Secrets of the Slough

“Hold up” dad said, in a quiet yet stern voice. His right arm was raised ninety degrees at the elbow, palm facing forward, instantly reminding me of Vic Morrow in Combat, which we watched every week. I stood frozen in place, like a frightened private following his seasoned sergeant. My eyes were fixed on him, knowing this voice was not normal, particularly on a relaxing day of fishing. “Here, take this” he said as he turned and handed me his fishing rod. “I’m standing on a snake.” I took the rod, with a hurried and spastic awkwardness, my heart pounding as if I’d just climbed Rosie’s hill on my bike. I peered into the dry, tan weeds that surrounded us, well above knee high. I could not definitively see it, but I could see the weeds slowly thrashing below him, a brief glimpse of a black tail, and I imagined there might be others, all about us; a veritable nest of snakes, writhing at our ankles. I glanced toward the creek where we had been headed, only about thirty feet away. “They heard us coming and came out to get us” I thought to myself. “They don’t want us here.” Indeed, I was prepared, at that instant, to just turn and go back. Find another fishing spot; a place without weeds, where we could actually see where we were stepping. But it was a fleeting thought and quickly dismissed. Dad always called the shots and we always seemed to find a precarious place to fish. So I just stood motionless, half waiting for something to crawl across my feet, or worse yet, up my pants leg. With little hesitation, he matter-of-factly reached down and brought up a dark, mottled snake; fat and squirming and extremely agitated. He was holding it by the neck, just behind the head, in a way I’d seen him demonstrate before with black racers and chicken snakes, instantly confirming his casual expertise and experience with such things. I stepped briefly backwards, frightened by its girth and obvious rage, but fascinated as well by dad’s calm control and mastery of it. “Looks like she’s fixin’ to have babies” he said smiling, his voice returning to normal volume. “Either that or she just ate something pretty big.” He stepped past me and walked back through the weeds, snake in hand, until he reached the gravel road where he’d parked our ’61 Chevy pickup. I followed, somewhat keeping my distance, as I both feared what species it might be and, truthfully, not entirely convinced of dad’s judgment in the excitement of the moment. The latter concern was realized as I watched him grasp its mid-section with his free hand, just above the bulge in its abdomen, still holding its neck with his other. Raising its head so that it hang like a living rope, he slowly stroked his hand downward, gently squeezing as he went, the length of its body, which was nearly as far as his reach could extend. With a sort of squishy sound, out fell six or seven little spotted snakes, healthy and striking almost immediately as they landed on the dirt at his feet. They didn’t crawl away, but rather appeared innately fearless; glaring at us, lunging in vain. “Looky there! Just what I thought!” he said confidently. He had a huge grin on his face, as did I at this point. My anxiety had subsided, replaced by fascination and awe at these little newborns and their instinct to fight and survive. Slowly he lowered the mother into the nearby weeds and taking his baseball cap, scooted and shooed the young in her direction. Within seconds, they all disappeared into the grass, the very direction from which we had just come, confirming my earlier suspicion that many more were probably lurking about. But somehow I wasn’t as scared. Granted, I would still follow dad closely, but my trepidation was now superseded by a sense of wonder. And I could tell this pleased dad, as well. The fact that I shared his interest in the ways of the wild; that I hadn’t simply hollered and taken off running when he pulled it from the grass. It gave me a sense of accomplishment. Outdoorsy accomplishment, unlike the feeling of mastering my latest piano lesson. And it gave me a quiet sense of gratitude. That was my dad and I could indeed share in his outdoors wisdom. Maybe I could still prove to be a “chip off the old block” despite my general timidity and somewhat absent common sense. “What kind was it?” I asked, with newfound boldness and camaraderie. “Just a water snake” he answered. “They ain’t poisonous. They’ll bite the fire out of ya, but not poisonous. Don’t need to kill them.” This fishing trip, like many other experiences with my dad, served to educate me and stimulate my interest in the wonders of nature. While not always entirely ethical, as in this instance, from a naturalist’s viewpoint, he nevertheless had a profound love and admiration for all things wild. He had grown up in the hills of east Tennessee, oldest of seven children in a typical struggling family. Struggling financially, at least, but certainly not in any other way. Born in 1912, his childhood necessitated strong work ethics, a no-nonsense approach to life. They grew most of what they ate, or hunted for it. Took nothing for granted, thanked God for everything. Those were constants in his family and he taught me those same truths. Expect nothing for nothing. If you want something, do something to earn it. Don’t borrow, pay as you go. Own up to what you do, don’t blame somebody else. Don’t brag, don’t show off. Keep your mouth shut more than always saying what you know. Be faithful to the church and God, in all ways.