Snakes Alive!
O.K. folks, I'm telling the following true story at the request of my good friend and fellow writer, Linda Amey, who heard it years ago. Thanks, Linda, for listening to a good many tales during the past twenty-one years.
They're everywhere, just waiting like ticking, rattling bombs. Coiled in a live oak treetop, underneath the hood of the red Chevy ranch truck, on the other side of the screened back door, and perhaps even underneath our four-poster bed. I could say, "No problem. They don't bother me. I grew up on a ranch and ate boot leather and nails for breakfast. My only toy was a rattler's tail. I walked twelve miles to school each morning, pushing a tractor with one hand and turning the pages of Zane Grey novels with the other...." I could say all that, but it would be a lie.
Here's the truth. I'm very fearful of snakes. Just seeing those cheap plaster rattler ashtrays in Ruidoso, New Mexico, a few days ago, made me shudder. Even if a rattler coils on an Animal Planet television show fifteen feet from where I'm sitting on my living room sofa, I feel as if I might need to lie down with a cold rag on my forehead.
A few years ago, I went to see my folks on the family ranch that lies between Johnson City and Fredericksburg. The ranch has been in the family since the 1800's, and is flanked by the Pedernales River, tons of limestone, Indian mounds, persimmon, cedar and live oak, and bluebonnets in the spring. It also has rattlers, cottonmouths, and a few jillion racers, chicken snakes, grass snakes and even occasional king snakes. There are sink holes and caves that I won't go near on the ranch, because...you guessed it, they serve as convention centers for vipers. This spring day, I drove past the one-hundred-year-old fence that ran between my grandparents' house and my parents' pasture. I stopped to open the gate that kept the heifers and bull in the North pasture, and afterward saw the biggest, meanest looking rattler I had ever seen. It appeared to be crossing the road just ahead of me, so I put my Tahoe into gear and charged. But not before I quickly changed into a red cape—-well at least in my mind. I had to save my family from a fate worse than death. Mighty Mouse to the rescue! I ran over the rattler, backed up and ran over it again. I repeated the action at least fifty times. Finally, after about fifteen minutes and five gallons of gas, I was satisfied it was dead.
"Take that—you serpent of the evil empire, you creature of doom. You are no match for Mighty Mouse!" These were tough words, but my knees were knocking. Shaking, I finally barreled on toward my parents' home. Breathless, I ran inside the front door of the two-story rock Walton's family styled house and found my mother cooking venison sausage in the kitchen.
Hearing my footsteps, she turned around to face me. My face read like a Stephen King novel causing hers to blanche. She must have wondered whether a family member had suddenly died, or worse, whether H.E.B. had gone out-of-business, or even worse, whether a family member had died inside of H.E.B., causing it to go out-of-business.
"Oh my gosh, Mom. I just killed the biggest, meanest rattler I've ever seen!"
"Really?" she said. "Where was it ?
"On this side of the gate by the barn."
"Oh that...We killed that snake yesterday!
They're everywhere, just waiting like ticking, rattling bombs. Coiled in a live oak treetop, underneath the hood of the red Chevy ranch truck, on the other side of the screened back door, and perhaps even underneath our four-poster bed. I could say, "No problem. They don't bother me. I grew up on a ranch and ate boot leather and nails for breakfast. My only toy was a rattler's tail. I walked twelve miles to school each morning, pushing a tractor with one hand and turning the pages of Zane Grey novels with the other...." I could say all that, but it would be a lie.
Here's the truth. I'm very fearful of snakes. Just seeing those cheap plaster rattler ashtrays in Ruidoso, New Mexico, a few days ago, made me shudder. Even if a rattler coils on an Animal Planet television show fifteen feet from where I'm sitting on my living room sofa, I feel as if I might need to lie down with a cold rag on my forehead.
A few years ago, I went to see my folks on the family ranch that lies between Johnson City and Fredericksburg. The ranch has been in the family since the 1800's, and is flanked by the Pedernales River, tons of limestone, Indian mounds, persimmon, cedar and live oak, and bluebonnets in the spring. It also has rattlers, cottonmouths, and a few jillion racers, chicken snakes, grass snakes and even occasional king snakes. There are sink holes and caves that I won't go near on the ranch, because...you guessed it, they serve as convention centers for vipers. This spring day, I drove past the one-hundred-year-old fence that ran between my grandparents' house and my parents' pasture. I stopped to open the gate that kept the heifers and bull in the North pasture, and afterward saw the biggest, meanest looking rattler I had ever seen. It appeared to be crossing the road just ahead of me, so I put my Tahoe into gear and charged. But not before I quickly changed into a red cape—-well at least in my mind. I had to save my family from a fate worse than death. Mighty Mouse to the rescue! I ran over the rattler, backed up and ran over it again. I repeated the action at least fifty times. Finally, after about fifteen minutes and five gallons of gas, I was satisfied it was dead.
