As the woodchuck strolled through the crackle of maroon and burnt umber on the floor of the forest, she felt a deep appreciation for the changing colors. Autumn was the second-best time of year; a prequel to her favorite season, which was hibernation. The anticipation of napping for four months filled her with joy, and the confetti of falling leaves meant it was just around the corner.
Traveling above ground was a bit reckless because of the hawk situation, but to tunnel to the meeting place would have ruined her manicure. The minks had set up a salon down by the river and had rubbed sap on her claws that made them shiny. The woodchuck did not consider herself vain (even though every other animal in the forest did), but after gazing at her graying snout in a puddle, she had decided that a little help wouldn’t be a bad idea. The clever minks had pounded chestnuts and mulberries into a juice and made her roll around in it; when the solution dried, she was delighted to find her fur was now the reddish brown of her youth. The only drawback was that bees kept following her around. The minks promised that as soon as the juice fermented, they would get drunk and pass out.
The woodchuck had felt the need for a make-over because she was on her way to a reunion with the group of groundhogs she had grown up with and was feeling a bit overwhelmed. Going to this thing had been her friend Gert’s idea, and the two of them had been giggling and gossiping about old classmates for weeks now. Gert had talked her into this and should be here right now admiring her fancy nails; but Gert had gone to sleep in her burrow a few days ago and had not woken up.
Life in the meadow could be hard; there were always weasels and feral cats waiting to rip your head off or eat your latest litter. Dying in your cozy dirt hole after you had actually lived long enough to attend a reunion seemed like a pretty good way to go, but the woodchuck did not see it that way. She was furious at her friend for dying and had decided to attend the gathering out of spite, if only to prove to the other groundhogs that she was still vibrant and young with great claws.
When she arrived, the crowded clearing in the forest was one big, undulating furry surface. No one looked familiar—each rodent was wearing a nametag, but most of them said Woody or Chuckie so it didn’t really help identify anyone. Maybe those were their married names.
She felt invisible as made her way through the crowd. No one seemed to realize she had been the famous groundhog who predicted when spring would arrive. She had assumed she wasn’t going to remember anyone, but she hadn’t counted on them not remembering her. The conversations she politely listened to seemed to be mostly about who had mated with the most woodchucks in attendance.
There was a pile of souvenir rocks with the initials “SHS73” scratched on them. The woodchuck had a vague recollection of an incident that had occurred their final year: a bird of prey had swooped down out of the sky during a game and carried away their quarterback. This happened fairly often, which was why they were called pick-up games.
With one voice, the entire school had started screaming “S.H.S!” (Scram, Hawk, Scram!), enough to startle the bird into dropping their star player. The 73 referred to either the number of times they shouted or the number of players who needed to talk to a counselor after the traumatic event. She couldn’t remember which one.
Surrounded by her past, the woodchuck felt old. Had she really laughed and possibly had litters with some of these groundhogs? Shouldn’t she have fond memories and hilarious stories to share? She was thinking about leaving when she noticed a list carved into the bark of a pine tree. It was the names of different classmates who had died in the past years, and there were a lot more than she had expected. The last name on the list was Gert’s.
“You were her best friend,” a voice next to her said softly. The woodchuck swallowed hard and turned toward a young rodent who was also reading the list of dead. She was in her prime, her fur a rich, mahogany hue that owed nothing to mulberry juice. There were no bees following her.
This teenager doesn’t have enough body fat to survive hibernation, thought the woodchuck meanly. Honestly, she had grudges older than this kid.
“You’re Phil, right? My Aunt Gert told me about you.”
The woodchuck gulped and immediately silenced all the snarky insults she had been formulating in her head.
“I was with her at the end, and she made me promise to find you. She said you were hilarious and brave and that you must tell me the story of “SHS73”. My aunt believed it was the elders’ duty to keep the young groundhogs safe, and that you were perfect for the job.”
The woodchuck didn’t particularly care for the term elder—she and Gert had argued about this before—but she couldn’t help but agree that she was the best rodent for that job. She had come to the reunion expecting nostalgia, but now she realized that her friend had a different purpose in mind. She wanted the woodchuck to teach Generation G how to survive.
She tucked her short, front paw into the crook of the young woodchuck’s arm, and as they strolled, began the final phase of her long life: she would be the wise storyteller and educator of the next generation.
“The 73 in “SHS73” refers to the number of sticks I used to single-handedly beat back the attacking hawk . . .”
She hoped Gert would be proud of her.
High school reunions are not as scary as hawk attacks, but they can both leave scars. Be careful with those talons!
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