Back around 1912, in a little tar-paper shack out in the hills of northeast Oklahoma—Indian Territory days weren’t that far behind—my great-grandpa Tobe Smith lived the simple life. No running water, no fancy plumbing, just a wooden outhouse over a hole in the ground and a back porch that served as the nighttime “facilities” for the menfolk. Tobe was a good man, tough as boot leather, with a soft spot for his favorite cat, Fred. That old tomcat followed him everywhere like a loyal hound, curled up in his lap, and generally acted like he owned the place.
Tobe slept in one of those long nightshirts folks wore back then—kinda like a gown that hung down to his knees (or lower, depending on who you ask). And yep, rumor has it he didn’t bother with anything underneath. Why would you, when the only thing between you and the night air was a quick step onto the back porch?
Well, my grandma Mary Smith—later Grandma Maghe—was about ten years old, dark-haired, dark-skinned, full-blood Cherokee through and through, and ornery as a sack full of wildcats. She and her sisters were a handful, always cooking up some scheme that sounded hilarious in their heads. One evening they got the bright idea to play a prank on poor Fred. They’d heard somewhere that turpentine could light a fire under sensitive skin (kids pick up the darndest things), so they figured it’d be funny to give the cat a little “hot seat.”
Two sisters held Fred wrapped tight in a gunnysack while Grandma Mary went to work with a rag and a generous dose of turpentine right on the cat’s… well, let’s just say his “back porch.” Fred did not appreciate the attention. He yowled like a banshee, twisted and fought, and the second they let go—zoom!—he shot off like a rocket with a lit fuse.
Around the house he tore, screaming bloody murder, fur standing on end, looking for anything to cool that burning ambition. And wouldn’t you know it, just at that moment, Great-Grandpa Tobe was out on the back porch, nightshirt hiked up, taking care of business under the stars.
Fred, in full panic mode, saw the one safe-looking spot he could reach: straight up the nightshirt like it was a tree trunk. Claws out, he scrambled all the way to the top, hanging on for dear life while Tobe hollered and danced and tried to figure out what in tarnation had possessed his sweet cat to turn into a furry tornado.
Let’s just say there was some serious scratching involved—enough to leave Tobe bleeding in places a man doesn’t like to bleed—and Fred finally dropped out the bottom like he’d been shot from a cannon. The cat bolted into the night, probably never to trust humans again, and Tobe stood there in shock, nightshirt in tatters, trying to piece together what just happened.
It didn’t take long for the girls to get rounded up. Grandma Mary and her sisters fessed up (after a little encouragement from the switch), and they spent the next week doing every chore Tobe could dream up. But even years later, when the story got told around the family table, folks would laugh till their sides hurt. Grandma always insisted it was the funniest thing she’d ever pulled—even if Tobe never quite saw the humor in it.
She was tough, that Grandma Maghe, with a mischievous streak a mile wide. And if you ever asked her about Fred and the turpentine, she’d just grin that sly grin and say, “Well, sometimes the best jokes leave a mark… on everybody.”
