There isn't much to do in Richland, Indiana. There is a reproduction of Lincoln's childhood home where no one ever goes-- a failed attempt by the local Chamber of Commerce to promote tourism. There is a tavern situated in an old boxcar, and a restaurant housed in an imitation boxcar that serves a pretty good burger. I do not know where the Richlandian penchant for boxcars comes from, and neither did anyone I asked.

My wife is from Richland, and she doesn't know. She thinks I'm an idiot for asking. She is probably right.

Eight Thanksgivings ago, I dutifully took my wife and two kids, Samantha, 12, and Alex, 9, to Richland to spend the holiday. Thanksgivings at the Cummings household consist of Al, the patriarch, getting up up at eight in the morning, taking a seat at the head of the table, and shouting,"Wanda, where in the hell is that turkey? I'm hungry."

Al grouses at regular intervals while Wanda, my mother-in-law, tells him to shut up until dinner is served about eleven o' clock. Afterwards, we usually watch football while Al extols the virtues of Brett Favre, but not that Thanksgiving.

No, that Thanksgiving Teddy, my brother-in-law, said,"Let's go squirrel huntin'."

I had never been squirrel hunting. I had never been hunting period. I'm a city boy. The closest thing to squirrel hunting I had experienced was going to the garbage dump and shooting rats with a .22 when I was a kid. I hate rats and have no compunction about killing them. I had nothing against squirrels. A squirrel had never bothered me. My attitude toward squirrels was strictly live and let live.

"Yeah, dad, let's go squirrel huntin'," echoed my son.

"Sure, let's go," I said. I never miss a chance to bond with my son.

Al has enough ordinance around the house to win a war with Canada, should the Canadians be foolish enough to get frisky. We rummaged around for shotguns, Alex and Teddy choosing a couple of 12 gauges, while I opted for a .410, a smaller gun I was sure would be sufficient to dispatch a squirrel. After all, James Bond, the deadliest killer of them all, used a .380 Beretta automatic. No need for overkill.

Al opted not to go. "I ain't goin' out there and freezin' my ass off," he sagely decided.

We set out, the three of us, stalking the wild Indiana squirrel in the field in back of Al's house. There were a few scattered trees; black branches against the gray November sky. Patient and wily, we went from tree to tree, looking for prey. Finally, I spotted one sitting on a branch gazing imperiously down at us.

"I've spotted one," I said.

"You take the shot," said Teddy. "You're the one who saw it first."

I sighted down the barrel, took dead aim at the squirrel, and pulled the trigger expecting the rodent to fall from the tree.

Instead, one seriously pissed off squirrel began scolding me. It sat on the branch and poured invective on me. It chattered and barked, outraged.

"I think you winged it, dad," said Alex. "Shoot it again."

I did.

It made the squirrel hopping mad. It jumped furiously from branch to branch heaping squirrel insults on me as it did. I was impressed by its agility and how quickly it could move from branch to branch, up and down and six ways from sideways. On some primitive level, I expected the squirrel to return fire, throwing acorns or any available missile at me.

"Want me to chuck a rock at it?" Alex asked. "Maybe I can finish it off."

"You know," said Teddy, " I ain't never seen a squirrel that pissed off. He seems to have definite issues with you."

"Damn," I said.

Alex and Teddy were collapsing with laughter. They both agreed that was one badass squirrel in that tree.

Finally, mercifully, Teddy said: "Let's head back to the house. I'm freezing my ass off."

We sent back to the house. I cleaned the shotgun and put it away.

"Well, did you get any squirrels" Al asked.

"Nah," I said.

"What the hell is wrong with you? There's more squirrels out there than you can shake a stick at."

"Maybe you should've shook a stick at it," said Alex. "You might've scared it to death."

"Oh shut up." I said.

Now we have a new Thanksgiving story told every year at the Cummings's.

I star in it.