Snake Stories

The first day of my bike tour, I heard about a woman on the tour, cute, short auburn hair, wore dresses, from Georgia, who had got bitten on the foot by a copperhead the week before.

She limped a little, and I'd see her at rest stops with one shoe off to relieve the pressure from her still-swollen foot. And each day, inevitably, she'd pass me in a long line of efficient cyclists, and she'd chirp a "good morning."

The relative fame of the copperhead bite started a tide of snake stories around the campsites.

My favorite was told by a sun-burnt man with a southern drawl and provinces of white skin around his eyes. He and his wife had moved to South Dakota from Virginia. Being in the military, they moved a lot.

Driving, one day, Mr. South Dakota pointed out a water moccasin as they passed it on the road. His wife didn't believe that that was what it was, so he pulled the truck around to take her back and show her. He pulled to the side of the dirt road, and before he could get out of the driver's seat, his wife (I imagine wearing a floral print dress with a sash tied round the middle) had run over to the snake to pick it up.

The water moccasin latched onto her thumb, and by the time South Dakota got to her she was howling and whipping the snake around. Floral print going everywhere. SD had to kill the snake to get it off her.

(And that's my favorite part of the story, the fact that this woman exists, who's first reaction to prove her husband wrong, is to go pick up a poisonous snake.)

He wrapped the carcass (snake) in an old towel in the truck and got himself and his wife in the cab to drive to the hospital.

There was a hospital close-by, but he wanted to take her to the military one half an hour away. Her hand was swelling already. "She could have lost her thumb," he chose this time to tell us.

They make it to the hospital; she doesn't lose her thumb. The attendant at the desk is wary to let them in saying, "How do you know it was a water moccasin?"

South Dakota unfurls the towel, and the dead snake rolls onto the man's desk, serrated head gaping up at him. SD shows us with both hands how the man shoved himself backwards up against the wall. They got prompt service after that.


Once, years ago at the dog-run park in Colorado Springs, my brothers were playing in the creek while my dad threw the ball for Littles. I was sitting on the bank and saw opposite me a black and white snake (so thick I couldn't have gotten my hand around it) belly-crawling (as you might imagine) in the weeds next to where my brothers were playing. My mom saw it too. As it made its descent towards her babies she yelled, "Oh my Gawd! Tom, you should take a picture."

The Foibles of my Youth

Here's something else I've been thinking about: (while reading blogs like Kyle's and Mitch's and talking to folks like Lindsay)

A lot of my friends and I are in a post Christian-upbringing tension. The kind of rearing where only certain media was allowed, church participation was necessary and embraced, and lifestyle rules were maintained. Think Brio Magazine, the Newsboys and purity rings.

We find out, later on, that whole gardens of delight have been hidden from us: incredible varieties of music, books and beer and liberalism that by no means excludes Christianity. We have to deal with the obscurity and the enthusiastic uncoolness of our childhoods and early (or in my case, total) adolescence.

I mean enthusiastic: for the fifth grade talent show at my school, a friend and I performed a song by the Newsboys. It said "God" in it and we sang and danced and wore leotards. My parents were very proud.

Lindsay and I started a Christian music club. We bought CDs together -- Jars of Clay, DC Talk -- and then traded them back and forth like divorced parents do with children. One of our club activities was painting Veggie Tales characters on the inside of the Lung's shed by candlelight.

And on into high school (the club disbanded, unfortunately), the only secular-label CD I got my hands on was Californication. That was from Lindsay in the start of her "rebellious phase." (Quote from her recently: "If you're going to break some of the rules, why not break all of them?" I love her.)

An aside: Lindsay always has these unexpected opinions and traits. In the midst of her high-school ditching, boozing, puppy buying, outdoor peeing antics she had this great affinity for Precious Moments figurines. Even in my abject obedience, I never applied the word "precious" without biting sarcasm.

I asked John if he ever wished he could go back to high school knowing what he knows now. I could have used an angry girl band shredding their hearts out. Sleater-Kinney would've been a God send. Carrie Brownstein, I needed you. John just gave me a blank look. He will like what he likes and never apologize for it.*

This is sort of my apology. Sorry, self. Sorry, world.

An unexpected thing: walking around the pond in City Park in Denver, goose poop everywhere, Lindsay told me about how she's thankful for the way she was raised. She believes it saved her a lot of heartbreak and painful life choices.

And I tend to agree with her.

*Maybe this blog post confuses everyone. I could be the only person with a Christian-culture-recovery complex.

Some Like It Luke Warm

My Amtrack ride from Denver to Chicago was running in the range of ten hours behind schedule. There was a man in the seat behind me, a little ragged looking, old Globe Trotters jacket, faded hat, who I'd been overhearing on the phone.

"I'm going to fucking miss my connection. I have to go all the way to Chicago, and take a train, but those are full, or a bus, but those are booked."

He spoke in a low voice. Controlled but wavering slightly.

I thought to myself, "I hope he doesn't have a firearm."

He said, "I haven't killed anybody yet, but I'm close."

Then, "They're going to give us dinner, but guess what they're feeding us?" Disgusted, "Chicken."

As I got up to go to the bathroom I heard him say, "You don't have much longer."

When I read that now, I realize it doesn't sound that scary. But I was stuck on a train! And a bullet could have easily ripped through the plastic-cloth components of the seat back and pierced my heart.

We were just idling on the tracks. The chicken-hating man could have cornered me in the joint between the dirty window, with white smears of children's hand and face prints (probably tongue prints), and the geometrically patterned cushions. Or stood me up with the gun barrel to my head shouting---Get those freight trains to move their asses or the girl dies!

(Not a bad plan, actually.)

He was right about the dinner. It was a decent meal of mashed potatoes, broth and a croissant. I met a guy who had just finished hiking the 500-mile trail from Denver to Durango. He does a new long-distance hiking trip every summer.

I moved to the observation lounge with a beer and my book, feeling pretty good. An older man, whom I had heard heckling the attendant because he wanted dessert (Just a little square of cake...), sat down next to me.

He was on the phone: We're twelve hours late...unbelievable...and don't even ask me about dinner...yes, terrible...no cake.

He hung up and turned to me, "58 years...that was the most affable....conversation we've ever had."

Then he put his camera to the window to take a picture of the silhouette, the sun setting red and purple behind an Iowan farm house. He couldn't figure out how to turn the flash off. Flash. Flash -- obscuring his picture.

A woman behind us said, "Oh, lightning!"