Snakes

As a kid growing up in Texas, I was warned about rattlesnakes, copperheads, and water moccasins, all poisonous snakes whose venomous bites can be fatal. Water moccasins are also called cottonmouths; when they are frightened they pop open their wide mouths, revealing creamy white insides. My uncles kept always on the lookout for them swimming in the creek next to my grandparents' weekend cabin. Sometimes there'd be a hullabaloo and a hollering; toddlers were snatched up out of the water, and someone ran to get a gun.

Once, my grandfather discovered a nest of rattlesnakes in the crawl space under the cabin. He stretched out on the ground, peered into the semi-dark, and shot their swaying heads one by one.

My other grandparents lived on a wild rolling hillside outside of Austin, thick with scrub mesquite and prickly pear, in which snakes and scorpions were apt to hide. He and my stalwart grandmama cleared the spindly trees and ragged underbrush; then laid stone and wood and concrete blocks by hand until two stories of house and a rooftop deck for star-gazing telescopes looked out over the tangle of Texas scrub. Not yet tired, Grandmama carved out a spot for goldfish ponds and lily pads, an oasis amongst the cactus and scrappy cedars. Barefoot was not an option in a place so full of pricklies. The men shook out their boots before pulling them on each morning, even if they had been indoors all night. "If you're ever once stung by a scorpion," my daddy said, "you'll never forget to shake out your boots."

Eastern Nebraska is tame by comparison. I saw this harmless bull snake sleeping in the afternoon sun on a lazy farm road. Unlike the venomous snakes I encountered in Texas, bull snakes are constricting reptiles, calmly wrapping themselves ever tighter around mice or rabbits, until the prey gives up breathing.

I woke this one gently for the photo shoot; then thanked him by encouraging him to meander into the road ditch, safely away from the next set of tractor wheels.