Shooting a Snake on a Sunday Morning

 This is a true story...

“Stephen! Stephen! Wake up!”

I woke up and saw my mother standing over me with a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other.  It was the morning after my cousin Amy’s wedding, a traditional Catholic affair with a reception befitting the Italian-American heritage of the groom’s family. 

So as you can imagine, I looked, smelled, and felt my best as my mother loomed over me with a wild expression in her eyes and a gun in each hand.

“Huh?...Whatsit?…what the hey…?”

“There’s a snake in the barn!”  I had spent the night at her house after the wedding.  “You’ve gotta do something!  It’s eating my chickens!”

<….chickens….Jesus….God my head hurts….did she say a snake?....>

“Alright alright gimme a minute grmblgrmblgrmbl”. 

Mom kept talking as I dragged on some jeans (Where the hell are my shoes?) and quickly dusted cobwebs.  I have little in this world but I would have traded every bit of it at that moment for a cup of coffee, and thirty seconds of uninterrupted silence from my mother.

Neither of these were forthcoming.

Mom wasn’t talking so much as issuing a stream of consciousness monologue worthy of Jack Kerouac at Big Sur, which happened to match the general state of my existence at that very moment, wondering (very aloud) if we could still save the first of the snake’s victims (I dunno mom), could I shoot a gun (yes mom), is this ammo too old (I’m sure it’s fine mom), do you want the shotgun or the pistol (bring ‘em both mom), should she call my brother Glen to come over and handle it (don’t call Glen mom).

Out the back door we went, my wife Alison in tow.  Alison was born and raised in New York City.  And now here she was!  Out in the country on her way to watch her man shoot something!  Alison seemed to take a keen anthropological interest in observing the Southerner in its native environment.

As our motley little garrison marched the not-immoderate distance from the house to the scene of the crime, I tried to remember the last time I had fired a gun.  It was in Charleston I’m sure.  A pistol.  At an indoor range with my roommate Mick.  Probably seven years ago.  Jesus.  It’s too early for all this…

The monologue rolled on.  “Do you think the snake’s poisonous? (we’ll be careful mom) Do you think if we cut the snake open the chicken might still be alive? (Jesus mom!) Have you ever shot a gun? (You know I have mom), Who taught you to shoot a gun? (my father, your father, and your Uncle Harold mom)”

When I was five, I was spending a day with my grandfather’s sister Lula Belle and her husband Harold.  They had a grand old house in the middle of downtown Berea with a giant yard full of magnificent oak trees.  And squirrels.  Uncle Harold hated squirrels.

So he enlisted my assistance in dealing with the squirrels.  He handed me a shotgun that was taller than me (found out later that day that his brother had committed suicide with that same shotgun years before), told me to point it in the trees and shoot those squirrels!

Did I mention I was five?

Did I mention that Berea Elementary School was right next door?

I spent what seemed like forever in that Elysian Field, happily blasting away at the squirrels.  I don’t know who was having more fun, me or Uncle Harold.  Aunt Lula Belle wandered out to see what in the world was going on.  I think she must have got a kick out of this scene, because she pulled up a lawn chair next to Uncle Harold and took in the show (who am I kidding—she came out to make sure I didn’t kill myself or anybody else).

Mom pulls into the driveway later that afternoon to find me still shooting and Uncle Harold just chuckling away. 

Thus my initial training in firearms.

We arrived at the chicken coop—actually a small barn pressed into service as such.  I had no idea why mom had these damned chickens.  I think she wanted to have plenty of fresh eggs but those were few and far between.  I attributed this to her chickens being too stupid to lay eggs.

I opened the barn door expecting to meet a stampede of chickens making a desperate bid to avoid a grim fate.  Instead, there they were, nervously pacing back and forth, issuing the most hideous cackles I’ve ever heard like some bent Greek Chorus from Hell, while the villain basked on a wooden frame at the rear wall of the coop.  He had a chicken-sized lump in his midsection.

The monologue intensified as we began the denouement. “I better call Glen (don’t call Glen mom) Is it poisonous? (just a black snake mom) Which gun do you want? (Gimme the shotgun mom)”

I loaded and readied the shotgun, trying to get good feel for the trigger (given current conditions—remember, I looked and felt my absolute best at this particular moment), bracing the firearm with shoulder firm not stiff, sighting it like I had learned, Christ my head hurts, damned chickens won’t shut up, damned mother won’t shut up, what time is it? Seven? On Sunday morning?

“I’m calling Glen! (THE HELL YOU ARE!!!!)”

Boom

Snake guts and chicken feathers everywhere.