Dear Floridians and People Who Live in Other States Where Rattlesnakes Hang Out,

    The screaming proved distracting.

     My writer’s mind kept me busy as  I headed toward the sound of fear and controversy.  My thoughts ran amok:  Conner’s been attacked by wasps, bees, ants, or Zoe.  Heather’s seen a ghost, a giant, a stinky goat, or stepped in horse, dog, goat stuff.  Zoe’s fallen down a well, mine shaft, sink hole, or into a ditch dug by fire ants.

    Seeing me, they pointed as one human being toward the vegetable garden.

    Zoe yelled, “Snake!”

    Heather yipped, “Rattlesnake.”

    Conner screamed, “Ahhhhhhhhhhbloggitygobblobarg,” in excitement while jumping up and down on a fire ant hill.

    “What?  Where?”

    “Just wait.”  We waited while Conner hopped. Out of the garden slithered the second largest rattlesnake to traverse our horse pastures on its way to somewhere else in as many years.

    “Wow, that’s a rattlesnake.  What do you want me to do about it?”  I said, still holding my barn sweeping broom. 

    “We should call people.”  Heather clutched her children to her bosom as the snake slithered along testing the air with its tongue.

    “Which people would that be?”

    “You know.  The people who do this sort of stuff.”

    “You mean the Crocodile Hunter?  He’s dead.  We’re on our own.”

    The snake paused and then headed for the shed.  “Well maybe I can hurry our visitor along.”  I tossed my broom towards the snake.  Unlike other self-respecting black snakes this snake basically gave me the rattlesnake finger and disappeared casually under our shed.  My heart rate skyrocketed.  Not seeing the rattlesnake was way worse than seeing it.

    I headed next door to warn my neighbor that a six foot rattlesnake was migrating straight for her crawl space.  The snake emerged.  Before I knew what was happening our neighbor had made a call, and the next thing I realized we were having another Saint Cloud moment.  Ten minutes later, our neighbor’s neighbor rattled into the yard, jumped from his pickup wearing a cut off pair of shorts and nothing else, a cigarette dangling from his thin, clenched lips.  His lean, near naked body bristled with guns. 

    “Heather,” I directed, “grab the kids and head for the garage.  I have no idea how drunk this guy is.”   We cowered in the garage as the half naked man tried to shoot the rattlesnake of doom.  First shot, a miss.  Second shot, a misfire.  The guns didn’t look all that new.
   
    Heather asked as she covered her ears, “How many shots does it take?”  We screamed at every crack of the rifle.

    “Again, depends on how drunk he is.”

    Third shot, dirt jumped into the air and the snake wriggled no more.  The Marlboro man picked up the snake by its rattles and measured it against his body.  Holding it next to his head it dragged the ground.

    That night Heather called to tell me that Phillip, her husband, said that rattlesnakes travel in pairs and that the dead snake’s mate would be popping up anytime to take revenge.  I scoffed and scorned.

    One week later, another rattlesnake, coiled and rattling next to my pickup truck, made it impossible for me to 1) get into my vehicle, 2) go to school, or 3) hold my water (i.e. I wet myself.) 

    To be continued . . .

    Linda (Snake Bit) Zern





    

    

     


  

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