The other night -- no, not that one...the other one -- I found myself in need of a possum. "Now, why would a person find themselves in need of a possum?" you might ask. And to that I would answer, "Well, aren't we the nosy ones?" Which really isn't an answer but another question. Don't you hate that? All kidding aside -- I'll get back to that in a moment -- I needed a possum to assist me with a most unpleasant task. The other night, my husband was complaining to me about my "damned runny egg salad" again. So I killed him. Sheldon always said that I would be the death of him...and gosh darn it if he wasn't right! Sheldon was a very bright man. A very bright man with slow reflexes. He didn't even see that frying pan coming! I now had to find a way to discreetly dispose of my late husband, as well as replace the frying pan which Sheldon had so thoughtlessly ruined. I turned on the TV, and the answer to my dilemma was staring me in the face. I stared back. It was Joan Rivers. "Of course!" I thought to myself. "Possums! They eat anything!"

The problem was, there wasn't a possum anywhere to be found. I thought this rather odd as our neighborhood is usually running rampant with the little vermin. It's not unusual for me to look out into my back yard and find a group of possums playing a rousing game of croquet or simply running around Willy Nilly. I'm not quite sure what the object of that particular game is, but I've seen old Willy Nilly standing out on the lawn while the possums ran around him. This only takes place at night, of course, as possums are nocturnal creatures. They are also quite unattractive and, being well aware of their unsightliness, they take great pains not to be seen during daylight hours. Possums are very self-conscious. Regardless, be it day or night, you always know they are out there somewhere, scampering about in all their ugliness.

But on the night that I needed one, I could find neither hide nor hair of a possum. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I thought I spotted one staring out at me from the darkness of my bedroom. I quickly switched on the light and found that I was mistaken. It was only an autographed picture of Pat Sajak that I had proudly displayed on my bedside table. I walked to the window and peered out into the darkness. What had become of the possums? Then it hit me. It was the first week of June. Of course! June the 6th was the Great Possum Festival! Every year, for the first 5 days of the month, all of the possums go into a deep sleep to rest up for the big event. The excitement takes a lot out of them, so they need to store up their energy to participate.

I was once fortunate enough to observe the festivities one night while walking through the woods, searching for earthworms to add to my extensive collection. As I was struggling with a particularly feisty little specimen, I heard a rustling in the bushes next to me. I held my breath and slowly pushed back the leaves. Staring back up at me were three tiny possums, gayly dressed in what appeared to be party wear. They looked up at me, as if to say "What?", then continued on their merry way. My curiosity piqued -- when I wasn't looking -- I decided to follow them. Before long, I came to a clearing in the woods. To my surprise, there were hundreds of possums bustling about! It seemed as if some sort of celebration were taking place. Staying low and keeping myself out of sight, I pulled out my worm watching binoculars and settled in to watch the activities.

There were possums frolicking here and there -- well...more there than here -- and having the time of their lives! Caught up in the magic of the moment, I suddenly felt a slight tugging at my pant leg. I looked down and noticed a stern looking little possum glaring up at me. "Excuse me, Miss!" he snipped, "But you'll have to move along!" He was wearing a yellow nylon jacket with the words "Possum Patrol" boldly emblazoned on the back. "Who are you?" I asked. "I'm Pierre Marsupeau!" he said indignantly, as if I should know who he was. (Although he did look familiar) He then told me that the English translation for Marsupeau was, "He of the Skin Tail." Disinterested with this bit of unsolicited information, I turned my attention back to the festivities. Monsieur Marsupeau then let out a great hiss and smacked me on the ankle. I retaliated by slapping him on the head. He kicked me. I pinched him. This turned into a knock-down-drag-out fight, which left us both exhausted, lifelessly lying on the ground. When the dust had settled, we had found a new respect for each other. I apologized for spying, and he in turn apologized for taking his security job too seriously. Pierre and I quickly became friends and I was allowed to stay and observe the festival from a distance. I had to promise that I wouldn't interfere and would tell no one of the events I was about to witness. I gave him my word -- which I obviously didn't keep, since I'm telling you about it at this very moment -- and we both watched as the festival got under way. Pierre stayed by my side as my personal little commentator to describe the events taking place.