"Take that—you serpent of the evil empire, you creature of doom. You are no match for Mighty Mouse!" These were tough words, but my knees were knocking. Shaking, I finally barreled on toward my parents' home. Breathless, I ran inside the front door of the two-story rock Walton's family styled house and found my mother cooking venison sausage in the kitchen.
Hearing my footsteps, she turned around to face me. My face read like a Stephen King novel causing hers to blanche. She must have wondered whether a family member had suddenly died, or worse, whether H.E.B. had gone out-of-business, or even worse, whether a family member had died inside of H.E.B., causing it to go out-of-business.
"Oh my gosh, Mom. I just killed the biggest, meanest rattler I've ever seen!"
"Really?" she said. "Where was it ?
"On this side of the gate by the barn."
"Oh that...We killed that snake yesterday!
Posted by Marci Henna at 3/22/2009 3:52 PM 
Categories: Humor
Tags: The Mind Pantry of a Wild-Haired Southern Woman: Marci Henna
Categories: Humor
Tags: The Mind Pantry of a Wild-Haired Southern Woman: Marci Henna
What a hoot, Marci! I'm convinced now that there are many more snakes in Texas than in Kenya...
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Dear Joan,
You might be right. I'm thinking I need to live in Alaska where I only have to worry about grizzley bear! But, at least I can see them coming!
Thanks so much for taking the time to read my blog. It was wonderful to see you this morning at St. James!
Marci
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Exactly! Still chuckling... Phyllis
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Thanks, Phyllis for taking the time to read my blog and for your kind comments. I hope all is well with you and yours!
Take care,
Marci
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Marci, I love your snake story...how much is true and how much is fiction? You have such a way with words and can really paint a picture. I'm very envious of your talent. I'm sure I'll be seeing you next week when we welcome Morgan Opal into the world. Sharon P.S. Now I want to read the rest of your stories.
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Dear Sharon,
This a true story. I did not really yell, "Mighty Mouse to the rescue." But, as a child, I adored Mighty Mouse. I did run over (repeatedly) an already dead snake. I'm so horrified of the creatures, that I ran over it many times. My mother did say exactly what I printed.
I can't wait to meet little Morgan. I kept her brother today and had so much fun!
I'm looking forward to seeing you on Tuesday, if not sooner.
Thanks so much for reading my blog and taking the time to make such kind comments.
Marci
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Marci - I liked your story, if not the antagonist. I often measure my self-worth in knowing what phobias I share with others. If that too gives you consolation about your ophidiophobia, consider yourself in good company, including mine - Andre the Giant and Jake the Snake Roberts (both killer wrestlers) and Thomas Hart Benton and Georgia O'Keefe (both who never painted a single snake they liked). This particular fear of mine traces back to Catholic girls school, where I stared for hours at a saint card on which the Virgin Mary pounded evil snakes with a stick. And my brother and I weren't even officially eligible to handle the classroom learning aids. Of the 115 species and subspecies of snakes in Texas, there's only one good classification. Jerry
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This is great, Jerry! Now, inquiring minds want to know---why does it take you back to a Catholic girls' school? Did your mom teach there?
Thanks!
Marci
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Marci - Great story! On second reading, it put me in the mind. In the Texas Hill Country when I was growing up, mothers used to caution their girls - and boys alike in casual earshot. If it rears an ugly head, stares you in the eye and won't blink, crawls on its belly and hisses even once - shoot it! Must account for the terrible mishap that befell poor philandering Jake the Snake down the road apiece from our place. Well, that's another dead snake story, fit for telling, only, Saturday mornings at Ike's Feed and Seed and Miss Mae's Millinery Emporium.
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Dear Jerry,
Thanks so much for this. I think I might have known similar places--Ike's Feed and Seed and Miss Mae's Millinery Emporium--in Johnson City.
I appreciate your kindness and comments so much!
Marci
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