April 10, 1999
Snakes and Ladders
by Joshua Carden
WARNING! THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS THE WORD “SNAKE” SEVERAL TIMES. IF YOU SUFFER FROM OPHIDIOPHOBIA (FEAR OF SNAKES), OR ITS MORE COMMON NAME, “MIKE FARRIS DISEASE,” PLEASE READ NO FURTHER.
Okay, is it safe? I always have to throw in that warning or people who are afraid of snakes wind up threatening my life. I never quite understand the rationale behind their fear. Oh well, most people probably wouldn’t understand my fear of begonias. I’d tell you that story but it would take WAY too long. Oh, and the Mike Farris comment? Don’t ask. Don’t put a snake in his face while he’s in the car, either. Not a good idea. Really. Trust me on this.
This story is about people who have a normal, healthy caution regarding snakes. Namely, my brother Jason and I. Both of us have handled snakes. Both of us have shot snakes. The key, in both kinds of situations, was that WE KNEW THE SNAKE WAS THERE. This takes a lot of stress out of snaky situations. When I see a snake on the road, I remain calm and pursue one of two options:
1. If I am in my car, I will calmly speed up and calmly hit the brakes right in front of the snake, so that I can calmly skid over the snake and calmly flatten him like an oblong pancake (Tasting, we assume, like chicken)
2. If I am not in my car, I calmly check the current snake against the “poisonous snake” card file in my head. If I don’t find a match, I calmly decide how I can scare my mother with it. In retrospect, also not a good idea. Really. Trust me on this one too.
NOT seeing the snake first is a different. For instance, one time I was clearing a fence full of briars with a scythe. This was not a pleasant experience. For you city folks, the closest imagery I can give you is being locked in a room, wearing a wool sweater, with five cats with long claws and a hungry Doberman. (William Faulkner I’m not!) During this process, I stepped right on the head of a four-foot blacksnake. I’m sure you’re thinking, “yeah right! I bet that snake has grown at least three feet since you started telling that story!” No, really, I know he was four-feet long because he wrapped around my leg four times to let me know I was stepping on his head. I got a bad case of the heebie-jeebies, dropped the scythe, grabbed his tail, and yanked it like I was starting a push mower. His head whizzed around my leg four times as I threw him like a floppy javelin. He went one way, and I went the other. At that point, I didn’t care if he was poisonous. I was just glad we had parted ways. At least I was standing on the ground, unlike what happened to my brother Jason.
It’s like this – We were building a barn for our ostriches. A two-story barn, which, unless you’re Wilt the Stilt, means ladders and scaffolding. It also means needing a place to put your extra nails. Carpenters have a place just for that. It’s called a nail bag. We had two. For the first part of the day, Dad and Jason had the nail bags. I put my extras in my mouth, and tried hard not to swallow. After lunch, I decided I wanted a nail bag. Unfortunately, in a classic conflict of sibling wills, Jason decided he wanted to keep his. My argument that he had used it all morning wasn’t holding up real well against his fifty-pound weight advantage, so I finally caved. As I turned away, I noticed a six-inch grass snake crawling next me. I picked it up and slipped it into Jason’s nail bag as he started up the ladder. With the peaceful serenity and patience that are the marks of a true practical joker, I waited. I did not have long to wait. Sure enough, about five nails past lunch, Jason let out a holler that is still raising eyebrows in NSA listening posts around the country. He had tied the bag pretty tight, but you would have never known it by how fast he got that sucker off of him, and himself off the ladder. I got the nail bag. I’m still alive. Jason still speaks to me. If that’s not a testimony to God’s grace, I don’t know what is!