Afraid of Snakes

              Just this past week, as I walked to the mail box some twenty-five steps from the front door of our home,, I came  upon a small, really small, snake moving slowly across our sunlit driveway.  My first reaction was to run, and then I thought I should step on it, but I realized it had a spark of life and I had no right to smash out that life. So It walked a long way around it because I hate snakes!

              Seeing this, however, brought back a memory of a time when our son was in Cub Scouts, and we were attending a Blue and Gold banquet to support the local Cub Scout troop.  The guest speaker for this evening was a representative from the Indianapolis Zoo.  This gentleman always made it a point to bring four small residents from  the Zoo in order for his audience to get a closer look at these creatures, and may even receive an opportunity to touch one.

              “I try to vary three of the animals I bring,” the speaker said, “but I always bring a snake.”  These words made the audience kind of restless.  But when the man lifted a snake out of a black box, the restlessness broke into a fidgety murmur.  I sat there cringing, glad I was in the back of the room.  I hate snakes!

              The man held the snake with his thumb and forefinger right behind the snake’s head.  As the snake’s body began to wind itself around the man’s arm, he said, “I believe people have an unnatural fear of snakes, so that’s why I always bring a snake with me.  I want to erase your fear.”

              At that point, he began to walk through the crowd, inviting anyone who was interested to touch the snake.  Few people were interested; most people just shied away.

              Then the speaker made an interesting statement: “I believe our parents teach us to be afraid of snakes.” My mental reaction was a complete and total denial.  I was sure my mom and dad didn’t teach me to be afraid of snakes – and then I remembered.

              It was WWII.  My dad loves to primitive camp with our family in Arizona or Utah, but we did not have enough gas ration coupons to drive that far, so we ended up in Los Padres National Park, in California, a lovely place, at not too high an elevation.  When I say my dad loved to primitive camp, I mean primate camping, no spigots for water, no bathroom (after pitching the tent, my dad always dug a latrine at a comfortable space from our camp), no electrical hook-ups and no store close by to buy food.  My mom would always pack a large amount of canned goods with the plan that Dad would sustain us with trout.  The only thing Dad required was running stream where he could fly-fish for two weeks.  My point, we were isolated from any people.

One afternoon, my dad was fishing; my sister, brother and I were swimming upstream from my dad when we heard Mom let out a death-defying scream.  “Elmer! Elmer! Help! There’s a snake in our camp!  Do something! Hurry! Hurry!” That was enough for all of us to come running.  Sure enough, the sun had warmed our campsite enough that a rattle snake had come out of hiding and curled up on a rock that surrounded our camp fire dugout. Dad picked up the ax he used to cut our fire wood and cut the snake in two or three pieces before it had time to move.  I must have been about twelve, but I can still remember the look of repulsion and outright terror on my mother’s face.  Her red hair seemed to bristle, her blue eyes blazed, her mouth twisted in fear.  She just kept screaming, “Kill that snake before it bites us!”

My dad saved the three rattles from the snake‘s tail for a long time.  Mom would never touch them and I grew up being afraid of and hating snakes.  Maybe the Zoo representative was right.