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Books About Life on a Farm Written Especially for People Who Like to Read! "Highly recommended reading." The Midwest Book Review Reviews & Readers' Comments |
LeAnn R. Ralph Rural Route 2 Author E6689 970th Ave. Colfax, WI 54730 (715) 308-6336 |
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by LeAnn R. Ralph To this day, I'm not overly fond of snakes. Even a harmless little grass snake slithering away from my feet causes an involuntary gasp and the desire to flee in the opposite direction. I know why I feel this way about snakes. It all started with a bull snake who was sunning himself by our granary one day when I was five years old. On that particular afternoon, Dad was in the granary loading oats into burlap bags. He was planning to grind feed at the feed mill in town. As he finished filling each bag, he loaded it onto the pickup truck, which was parked by the granary door. The weather was warm and the grass was a thick, lush green. But it wasn't outright hot, so it must have been late spring or early summer. I stepped out of the house and spied the truck backed up to the granary, so I knew where Dad was right off. I didn't have to wander around the buildings, yelling for him. As I walked next to the truck, headed for the granary door, I looked down. There, coiled in the grass, was the biggest snake I had ever seen. I almost stepped on it. For just a moment, I was frozen in absolute horror. The snake watched me with bead-like black eyes, and then his tongue flickered in my direction. I turned abruptly and sprinted for the house. I don't think I have ever moved that fast in my life -- not before or since. To say I ran back to the house would be an understatement. I flew. Emitting blood-curdling screams of terror the whole way. I burst into the kitchen, startling my mother. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Mom asked, sounding quite alarmed as she turned away from the sink. "Snake," was all I could say before collapsing against my mother. A few moments later, Dad came into the house. "What's wrong?" he asked. "Is she hurt?" "Oh - she just saw a snake. That's all," Mom replied, patting my back. (I still had my face pressed tightly against her stomach, but I thought she sounded slightly exasperated.) "It was a BIG snake," I sobbed. Hah! I wondered how calm she would be if she had almost stepped on a 50-foot boa constrictor? That's what it looked like to my five-year-old eyes, anyway. In reality, I suppose the snake wasn't more than three or four feet long. "Oh," Dad said. He quietly closed the kitchen door and went back outside to resume loading oats. Dad knew better than to try to talk to me while I was still hysterical. When I think about it now, I have this vivid mental image of my poor father, who was 44 when I was born, loading oats and minding his own business, when all of a sudden he hears the most terrifying screams coming from his youngest daughter. He probably didn't even know I was outside. I'm sure he thought his daughter was being killed. In a little while after I had calmed down, I ventured outside again. This time, I approached the granary with the utmost caution, surveying every inch of grass carefully before moving forward. I even squatted down to look under the pickup truck. I didn't see the snake anywhere. Then, and only then, did I consider it safe to approach the granary. "That was a bull snake," Dad said, while he continued bagging and loading oats. I suppose my description of it as a BIG snake gave him a clue about what I'd seen, coiled in the grass. Well, knowing what kind of snake it was didn't make me feel any better. "He's a good snake," Dad said. "Sure thing, Dad," I thought, "Whatever you say." "I've seen him around the granary a lot. He helps us. He hunts mice, like the kitties hunt mice. We want him to be in the granary," Dad explained. "Will he bite?" I asked as Dad hooked one side of a burlap bag over a nail in the granary wall to help hold it open while he shoveled the oats. I understood the concept of cats hunting mice. And I understood that on a farm, a granary overrun with mice was not a desirable situation. "No," Dad said, dumping a shovel of oats in the bag, "he won't hurt you. He's only here looking for mice. I suppose he was taking a sunbath when you saw him." By now, I was starting to feel slightly guilty over my terrified, screaming reaction to the snake. If Dad said he was a good snake, then I supposed he was okay. "Tell you what," Dad continued, tying the bag shut in a miller's knot using a short section of string, "Whenever you're around the granary, keep an eye out for the bull snake. That way, the next time you see him, he won't be so scary." Well -- I did keep a sharp eye out for the bull snake for a long time after that. But I never saw him again. Dad never saw the snake again, either. I suspect the poor old bull snake, who was so rudely awakened from his nap in the sun, decided to pack his bags and leave. I hope he found a nice place to live -- a quiet place where his afternoon sunbath wasn't interrupted by blood-curdling screams of terror. |
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