Snakes Alive! A Tale of Terror from the Carpenter's Chronicles

Two years ago on a warm spring day I went with my boss to start a new job. We had been contracted to build a spacious house from the ground up, and the first order of business was to shoot grade and locate the lot markers. Since the proposed house was in the floodplain of the Ogeechee River just on the outside of a sweeping bend, the lot was predictably low and wet—except for a few large white oak and sweet gum trees and a stand of pines at the western boundary, the entire jobsite was covered in knee-high marsh grasses. We’ve built a lot of houses in cramped subdivisions where the developers level every living thing in order to squeeze out a few more lots so it’s always a delight to work in the open, listening to the tap of woodpeckers and persistent song of the wrens.

After determining our benchmark near the road and locating the front left boundary pin I set out across the lot to find the back left marker, pacing out the 220 feet or so in the general direction I thought to find it, happy to be out in the fine weather.

“Do you think there are snakes?” Jim asked.

“They’ve got to be all over the place in here.” I remembered that Jim was terrified of snakes, and I am not one to pass up a chance for a little fun. I’ve always thought it humorous that Jim, an Eagle Scout, is so ill at ease in the outdoors. He cannot identify flora and fauna; I even had to show him what a mockingbird looks like. I suppose he earned his Eagle by helping the elderly and learning to tie knots.

Since the lot was perfect habitat for snakes of all varieties, I was justified in alerting Jim to the danger. Most snakes will take the coward’s way out if they have the chance, so as I walked through the grass I made enough foot noise to give any hiding creature fair warning. We pulled our measurement to the marker, shot the grade, and I held my place while Jim started toward me.

“I don’t want to sound like a baby, but I don’t like this at all,” Jim said as he tucked the tripod under one arm and grabbed the transit with the other.

“Just make a little noise—they don’t want to be around you any more than you want to be around them,” I replied.

Stepping gingerly, Jim made his way across the lot whistling the theme song from Sanford and Son. It took me a few seconds, but I soon realized that the whistling was Jim’s way of alerting any devilish attacker of his presence.

“Make some noise with your feet! Let ‘em know you mean business!” I hollered between repressed snickers. Jim stopped for a second as if to steel himself and continued toward me, this time raking his feet through the grass. He was doing fine, like a regular Swamp Fox. And then the panic set in. He picked up speed, and with his increased momentum he also increased altitude, his soles nearly reaching shoulder height, arms akimbo.

Now, Jim is a big man—horizontally, not vertically. He’s about 5’5”, 260 pounds, with the shortest inseam I’ve ever seen on a grown man, maybe 28” tops. So you can imagine the effort he exerted as he high-stepped it across the lot. And being the generous soul I am I gave him plenty of encouragement in his flight from danger.

“You got ‘em where you want ‘em now, Jim! Keep “em on the run!” I couldn’t sustain enough breath between the laughing and vocal assistance, so I looked around for a place dry enough to roll around on. Damn marsh—I was forced to stagger about holding my belly, tears rolling down my beard.

He still swears he heard a snake after him in the grass. I tell him if there were any snakes, they were too busy belly-laughing to make much of an assault.

Near

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words jitter, grace, thin.

Near  
~for Becky


Edging skyward, breathless 
in thin air, the unknown pulsing 
with expectation. We stood 
overlooking the dark expanse 
seeing, not seeing, a view 
worth the climb. The moon 
blushing in the glow of your skin.
You lean close and whisper, 
mouth to ear, nearer. Near. 
What grace did we wish in this
shared solitude, 
beyond all, jittery 
night creatures avoiding 
the town’s lights? I remember, 
and am glad we were there.

Salutation --Ezra Pound

Here's a little poem by Pound I like.

Salutation

O generation of the thoroughly smug
     and thoroughly uncomfortable,
I have seen fishermen picnicking in the sun,
I have seen them with untidy families,
I have seen their smiles full of teeth
     and heard ungainly laughter.
And I am happier than you are,
And they were happier than I am;
And the fish swim in the lake
     and do not even own clothing.

