A month since the last post. I’ll explain later.
First this, I was up early this morning, eager to get packed up and on the road to Sycamore Lodge. Yesterday, I packed the truck and the Argosy. This morning, I had only to think of clothing, food and ‘things-to-do” since there's nothing to do at Sycamore Lodge, one reason I like going there. It reminds me of a bumper sticker contest at IU. The winning entry: Welcome to Indiana: Bring something to do.
Packing for a journey is always stressful, especially when it involves a truck and 4,000 lb. trailer, and only me to do the packing, hitching and remembering of the hundreds of details that go into the simplest trip.
All went well. Then, while making one last run to the garbage can, I spied something unusual. Closer inspection revealed it was a snake, beside the shed enjoying the morning sun, the same snake that I uncovered last week under a tarp. I thought it was gone. Clearly, I was wrong.
Upon discovering the snake last week, I dropped a cinder block on its back, pinning the creature beneath it. Then, I called Gerry who arrived with a rifle, adding another layer of anxiety. What did I fear more, the rifle or the snake? A toss-up. Unable to get a clear shot, Gerry moved the cinder block, figuring the snake was either wounded or dead. Apparently, neither. Once freed from the block, the snake darted into the shed and slithered beneath shelves bearing bins of camping gear. No chance of getting it out with a rifle.
This sent me to the feed store for advice from the local girls who provide a wealth of advice on all sorts of issues related to living in the country--snakes being a topic of interest to everyone in the store, customer and clerk alike. First, they asked for a description of said snake. How long? Fat or skinny? What color? Round eyes or slant? Patterned or plain? Rattles on the tail?
Explaining that I didn’t get close enough to make a detailed examination of the serpent, (“Hell, no, honey! We didn’t say you was supposed to stick your nose right there in its little face!”) I did the best I could. It was a big snake. Three feet in length. Thick. Moved slowly. Brown with patterned back.
“Stop right there!” the clerk said. “Don’t matter what it is. If it’s brown, it’s dead. You got a rifle?”
The other clerk chimed in. “Yeah, but before she can shoot that snake, she’s gotta get it out of the shed.” This led to a discussion of various methods of evicting the snake. Their recommendation? Moth balls.
“You getcha some of them old fashioned moth balls, the little white ones like your grandmama used. That’ll git ‘im out. Snakes hate the smell of moth balls.” Every living thing hates the smell of moth balls.
Once the snake was out, surround the shed with powdered sulphur to make sure he don’t crawl back in. Don’t go near the shed without boots. Sweetie, if you ain’t got a rifle, get yourself a good, sharp-edged steel hoe.
All this seemed like good advice, but did leave me wondering: Can snakes smell?
Nevertheless, I did as they instructed. I pulled on a sturdy pair of boots, and, armed with the hoe, I went into the shed and tossed moth balls beneath the shelves and bins, then sealed up the doorway. The smell of moth balls emanating from the shed drew complaints from the neighbors, who, upon learning of their purpose, said no more.
Three days later, I donned the boots, grabbed the hoe and entered the shed. No sign of the snake. I moved bins; poked under shelves. No snake.
Kelah saw me and stopped by. From the safety of the truck, he called, “You find that snake?” I shook my head. “Nice talking to you,” he said as he drove off.
I figured the snake had gone. All weekend, I’ve been in and out the shed packing up gear for the trip to Sycamore Lodge. Then this morning, I see him, still as a stick, his little pointy head up off the ground, his chubby body wrapped around the garbage can. He stayed there long enough for me to pull on my boots and grab the hoe. I inched toward him, but the second I got within striking range, he slid backwards into the shed.
As far as I know, he’s still there. When I get back home, I’ll be headed to the feed store for more advice. I can hear it now: “Hey Margie! The lady with the snake is back. She’s got her boots on. Anybody make a hoe with a 22 ft. handle?”
