures) my appreciation of Didelphis virginiana causes people to recoil in horror or disgust.

I will admit, the aesthetic appeal of most possums leaves much to be desired, as do many of their habits. But possums have many admirable traits.

They aren’t finicky; they aren’t cowardly (although they do sometimes faint); their hides make very nice coats for humans as well as possums, and when properly prepared with a cornmeal and milk batter, they can be rather tasty (barbecue sauce is good, too).

Possums have the ability to live in town or in the country. They just can’t understand the physics involving small furry animals and moving traffic, but I am hardly the most qualified to cast the first stone at someone’s else’s failings in math and science.

Possums are something upon which my wife and I will never agree. I consider them admirable animals, while she considers them ugly as sin, unless said possum is very young.

Miss Rhonda won’t eat one, but she really wants to raise a clutch of possums. I do too, but we have entirely different destinies planned for the aforementioned marsupials.

Hence, I doubt there will be any baby possums around the Weaver household anytime soon.

I got to thinking about possums the other day after a lady I met in Whiteville was complaining about a big possum in her yard. I tried to explain how to corner a possum, easing removal of the beast, but she was too frightened to do so.

For all you Yankees and other uneducated people, one corners a possum by repeatedly walking around it, cutting off all routes of escape, until the possum faints or is scooped up by a partner with a feed bag. The possum can then be dispatched, cleaned, and eaten, placed in a cage to fatten up, or relocated.

I’ve heard possum-cornering called different things in the past, including possum-dancing and pure foolishness. Then, again, who am I to judge?

I picked up a few possums this year, both live and unlucky ones, but I haven’t put one in the meat section of the freezer.

The contents of the freezers at home are a column for another day. Just remember: the secret to marital bliss is that hamburger and beaver hides don’t mix.

For my wife, possums fall under the category of NIMK Animals. NIMK means “Not In My Kitchen,” a geographic area which in reality extends to a radius of one mile from her kitchen.

Not only am I not allowed to cook or eat possum in the house, the hog can’t, either. My mother was much the same way. Sometimes women are so unreasonable.

As I’ve noted before, I like possums.

I miss the morning greetings from Brother Bare-Tail, a fat fellow who scavenged dog food nearly every night, and was too fat and lazy to chase the chickens. I had to relocate two of his kinfolk (one the hard way) when they raided my chicken house.

Brother Bare-tail lost his fight with the highway a few weeks back, and made his way to the land of eternal persimmons and always-open trash cans. I almost mourn for the old rascal.

Many was the time I heard him chuckling and grumbling his way across the yard, waddling along thinking whatever thoughts make a possum happy.

It was always kind of fun to startle him as he made his rounds, although Brother Bare-Tail only let me corner him once. He was a cagey old coot, and knew something might eat him if he played possum for too long.

For a possum to survive long enough to get that fat was nothing short of a miracle. He should have survived to impart possum-wisdom on another generation or two.
I miss him, but maybe it’s for the better that he’s gone.

He was just about fat enough to make a big pan of stew, not to mention a really nice hat.
Weaver is a staff writer at the News Reporter. He may be reached via e-mail at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz, or via telephone at 642-4104, ext 227.