Musings on Snakes and Stuff

This little piece of writing is about the South and me and let's just see where it goes. Now, I'm not going to edit out my "Southernness." So if anyone reading this has an aversion to slow colorful eccentric wanderings, let me just say, I write other stuff as well, but this is going to come from where I come from. You see. And, well, since this is a site about a state in the South, you most probably already expect -- well, actually I don't know what you expect. And since mysteries appeal to me -- I shall begin writing to a mystery audience. Eccentric enough, yet? Ha.

Funny thing happened to me last week. Well, to be quite honest with you several funny things came about. But this played out kind of interesting like when you ponder on it a bit.

I was at a stop sign and waiting for a pickup truck to pass. As the truck passed, I saw two men in the cab that were dead ringers for my Aunt Flossie's two boys Hank and Henry. Hank and Henry enjoy their afternoon drives home from work. They normally enjoy a cool beverage and talk hunting and fishing and women. You know, those types of things.

Now as the story progresses it will help you to know that the road I was traveling on behind these two men carries one directly to I-16. On any given day and at any given hour of that day you will find more transfer trucks on this road than Aunt Flossie could shake a stick at.

So we are puttering on down the highway -- see. Now, I'm looking at the road and see something sitting on the very edge of the asphalt. That asphalt has to be about a bejillion degrees 'cause it's August in Georgia. Thinking back, I suppose that'd be the perfect spot for a cold-blooded reptile like a diamondback rattlesnake.

Yep. That's what I said. And just let me tell you that thing was huge even in its coiled state. I really thought it was dead until I saw it raise that triangular head and strike at the pickup's tire. And bless all that is sacred I thought those things slithered off when they picked up ground level vibrations.

In any event, the men in the pickup truck saw the snake a little late in the ballgame. However, it is a custom in the South -- "If you see a snake, the snake has to die." Don't ask me who came up with that custom, 'cause I couldn't tell you and to be quite frank about the situation, I think if the snake decides to go about its business -- we're cool.

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