The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson: Casseroles and Deer Heads

Sarah was the kind of woman who kept casseroles in the freezer ready to pop one in the oven for every occasion, like a funeral or a birth, or when a woman had surgery and couldn’t cook for the family, or, of course, when there was a potluck meal at church. The words “Hamburger Helper” never came out of her mouth. Casserole was her love language, and she was fluent at it.

She loved laughing and teasing in a good-natured sort of way.

Her Achille’s heel was she was a little high strung, and, unfortunately for her, I knew it. Even though she was old enough to be my mother, I had fun getting her worked up.

For instance, the time our church hired a new preacher, Jim, who was an avid deer hunter, and rather than trusting any movers to move his two prize, mounted deer heads, he brought them himself and put them in his office until his family got settled in their new house.

I didn’t know Jim, but that didn’t matter. My thought was, what better way to break in a new preacher than to steal his deer heads out of his office? Yes, that’s what I thought, and, of course, that’s what I did.

(No doubt God’s going to have a lengthy list to discuss with me when I reach the pearly gates. I’m just hoping he’ll let me in on a trial basis.)

Several days went by without Jim mentioning his missing deer heads, which told me he was an experienced practical joker. “Never show your hand” is the rule, whether you’re the victim or the perpetrator.

Of course, eventually, he asked me if I knew anything about them, and, of course, I lied.

(Add that one to the list, too, Lord.)

Rumors revealed he was asking lots of folks at church, including Sarah, if they knew anything about them.

Just to see how she’d react, I cornered Sarah about it at church, accusing her of being the one playing the joke on Jim. You’d have thought I accused her of having an affair with the Pope.

Her eyes bugged out as she pointed her finger at me. “Don’t you dare accuse me of doing it! I don’t know anything about it. If it’s anybody, it’s you!”

I confess, my reputation warranted the accusation, but I gave an Oscar-worthy performance of being wounded by her.

After several weeks, like a kettle on the eye of a stove, the joke reached a boiling point, so I decided to wrap up the little caper and confess to Jim what I’d done.

You know what’s better than being a practical joker? It’s finding out your new preacher is one, too.

What happens when two practical jokers join forces? They hatch a plan to turn the joke onto Sarah.

Step one was Jim feigning to be really upset about his missing deer heads, which sent Sarah straight to me.

“Jim’s really upset about this. You need to give him back his deer heads.”

Step two: (another lie) “Sarah, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re right about him being upset. You need to give him back his deer heads.”

She gave me a hard look and stormed off.

Step three: enlist the aid of Sarah’s son in the plan.

After church one night, he took his parents out to eat, which opened the door to step four.

While they were eating, Jim and I broke into their house and hid the deer heads in the closet of a spare bedroom, hiding them in such a way that as soon as the door opened, they would be the first things seen.

Step five: Jim and I went home.

Step six: an hour after bedtime, Jim and I went back to Sarah’s house where all the lights were off.

I knocked on the door and waited.

After several minutes, her husband, Malcolm, turned on the porch light.

Dressed in pajamas and a robe, he squinted at us. “What’s up fellas?” he asked.

With faces as serious as funeral directors, I said, “We need to come in. We’ve got something serious to discuss.”

Malcolm backed out of the way so we could come in just as Sarah was coming down the stairs tying her robe.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “Is everything okay?”

I played the role of a prosecuting attorney.

“No, no it’s not, Sarah. It’s about those deer heads. It’s time for this joke to be over with and give them back to Jim.”

Sarah cackled. “If you think those deer heads are in this house, go right ahead and help yourself; look anywhere you want. They’re not here.”

That was the steel trap of step seven snapping shut.

We strolled through the house, purposely saving the closet where the deer heads were till last.

After each opened door, each looking under beds, Sarah said triumphantly, “I told you so. They’re not here.”

When we got to the final closet, the four of us stood in a semicircle.

Taking hold of the doorknob, I turned it and swung open the door.

Antlers and glass eyes greeted us.

Sarah’s screams were heard a mile away. Grabbing her chest, she stumbled backwards. Malcolm was the only reason she didn’t fall on the floor.

Protests and denials tumbled out of her mouth like mice fleeing from a cat.

It took some time to explain all the details of the joke, but everyone was laughing about it by the time we left, even Sarah.

But just as I stepped off the porch, she fired this warning, “You just wait, David Johnson. I’ll get you back.”

You know what’s hard to do? Having your mind where it needs to be when you’re at church, while at the same time watching your back and guessing how revenge will be exacted on you.

* Taken from The Wit and Wisdom of David Johnson, Volume III: A Harrowing Halloween Tale