Before we get started, let me just warn you, this is about snakes, so if you have a phobia, best to turn back now.
I’ve got childhood memories of snakes, finding myself up close and personal on more than one occasion. I’ve been a landlord for snakes (I had two bunking in my linen closet before I had to evict them for failure to pay rent). I’ve even posed with them in photographs (you’d be surprised how many fashion models won’t let somebody drape a snake around their neck). Although I’ve always had a healthy respect for the creatures, I’ve never feared them.
So, when I saw a big king snake stretched out on the road in front of our house, I didn’t run over it. I stopped and got out to introduce myself. At first the snake seemed unaware of me, so I got a real good look at it.
He lay there completely straight, like a stick. Each of his scales seemed to be lifted, like tiny solar panels. He was black and shiny, like patent leather. With the toe of my shoe, I touched his tail and he drew up in a flash and took off, disappearing into the tall grass by the side of the road.
I went home and fixed lunch, then got ready to go to a rehearsal at Phil Coley’s studio in Bowdon. Right before I left, the phone rang. It was Vesta, my sister. She had told me earlier that she was having snake problems (costing her about a half dozen eggs a day) and now she had found one in her laying boxes and could I come help her with it. What you need to know about my sister is that she’s not afraid of anything in the world, but snakes. I grabbed some leather gloves and a pillowcase, hoping I could just relocate it. I mean, that’s how they do it on TV. How hard can it be to grab a snake? Then I headed for big sister’s house.
Upon arrival, I crept into the chicken pen and looked carefully into the laying box. I almost laughed, because it was the fellow I had seen earlier that afternoon. And he was right in the middle of swallowing an egg. His head was stretched completely out, jaw distended, completely occupied with the task at hand. So, I quickly slipped my gloved hand in and caught him around the neck.
He was stunned for a second, as I might be if I was in the middle of eating my lunch and somebody grabbed me around my neck. But then the egg popped out of his mouth and he started trying to get away. I was surprised at how strong he was. Each inch of him, from nose to tail, was engaged in escape.
After a little more wrestling than I had planned on, I eventually got him into the pillowcase. I closed the top with a hair elastic and Vesta warned me. “Now take him far away to let him go.” I asked, “Is Bowdon far enough?”
So, I headed west and when I got to Phil Coley’s studio, I knocked on the door. He answered and I said, with a grin, “Do you like Snakes?” He said, “I LOVE THEM.” I said, “Well, you’re in luck.” I went to the car for the still-wriggling bag and when I came back, Phil’s eyebrows shot up and he said, “I thought you said, “STEAKS.” I put the snake back into the car.
It took him a minute to warm up to the idea of the bagged reptile, but by the end of our rehearsal, he allowed that he’d accompany me on the trek to let it go. I put the snake in the trunk and we took off, driving back roads that only a native born Bowdon boy would know. As we drove along, windows open, radio blasting, I felt elated, like a kid cutting school.
Finally we got to a place that fit all of my snake-release criteria. Near a big creek. Far away from humans and farms (that might have chickens) and away from a busy road. Gravel crunched as we pulled into the side road. I got out and opened the truck. The snake’s head was pushing hard against the fabric of the pillowcase and brushing against my hand. By now, both the snake and I were looking forward to the moment we could part company.
Phil stayed back to get photo documentation of the event as I unfastened the bag and laid it on the ground. Then we both stepped way back to watch. Sure enough, the snake pushed out. His head was held high, in readiness, just in case he was going to have to fight it out. When he saw the tall grass on the roadside, he put his head down and slid quickly across the gravel road, disappearing into the brush.
Phil and I called it a “job well done” and got in the car to head back for Bowdon. As we pulled out of the gravel road I noticed that somebody (or something) had dumped a dead calf out by the side of the road. I showed Phil. “This must be a good place to dump animals. See, we’re not the first.” Phil grinned and shot back, “At least ours was alive.”
Previously published in the Times-Georgian.
Mimi Gentry can be read weekly in the Times Georgian.
Mimi Gentry can be read weekly in the Times Georgian.