I am not a fan of snakes. They're nasty, sneaky little buggars that exist to make me squeal and squirm. I realize they eat bugs and rodents and the like, but I honestly don't mind a few extra mice in the world.
My Redneck Husband and I have 27 acres. And a LOT of snakes. Rattlesnakes. Copperheads. Green snakes. Black snakes. Garter snakes. Water moccasins. Red-bellied water snakes.
I realize that most snakes are more afraid of me than I am of then. I also dispute this theory with the following Take of Two Snakes.
My friend Tabor died today, and I felt a serious need for some sunshine and Juni laughs. We opened the pool a few days ago, and he's been swimming every day. Today it was sunny and in the upper-80s, so we headed to the water.
I'm crossing the bridge over the ditch in the back yard, and stop to admire my irises. And then I see it. A snake. A big, fat, long snake. He picks his head up, and I catch a glimpse of his red belly. I'd never even heard of a red-bellied water snake until I married my husband. They're not poisonous, but they're also not afraid of anything. In fact, they're actually pretty aggressive.
I stop straight in my tracks and tell Juni to go to the pool. That's when I realize there's another snake, about a foot from the first, lying in the dried ditch.
At this point, I begin to freak out. There are two snakes within 10 feet of my pool. And I'm betting it's not coincidence that they have the word "water" in their names.
So I call Jasen. I'm not sure what I expected him to do from 45 minutes away, but it's not like we have any neighbors. It's at this point I begin regretting my choice to not learn how to shoot a gun. I would have shot both of those bastards point-blank if I'd had the chance.
But as it stood, Juni was barefoot and I was in sandals and shorts. Not the best snake-hunting attire. Jasen tells me to watch them for a half-hour while Buddy, his 85-year-old grandfather, drives over to kill the snakes.
I hang up the phone, and the UPS man pulls in, which of course freaks out my dogs, which causes the snakes to get moving.
And that's when I realize I can no longer see one of the snakes. I'm thinking he's inches from my ankle, of course. But no. He's intertwined with the other snake. Ewe. I've seen this on the Discovery Channel. Again, let me say...Ewe.
They're spinning around, headed toward the pool, Juni is freaking out, the puppy is acting like a crazy dog, and I'm squealing.
Sadie decided it might be a good idea to say hello to the snakes. Not so much. They actually went after her. Lunging,snapping, retreating under a bush.
All the while, I'm looking for something to defend my dog with, and come up with some sort of pitiful rake with only three tines.
The snakes then go into what we call the Red Shed. It's basically an enclosed car port with our giant lawn mower and system for the pool.
Buddy arrives, some sort of 40-year-old wooden bat in hand, determined to beat the life out of these snakes. And of course he spends an hour and can't find them.
Lovely. Jasen gets home, can't find them, and tells me he's going to get some sort of sulphur powder that keeps them away from the house. I'm not amused when he comes bouncing up to the house, yelling that he shot another one at the barn.
That's three sighting in one afternoon. I'm thinking this qualifies as an infestation. And major cause for concern. I'm definitely thinking the Red Bellies are coming. And so are the nightmares tonight. Snakes are a favorite of my subconscious, and today just gave it fuel.
I'm definitely jumpy, and not looking forward to closing my eyes. Then again, I also have a valid reason for not going into that Red Shed, and, therefore, not spending the 1.5 hours it costs me to mow the lawn...
Friday, May 7, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
When Get Well just isn't Enough
A dear friend of mine is laying in a hospital bed fighting for her life tonight. The doctors say it's terminal. Tabor says it's negotiable.
She believes in the power of prayer. She believes in herself. And she believes in miracles.
I hope with all my heart that she's right. I met Tabor as a sophomore in college. She was the managing editor at the paper, and eventually the managing editor for me while I was the EIC. Tabor has spent the majority of her life in school. She's an ordained minister with the African Methodist Episcopal church. She's an African drummer. She's mysterious and intriguing. I don't think Tabor even realizes the depth of her mind. She is a force to be reckoned with. And she's a born teacher. She's the type that teaches without even realizing it.
Tabor taught me to sit down, relax and sing when the nerves hit your stomach like a hive of bees. That's what we did while we waited for the editorial board's decision.
She then taught me composure and grace when I got the job and she didn't. She took me out to lunch, and told me I would succeed.
Tabor taught me that the right decision doesn't always make you popular, but it does make you successful. She taught me to not worry so much about what other people think.
She also taught me that she was not the best pick to have in the room when firing someone. Apparently stressful situations make her laugh. Uncontrollably. At all the wrong moments.
Tabor taught me that being different is beautiful. She would sit in her chair, editing a story on the screen and quietly gaze into space. Contemplating, she'd say. Thinking. Mulling. Very philosophical. She taught me that being weird is good. It's definitely served her well.
Tabor taught me that a look says more than a thousand words. Especially a look from her.
