At each place I’ve landed over the years I usually introduce myself as someone who loves hot and spicy food, college football, and almost all things south. I reserve the “H” word for only a couple of things.
Being raised in Alabama and having spent more than half of my life in Arkansas, I’m sorry, but I loathe winter. That’s why you won’t hear me complain when it’s 94 and everyone needs an extra layer of antiperspirant. I always consider the other extreme and enjoy soaking up the sun.
The best thing I can say about winter is that the snakes hate it more than I do.
Note for any PETA reps out there: I am an animal lover. I just hate, yes, hate snakes. Before you try to convince me otherwise, perhaps you should know my background with the slithering, no-neck, beady-eyed, forked-tongue pet of Satan.
I was a 7th grader in a small town with a small school where students in grades 7 through 12 attended the same building. When you’re a 7th grader, 9th graders, well, they kinda rock, especially if they’ll have anything to do with a 7th grader.
One of those 9th graders called me up on a hot summer Saturday in Alabama and asked if I wanted to go play basketball. My bike was in need of repair, so Trey, who lived about a half-mile down the road, rode his bike to my house, allowed me to ride with him the final mile or so to the nearest gym. We played one-on-one and games of H-O-R-S-E for ours until our scrawny muscles screamed ‘NO MAS!’
I’m sure Trey would have rather that I walked home, but he was nice enough to peddle in that direction. We were probably only a quarter-mile from my house, coming to a bend in the road when Trey spotted a snake crossing the road. As Lewis Grizzard would say, all snakes might as well be copperheaded water-rattlers. But Trey said it was “just” a garter snake and was saying things like, “Cool, this’ll be great for my biology class.” It sounded to me like, “Hey Kyle, I’m going to pick up this anaconda. You might want to run for your life.”
The snake, which he claimed was only about 18 inches long while I guesstimated it at nothing short of 16 feet, was headed for the ditch when Trey picked it up and tossed it on his shoulder. By this point I was about 40 yards away making a B-line for my house and hopping frantically over every stick, jumping to assumptions that they were relatives of the snake Trey had kidnapped. Trey had traveled maybe 12 feet on the bike when I heard it crash while he yelped like a puppy whose paw had been stepped upon.
I asked Trey what was going on as he sat on the edge of the road with the bike at his side. He said something about the snake biting him. My dislike for snakes was already well known, so I assumed Trey was just wanting to pull a prank on me, hoping I’d get close enough to him so he could toss the creature on me. I’m certain I would have never seen the 8th grade had that been the case.
Trey was either in serious pain or was doing one heck of an acting job when an elderly neighbor stopped by and asked if she could help. Trey told her he was fine, but I could see in his eyes he was fighting back something. When the neighbor pulled away I demanded Trey prove to me the snake was biting him. He pulled back his gym shorts and showed me his blood-stained underwear. Yes, Trey had been so comfortable with the snake that he had allowed it to crawl all over his body. The problem occurred when he began peddling the bike. He apparently pinched the snake, which decided to pinch back in an area where let’s just say no man should ever be pinched.
At this point I am hopping up and down on the other side of the road yelling for Trey to kill the snake, which apparently had a firm grip with its row of small, yet razor-sharp teeth. Each time Trey tried to pull the snake away it only clamped down tighter. Finally, after about three attempts, the snake let go. Trey jumped up and stomped it to snake hell. He dropped me off at my house and my father was on the phone with Trey’s father before he even reached his house.
Trey received a tetanus shot, or two, from the incident. I, meanwhile, was scarred for life.