Daily Archives: December 22, 2011

When You Live in the Sticks…

..things like this happen..

All.The.Time.

It was about 8:00 in the morning, a sunny day in 1985.

All the kids were at school, except our one-yr. old. She was busily applying oatmeal to her head as I washed dishes.

Suddenly, I heard the most God-awful yelling and cursing coming from the house across the street.

You see, while we lived in the sticks we shared stick-age with several other homes in close proximity. Each of us had a half-acre of land and the entire community was surrounded by cows, and cow shit.

A highlight of our day was watching the crop-dusting planes spray the cow-shit fields; their bright colors zooming by gave the kids a thrill and the chemical exposure probably explains a lot of later behaviors.

I don’t know, for sure, no one from Dipshit Chemical Corp. has ever knocked on my door with a survey, I’m just speculating.

 But, I digress.

After hearing the commotion I ran to the front door, quickly checking to ensure the baby had plenty of oatmeal, and walked outside.

Across the street from me, prone on the ground and gesturing wildly under her car, was my 60-something year old neighbor *Flo.

“It’s a goddamn rattlesnake, I tell ya!”

From inside the house I hear her son, *Bubba, yell, “I’ll git it mama!”

Bubba bursts through the screen door, shotgun in hand.

He walks around to the opposite side of the car from where Flo is lying and gets down on the ground for a better look.

He shoves the shotgun under the car.

The business end of the gun is now facing the snake.

And mama.

 “I’ll get it mama. Just don’t move.”

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot.

“HEY!!!” I yell.

“What?” Flo yells back, still lying on the ground.

“Did you plan on having Bubba shoot your face off this morning?”

 Flo stands up, Bubba stands up.

They stare at one another across the roof of the car.

The snake, sensing the opportunity, slithers away and into the field.

“You were just gonna pull that trigger, weren’t you?” Flo asks angrily.

 “No mama, I’d of waited for ya to move.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything? I swear boy you’re dumber than a box of rocks…”

 The argument continued on as they walked back into the house, Flo insisting Bubba was an idjit and Bubba insisting Flo was being unfair.

Frankly, I think they both got whooped with a stupid branch at a very young age.

I walked back into the house where the baby was wearing her now-empty oatmeal bowl proudly atop her head.

I made a mental note to hide the firearms as she got older.

 

*Flo and *Bubba – not their names, but does it matter?