Squashed

I was riding my bike out in the country today when something caught my eye in the road. It was a colorful little snake coiled in a patch of sunshine in the middle of my lane. Traffic was very light - almost nonexistant - on this tree-lined back road late on a Saturday afternoon, so of course I had to stop alongside and check it out.

Golly - seems like all I'm doing lately is talking about reptiles, doesn't it?

Now bear in mind I'm a backwoods girl raised by a swamp. Never held much fear of snakes and in fact have had my share of the swiggly things tucked away in a pocket or two.

But as soon as I saw this little guy, I knew he wasn't a pocket-dweller. He was a coral. Red on black won't hurt Jack; black on yellow'll kill a fellow. All swamp rats know how to tell the difference between a harmless scarlet kingsnake and a poisonous coral snake. And we never harm the one and just steer clear of the other.

I stared at him and he stared back at me in mutual respect. Skirting him by a safe five feet, I admired the crystilline beauty of his vivid colors. One of God's masterpieces of design. Coral snakes don't strike or jump at you like other poisonous snakes; they're actually not aggressive at all. You have to practically step on one for it to defend itself and bite, and then it has to sort of chew on you to do any damage.

Anyhow, along comes a truck toward us in the other lane. A shiny silver pick-up driven by a young redneck in a cowboy hat. He slowed down a mite to see what was so interesting to the lady on the bike, and then sped up right as he got to us. Swerving way out of his lane, he intentionally ran his oversized tires right over the little snake, squashing reptile innards all over the road at my feet.

Now I know there are different ways of looking at every issue, and I might feel differently if a coral snake were latched onto the ankle of my toddler, but my blood boiled at the needless taking of this life just because of the color of its skin.

That little snake wasn't bothering anyone. It was just enjoying a little sun-bathing on a warm road. It wasn't encroaching in anyone's habitat, we were in his. I can't believe I'm admitting this but my eyes teared up at the unjust scene of a destroyed creature whose only offense was being himself and a smug self-appointed executioner driving away to his Bud Light.

Makes me realize the sting of prejudice among humankind. The unfairness, the folly of judging someone simply by the color of their skin. Or their tribe. Or their ancestry.

Maybe it's the judge - the guy in the truck and even me sometimes - who ought to be squashed all over the road. There but by God's grace goes each of us.

Creepy Crawly Memories

Reptiles. The word brings a shudder to some but they've actually always fascinated me.

I suppose growing up backdoor to a swamp in north Florida had something to do with that. I have very clear memories of gators in the pond (ducks and small dogs used to disappear back there) and snakes popping up in peculiar places quite often.

I recall racing outside to the neighbor lady's screams one morning to find her clean laundry strewn all over the yard. Apparently snakes like nothing better than to curl up in a basket of fresh sun-warmed laundry from the clothesline. No dryers in those days!

On my daily treks through the woods it was not uncommon to encounter a large specimen stretched across the path sunning himself. I usually just stepped over them, although I did occasionally bring home the smaller guys forthwith to torture my sister.

Unless they were rattlers or corals or cottonmouth moccasins. With those I hastily beat a retreat in the other direction.

Then there was the time the neighbor boy Robert and I were playing cowboys and indians as 6-year-olds. I was the captured indian, so he tied me to the oak tree in his front yard with a jumprope and then galloped away on his stick horse. My play screams turned real as I caught sight of a coiled rattler about 3 feet away from my bound feet. Robert's mama dashed out of the house and beat it to a pulp with a shovel.

I still have nightmares about that one.

When I got the chance to cavort with the cute little gator in the picture (at the TV45 studio in Orlando, compliments of the Gator Crusader, Michael Isaacs) I was thrilled. Felt like old home week at the reptile farm.

At age 3, he seemed an especially calm gator, and I knew Michael had taken him on "tour" for the past year with his ministry, so I asked him what would happen if the duct tape was removed from his pointy little snout. (The gator, not Michael.)

"Why, he'd chew your arm to rawhide," he replied with a smile.

Swell. Suddenly he didn't seem so cute. (The gator; Michael was still a cutie - an American version of the late great Steve Irwin.)

My wrists and ankles began feeling warm and itchy, like they had when tied to that oak tree long ago and far away. Watercolor memories ... Where's a good shovel when you need one?