MERCURY NEWS (San Jose, California) 23 August 03 When life flings a snake in your path (Sharon Randall)

There are some lessons in life that can only be learned, it seems, from close encounters with bad things or hard times.

I've got nothing against a good lesson. But I'd prefer to learn it from afar. Especially when the teacher is a snake.

If you were lucky, you grew up, as I did, running barefoot in the mountains of southern Appalachia -- or California or Ohio or Texas or Florida or anywhere else children ignore parental warnings about some godawful fate they'll incur if they are dumb enough to run around without shoes.

I was that dumb and then some, weren't you? Some days, I suspect I still am.

My grandmother taught me early on that there are two kinds of snakes, both deadly: The poisonous kind kills you with its venom; the non-poisonous just plain scares you to death.

I developed a healthy respect for both. The former consisted primarily of copperheads and rattlers; the latter included everything from little green garters and long black kings to a giant plastic boa my daddy won at the fair and left as a surprise under my pillow.

Whenever my grandmother and I went for walks on the mountain -- every day, weather permitting -- we always took our snake sticks. Mine was just for show. Hers did all the work, plucking snakes from the path, flinging them off in the bushes.

I never worried about snakes or anything, really, as long as she was around with her stick and her grace to clear the way.

At family dinners after church on Sunday, while our parents sat around commiserating over coffee, my cousins and I would head for the woods, keeping our shoes on until we were just out of sight, then we'd peel them off to chase each other barefoot, ignoring our parents' warnings.

Shoes are like skates on pine needles. It's hard to be sure of foot in Sunday patent leathers. What else were we to do?

More than once, far too often, barreling headlong through a thicket of pines, chasing or being chased, I would very suddenly come upon a rattler or copperhead stretched out across the path, dozing in the sun.

This would give me pause. And that would get me caught by my boy cousins, who never met a snake they didn't like.

Then one day, quite by accident, I discovered a trick: If I just kept going, didn't stop to look down or waste time being afraid -- if I kept my chin up, head high, eyes wide open, and imagined that somewhere on the path ahead my grandmother was waiting with her stick -- I could clear that snake with one jump and never wake it up.

Then I could hide behind a tree and watch my cousins do a little ``he'p-me'' dance.

I told you that snake story not because it's such a good one (I've heard better and you have, too) but because I wanted to tell you what it taught me.

I don't often see snakes much any more, at least not the real variety. Of course, I also don't chase my cousins through the woods, though I do still like to go barefoot on occasion.

The things that give me pause now -- the real dangers on my path -- aren't poisonous, but they can still scare me half to death, leaving me paralyzed with doubt and indecision.

Lucky for me, I grew up jumping snakes. I know what to do when something gives me pause. I forget sometimes, but sooner or later, I remember:

If I just keep going and don't stop to look down or waste time being afraid -- if I keep my chin up, head high, eyes wide open and imagine that somewhere on the path ahead my grandmother is watching over me with her stick -- I can clear any obstacle.

So can you. Try it. I dare you. You don't have to go barefoot, unless you really want to. But beware of slick-soled shoes.
When life flings a snake in your path

[ Show Entire Thread ]