Eternity's Gift

Three Word Wednesday, prompt words foolish, mercy, relish. I missed contributing last week--Holy Week is always busy for me.

Eternity’s Gift

So what is one supposed to do,
seeing time race by like a summer
storm? The days full of strength
are far between and getting farther—
I’m not finished yet but the end
is in sight. And I am not afraid.
I have learned through many
foolish hours that every end
is a beginning; every weakness
supplies its own strength; to plunge
to the depths is to finally find mercy;
every path is passable if it
follows the way of love. Knowing
this, I will relish each fleeting
moment as eternity’s rich
gift, abiding in the fullness
of this brief and blessed life.

Christ is Risen! Christos Anesti!

I am a Christian. I see nothing in that to apologize about, even if many apologizable things have been said and done in the name of Christianity. My faith is integral, passed down to me from a long line of believers, and I could only deny that faith by denying myself.

That being said, my faith has undergone some changes over the years—necessary changes, as I see it. I’m more willing to admit my ignorance about God and his ways. I’m less willing to hold exclusivist views about who gets to go to Heaven and who inherits the Hot Place. The way I figure it, if God can be merciful to me there’s hope for everyone. Christians have, above many others, given God ample opportunity to exercise his famed loving-kindness. Too bad we selectively forget stories like the Parable of the Unforgiving Servant (St. Matthew 18:21-35). I’ve stopped concerning myself with everyone else’s eternal destiny, but I can’t help speculating: Maybe the only likely inhabitants of the Inferno will be those willing to dispatch others there. (Sorry, Sig. Alighieri. I liked your poem anyway.)

I’m also unconvinced, in spite of some lines of Christian teaching, that there is a necessary separation between spirit and body. We live here like trees, in two directions: ever reaching toward heaven and putting down deep roots in the earth. I fail to see the benefit of intentionally stunting growth in either direction. Even though this world, and our life in this world, is warped and unwhole, I refuse to condemn it in some all-out bid for future reward. After all, whatever defects we find in creation seem traceable to our own inability or unwillingness to live in union with both God and our place. Seems rather foolish to junk up a place and then condemn it for being junked up. God set goodness and beauty here, all around us, and I can’t help but live in gratitude and wonder at every good gift from above. In any case, even allowing that the world is in some way fallen, if the Scripture is correct in saying that “with God all things are possible”—and I believe it—then everything, all creation, is redeemable. I consider that even St. Paul, noted for his pessimism toward the world, held out the belief that all creation will be “delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God.”

Which brings me to something of a point. To me, the message of Easter is this: life from death, peace in conflict, hope in troublesome times, comfort in sorrow, love overcoming all. Again, from the pen of the oft-misunderstood Apostle, “Charity never faileth.” I like those words. May I have the courage to live them.

Inheritance

For Three Word Wednesday: prompt words are evident, illusion, tragic.

Inheritance

The buried dead are alive
To me, an evident reality;
A past I am unable and
Unwilling to leave behind.
History throbs with life—every
Person, event, and decision sounds
Loud in my memory, makes
Me know my inheritance
Is not an illusion.
Tragic and comic, blessing and curse,
A mixed cup poured
Liberally into my present.

Far-off Hills

For Three Word Wednesday, prompt words adamant, fabricate, peculiar.

Far-off Hills

I’m going away.
Face set, adamant,
there’s nothing you can say—
I’m choking here beneath
the blistering gaze.
And I can see the far-off
hills, I see them and I feel
their gentle joy.

“You’re peculiar,”
you say, “born a century
too late.” Just because I
despise your fabricated
dramas, and am baffled
by your giddiness over
every consuming trinket
the tech-gods pitch your way.

You may be right, there may
be nothing there for me. But
I’ll feel the rising river-mist
as the heron fishes regally,
close my day with the
crimson sunset, and
die with my boots on,
mucked by honest soil,
when I finally
go
away.