Since it is unlikely that you will have the opportunity to see the wonderment that is the Great Possum Festival for yourself, I will share my experience with you now. Please remain in your seats until the story has come to a complete stop. Thank you. Sincerely, The Management.

The opening ceremonies begin with a parade of many colourful milk carton floats, decorated by the grade 9 students of Beadyeye High. Miss Rattail's class works feverishly for a week collecting bottle caps and discarded chewing gum to complete the mosaic work which adorns the cartons. The captain of the school's cheerleading team leads off the parade, twirling and tossing her baton high into the air, catching it confidently in her little fingers. Praise be to Bob and the opposable thumb!

The Tree Hanging Event is a favourite among possums. Although, for the life of me, I can't imagine why. Each participant climbs up into a tree and finds a desirable spot from which to hang. And that is precisely what they do. They hang. The last possum hanging wins. Anyone wearing glasses must ensure that they are securely fastened to their head at all times. Failure to adhere to this rule will result in immediate disqualification from the contest. This is for safety reasons. Some of the youngsters stand below hoping to catch any loose change that falls from the contestants' pouches. One year, little Seamus O'Possum, just in from Ireland, was hospitalized after a pair of bifocals descended from the heavens with such velocity that it sheared off the fingers of his right hand. Seamus O'Possum can no longer play the banjo...thank goodness!

Even less exciting than The Tree Hanging Event -- if you can believe that -- is the Staring Challenge. Possums line up across from each other and attempt to stare each other down, in hopes of becoming the next Stare Master. Needless to say, this is not much of a spectator sport. Back in 1932, Lester Cootie had won the contest after passing away during the event. Having died with his eyes open, no one had noticed that he had expired. Since there were no rules stating that the winner must be living, the illustrious title was awarded to Lester. As a result of this incident, the rules now state that each participant must be living upon beginning the contest, and continue to live until a winner has been declared. After which time, he may then pass on.

Then there's the Ugly Contest, where each possum steps up onto a platform and a judge, named Judy, decides which is the most repulsive of all possums. Not an easy task, to be sure! For the younger crowd, there's The Indian Leg Wrestling Competition. In this athletic event, each possum takes turns wrestling Indian Legs. They have to send clear over to Tonto County for those! They are donated by old Indian lepers, late in the gangrene season. The highlight of the festival is the crowning of Miss Marsupial. She who is the least homely, wins the crown and a date with Don Knotts.

As the sun threatens to make its first appearance through the early morning mist, the bone-weary possums discard their happy little clothes, and return to their respective homes as naked as nature intended. A few stragglers will stay behind lollygagging -- much to the chagrin of Lolly -- doing what they can to keep the night from ending. But it will. And the possums will go back to their ordinary little lives for another year.

Pierre and I had forged a friendship like no other, and vowed to keep in touch whenever possible. We see each other from time to time, usually when I'm out on a worm hunt. Or, as Pierre would say, "Le seeque du la squirm!" (Sometimes that French gets on my nerves.) But I haven't seen "mon ami" for quite a while. He's been spending most of his time at home since his wife, Myrna, had her litter. And I'm usually busy with my worms.

Which reminds me... There's still that little matter of Sheldon. I guess I'll just have to put it off for a few more days. The Great Possum Festival is this Sunday so, all the possums should be fully recovered by Tuesday. But my sofa won't be re-covered until Wednesday. So, it will have to wait until Thursday. If they haven't already made plans, I'll invite the Marsupeau's over for dinner Thursday night. Pierre is always telling me that he'd like to get his wife out of the house and away from the children for a few hours. They seem to be getting on her back more and more these days. It should be a most enjoyable evening for everyone. And the best part about having possums over for dinner is... I won't even have to cook!