Tabor taught me that washing African-American hair is a weekly ordeal. And takes hours. She also taught me that Ciclids are lovely fish and deserve memorial services when they pass.
She taught me that things will get done. That it's okay to relax, take my time, and work at my own pace. What will be will be. And nothing is insurmountable.
Tabor taught me that Woodchuck on tap is far superior to that which is in a bottle. She tried to teach me to appreciate Bombay Sapphire, but, sadly, it seems that will never happen for "Thrasher" (her nickname for me).
Tabor taught me to block out all the noise. She also taught me a bunch of words I still can't remember.
Tabor is beautiful. And brilliant. She has taken the term "lifelong learner" to a whole new dimension. She's been a student at Virginia Tech since I was in high school, and will receive her most-recent degree, a doctorate, May 14.
Tabor taught me that life is a journey. And we don't have a map. She also taught me that it's more interesting that way. She taught me that thinking is a worthwhile pastime, and that the world, flawed as it is, remains beautiful.
I find myself praying constantly "Please, God. Just let Tabor wear her robes and get that degree. Please." I watch my son play, and wonder what she's thinking and how she's feeling. I watch the birds nest and wonder why her.
She may not realize it, but Tabor has spent most of her life teaching people to think and accept. To question. She certainly has taught me more than I can fully realize. And these words can never do her justice.
I wish I could be there to hold her hand. To tell her to fight. To get a Tabor look and ask her to define half of the words she uses in every day conversation. I wish I could be there to slip some of that Christmas-tree gin into her Slurpee. But I can't.
I know that whether Tabor decides to fly with angels or walk the earth a little while longer, she will bless either realm with a uniqueness most people will never know. She is one-of-a-kind, and she is loved. And she has blessed and enriched more people's lives than she will ever realize. Including mine.
She believes in the power of prayer. She believes in herself. And she believes in miracles.
I hope with all my heart that she's right. I met Tabor as a sophomore in college. She was the managing editor at the paper, and eventually the managing editor for me while I was the EIC. Tabor has spent the majority of her life in school. She's an ordained minister with the African Methodist Episcopal church. She's an African drummer. She's mysterious and intriguing. I don't think Tabor even realizes the depth of her mind. She is a force to be reckoned with. And she's a born teacher. She's the type that teaches without even realizing it.
Tabor taught me to sit down, relax and sing when the nerves hit your stomach like a hive of bees. That's what we did while we waited for the editorial board's decision.
She then taught me composure and grace when I got the job and she didn't. She took me out to lunch, and told me I would succeed.
Tabor taught me that the right decision doesn't always make you popular, but it does make you successful. She taught me to not worry so much about what other people think.
She also taught me that she was not the best pick to have in the room when firing someone. Apparently stressful situations make her laugh. Uncontrollably. At all the wrong moments.
Tabor taught me that being different is beautiful. She would sit in her chair, editing a story on the screen and quietly gaze into space. Contemplating, she'd say. Thinking. Mulling. Very philosophical. She taught me that being weird is good. It's definitely served her well.
Tabor taught me that a look says more than a thousand words. Especially a look from her.
Tabor taught me that washing African-American hair is a weekly ordeal. And takes hours. She also taught me that Ciclids are lovely fish and deserve memorial services when they pass.
She taught me that things will get done. That it's okay to relax, take my time, and work at my own pace. What will be will be. And nothing is insurmountable.
Tabor taught me that Woodchuck on tap is far superior to that which is in a bottle. She tried to teach me to appreciate Bombay Sapphire, but, sadly, it seems that will never happen for "Thrasher" (her nickname for me).
Tabor taught me to block out all the noise. She also taught me a bunch of words I still can't remember.
Tabor is beautiful. And brilliant. She has taken the term "lifelong learner" to a whole new dimension. She's been a student at Virginia Tech since I was in high school, and will receive her most-recent degree, a doctorate, May 14.
Tabor taught me that life is a journey. And we don't have a map. She also taught me that it's more interesting that way. She taught me that thinking is a worthwhile pastime, and that the world, flawed as it is, remains beautiful.
I find myself praying constantly "Please, God. Just let Tabor wear her robes and get that degree. Please." I watch my son play, and wonder what she's thinking and how she's feeling. I watch the birds nest and wonder why her.
She may not realize it, but Tabor has spent most of her life teaching people to think and accept. To question. She certainly has taught me more than I can fully realize. And these words can never do her justice.
I wish I could be there to hold her hand. To tell her to fight. To get a Tabor look and ask her to define half of the words she uses in every day conversation. I wish I could be there to slip some of that Christmas-tree gin into her Slurpee. But I can't.
