The Bobcat Squall

How my grandfather lit our imaginations on fire—one story (and scream) at a time.

The Porch Was Our Theater

Every wild day ended the same way—bare feet on cool boards, elbows on knees, and stories spilling out under the Oklahoma sky. And I’ll admit it: I’m a story topper. Not because I need the last word, but because stories are how I remember. They’re how I hold on.

I come from a long line of storytellers. But the trunk of that tree? That was Grandad Ben.

The Original Legend

Born on Leap Day in 1908 and raised in the rugged Boston Mountains of Arkansas, Grandad Ben was part blacksmith, part magician, part madman. He could shoe a horse, roll a cigarette one-handed, and split a log so clean the wood practically clapped in applause.

He smoked Prince Albert, sharpened every blade in the county, and popped out his dentures to chase us around the porch like a lunatic. We screamed. We laughed. And then we begged for a story.

And oh, did he deliver.

The Bobcat Came Alive

He didn’t just tell stories—he performed them. Voices. Pauses. Sound effects. He could act out a possum fight using nothing but his hands and throat. But the one that stole the show every time?

The bobcat squall.

It started low in his chest and came screaming out like a banshee trapped in a rain barrel. It hit you in the spine before it reached your ears. Dogs barked. Kids jumped. The porch practically shook.

We couldn’t get enough of it.

Then One Day… We Heard the Real Thing

It was summer. We were at Uncle John’s cabin in Mountainburg, deep in Grandad’s old stomping grounds.

Dennis and I were mid-chase, barefoot in the yard, when it came—the real bobcat cry. No porch performance. No joke. Just raw, wild terror from the trees.

We froze.

Then we ran like our lives depended on it—straight through the front door, no questions asked.

And for once, I outran Dennis.

The Stories Started to Fade

But time doesn’t warn you. It doesn’t come crashing in—it sneaks, quietly. A missed beat. A forgotten name. A pause where the punchline used to be.

We didn’t have a name for it then. Later, we’d learn it was Alzheimer’s.

It came for Grandad one memory at a time. First the rhythm. Then the voice. Eventually, the stories stopped altogether.

I never got the squall recorded. Never got the best ones written down. But I can still feel them. Still hear them.

That’s why I write.

Keeping the Fire Alive

If Grandad Ben could conjure a bobcat out of thin air and pull belly laughs from thin porch air, maybe I can do the same. Not with his voice—but with the rhythm and love he handed down.

This isn’t just storytelling. It’s preservation. It’s defiance. It’s tribute.

And just so you know—that trip to Uncle John’s? The bobcat wasn’t the craziest thing that week.

Let’s just say Dennis never saw it coming.

Tell Me About Your Grandad

Did your grandpa have a signature sound? A porch story that still rings in your ears? Share your favorite Grandad moment at facebook.com/RealChatRat. Bonus points if it includes possums, porch swings, or a wild animal impersonation.