I thought I’d tell this little story.
We moved from San Francisco to Wisconsin when I was about 5 years old. My vague memory has us living for a month or two at Blue Mound State Park. In a tent, of course. (Oh my goodness. A Five year old and a Two year old in a tent. And a mini dachsund, name of Thorin. For a month. Or so.)
Side story – being five, I was disapproving when some adult commented on our nice puppy. Who was on the old side by then. Five year olds are very good at disapproving. I’ve been disapproved at a lot lately.
One day walking along, I saw a black and brightly coloured bungee cord lying on the road. I picked it up. It was a dead snake. *Shudder* My memory fails me. I assume I dropped it and skedaddled.
I appreciate snakes. I don’t fear them, particularly. But they do suddenly, startlingly, appear.
When I was older, still in Wisconsin, Mom and I were out in the yard looking at the garden. We noticed some unusual movement of fallen leaves at our feet, looked again, and realized Mom stood on a snake’s tail and the poor thing was frantic. Mom leaped into my arms.
(And I don’t want to hear otherwise from you, Mom! I like my story as it is.)
Rat snakes and garter snakes. When we moved to Alabama, the snakes were more problematic. Cottonmouths and rattlesnakes, oh my!
I have a few more snake stories. I like my snake stories. By now they’re more story than memory. Or vignettes, certainly not novellas. (I’ve always been better with the shorter forms, even in my mind and my memories.)