I know that whether Tabor decides to fly with angels or walk the earth a little while longer, she will bless either realm with a uniqueness most people will never know. She is one-of-a-kind, and she is loved. And she has blessed and enriched more people's lives than she will ever realize. Including mine.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The Amazing Juni Never Ceases to Amaze Me
My son won a dollar from his Me-Maw for spelling his name Monday night. I told him I'd take him to the dollar store for whatever his tiny heart desired the next day after preschool.
He reached for my hand as we crossed the street to the store, and asked me to hold his dollar so he wouldn't lose it. Juni insisted on carrying his own basket for his one treasure.
He perused the isles, debating bubbles and chalk and jump ropes and coloring books.
"Mommy! I need dis!" He says. I turn around, and his tiny tanned hands are clutching an unpainted wooden cross.
"Ummm...Okay...Are you sure Juni? Remember, you get one thing...What are you planning to do with that, baby?"
"Mommy. I not a baby anymore. I a big boy. Like Daddy. I eat beets last night, and now my muscles grow big and strong like Daddy. I want to paint this at home. I want to paint this fross at home with hearts and put it on my Nanny's head when she dead."
Okay. Let me expand. Remember, Juni is 4. Every day, we drive past a cemetery. A cemetery that seems to have a funeral at least once a week. He understands what a cemetery is, and why people are there. But he insists those people are there for a party, and he'd like to go say hi. He also has a obsession with where his Nanny and PaPa will be buried. They're 80 and 85, and I really do think he understands that they're old and will inevitably die.
So when Juni said he wanted to put the cross on her head when she died, he actually meant that he'd like to leave it at the grave.
"Ummm...Okay...but Nanny isn't dying anytime soon, I don't think. Are you still sure? This jump rope is pretty cool."
"Yes. Come on, mommy. I need to get home and paint. You get my paints for me when I get home? I not supposed to go in your drawer, you know."
"Okay....but how about you spell your name for me real quick, and you can get one of those toys you've been eyeing?"
He sings "J.....U.....N.....I!!! I fink I want dat jumpin rope, mommy. You have one of those when you a gurl?"
We get home and Juni spends 30 minutes painting his wooden cross, which is like 3 weeks in toddler time. He insists I call Nanny and get PaPa to drive her over immediately. It's 3:30 pm, which is like midnight in old people time.
They drive the 28 miles and knock on the door before the paint is even dried. I told her the story, minus the detail that one day that cross will help mark her grave.
Nanny doesn't drive anymore. She quit voluntarily about a year ago. She doesn't visit friends, and is rapidly approaching senility. And Juni is her world. She lives to visit him and play with him. And when he handed over that multi-colored Dollar Store cross, she literally didn't know what to say. And neither did I. I was so proud and touched by my son, that there were no words.
He reached for my hand as we crossed the street to the store, and asked me to hold his dollar so he wouldn't lose it. Juni insisted on carrying his own basket for his one treasure.
He perused the isles, debating bubbles and chalk and jump ropes and coloring books.
"Mommy! I need dis!" He says. I turn around, and his tiny tanned hands are clutching an unpainted wooden cross.
"Ummm...Okay...Are you sure Juni? Remember, you get one thing...What are you planning to do with that, baby?"
"Mommy. I not a baby anymore. I a big boy. Like Daddy. I eat beets last night, and now my muscles grow big and strong like Daddy. I want to paint this at home. I want to paint this fross at home with hearts and put it on my Nanny's head when she dead."
Okay. Let me expand. Remember, Juni is 4. Every day, we drive past a cemetery. A cemetery that seems to have a funeral at least once a week. He understands what a cemetery is, and why people are there. But he insists those people are there for a party, and he'd like to go say hi. He also has a obsession with where his Nanny and PaPa will be buried. They're 80 and 85, and I really do think he understands that they're old and will inevitably die.
So when Juni said he wanted to put the cross on her head when she died, he actually meant that he'd like to leave it at the grave.
"Ummm...Okay...but Nanny isn't dying anytime soon, I don't think. Are you still sure? This jump rope is pretty cool."
"Yes. Come on, mommy. I need to get home and paint. You get my paints for me when I get home? I not supposed to go in your drawer, you know."
"Okay....but how about you spell your name for me real quick, and you can get one of those toys you've been eyeing?"
He sings "J.....U.....N.....I!!! I fink I want dat jumpin rope, mommy. You have one of those when you a gurl?"
We get home and Juni spends 30 minutes painting his wooden cross, which is like 3 weeks in toddler time. He insists I call Nanny and get PaPa to drive her over immediately. It's 3:30 pm, which is like midnight in old people time.
They drive the 28 miles and knock on the door before the paint is even dried. I told her the story, minus the detail that one day that cross will help mark her grave.
Nanny doesn't drive anymore. She quit voluntarily about a year ago. She doesn't visit friends, and is rapidly approaching senility. And Juni is her world. She lives to visit him and play with him. And when he handed over that multi-colored Dollar Store cross, she literally didn't know what to say. And neither did I. I was so proud and touched by my son, that there were no words.
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