SSSSNAAAKE!

My younger brothers chased me around the yard with a large, venomous snake. Or so it seemed. Actually, the snake was a garter snake about the size of a yellow school pencil. I knew I shouldn’t have resorted to running. I thought of squaring my shoulders, facing the foe and showing an interest in the snake.

“What a cute critter,” I’d say. “That dry, scaly skin. Perhaps later I’ll hold him. For now, look how he’s curled around your arm — he’s bonded with you.”

Instead, I screamed and scrambled to get away. My actions armed younger brothers with ammo against their older sibling, the ammo considered harmless, and more interested in insects than in a panic-filled sister.

Through the years, I avoided snakes. I carried a stick while on hikes to tap on rocks to scare away snakes.

A pollster with a clipboard took a poll in a mall parking lot of what people fear. Poll results — most feared: Snakes, mice and rats, thunder and lightning storms, plane rides, spiders, clowns, large spiders wearing clown suits, heights, cabbage and kale casseroles, aggressive birds, fourth-grade long division, and pollsters with clipboards.

My luck avoiding snakes seemed to run out while visiting a remote farm after dusk. I strolled out towards a barn while family visited with the locals on the porch. In the dark, I stumbled over some debris, then heard the dreaded sound — rattle, rattle. I froze. The sound stopped. I took a couple more steps. Rattle, rattle. With each pause — silence. With each step — a rattle sound.

When I spotted a yard light illuminating a corral fence, I took a running leap and scrambled up the corral poles. I noticed a looped piece of baling twine hooked around my boot and trailing a branch of dried leaves. I kicked off the twine and dried leaves. No more rattle, rattle.

The ultimate fright occurred at a relative’s chicken/egg-laying operation. On a visit, I wandered around the yard bordered by chicken coops. Out of the brush, a snake did a slow, U-shaped slither. About the size of an inflated fire hose, the snake’s body kept coming and coming. I wondered if he had gone from dining on rodents and on to feasting on small dinosaurs, given the dinosaur fossil research in the area.

My heart pounded. I trembled as sweat dripped from my forehead. I’d moved from cautious fear to full-blown phobia. I stumbled into the house, packed and left.

Years later, grandchildren mentioned a science event at a science museum. I’m invited.

The theme: herpetology. An auditorium filled with snakes in cages. A fun-filled time where visitors get to hold actual (non-aggressive) snakes. A time where a grownup with snake fears can pretend to enjoy holding a snake on her towel-covered lap to show budding, science-minded grandchildren what fun science can be. What fears we hide for the sake of children!

A couple years ago I spotted a small snake about the size of an al dente linguine noodle near my front porch. I wasn’t sure about his markings. A neighbor came over, shovel in hand.

“Nope, not a rattlesnake. That’s a bull snake. I’ll move him out of your way.”

My own “pet” bull snake dines on earwigs and potato bugs. While mowing, I noticed my favorite snake weaving through the grass, heading towards open ground. A hawk circled above as though he’d spotted lunch. It’s challenging to herd a snake to the safety of a rockpile.