After the bugs come, the frogs arrive (more Pharoahishness). And after the frogs come, the snakes.
This time last year I walked onto the carport, to see a four foot snake of some kind, wound around the electrical box my husband had just been working on. Speechless, then a sqwawking sound, then little screams coming from my mouth. "Snake, snake, snake!" I did NOT kill that one, but did a pretty good job of pointing where it was slithering away to.
A month or so later we found three more, in the part of the yard we'd lovingly knick-named 'The snake pit". One we didn't know what it was, the other two were baby water moccasins. Or cottonmouths as they call them here. I actually whacked the daylights out of one of them with the shovel, watching it fly around the yard in little bitty pieces. It made me feel a bit like Helen Reddy, singing 'I am woman, hear me roar" as I swung the shovel above my head. But it left me a bit giddy and light-headed over the whole ordeal.
So yesterday, standing outside in the yard barefoot (a big no-no in rural Texas), looking over the side yard toward the woodpile, I spotted a good sized snake curled up on top of the logs. Did I take the time to check the shape of its head? No. Did I definitely recognize what it was? No. But I did, very calmly, tell my husband that there happened to be a snake that looked a lot like either a cottonmouth or copperhead, slithering away, and then I went and got the hoe. Came back, disappointed to see we'd missed it. No snake whacking today.
Never screamed a single second. But I will start wearing shoes in the yard again. Otherwise I might be chopping off a toe or two, when the crazy woman inside me starts swinging that hoe again. I do believe I can do this living out in the country thing, this girl who used to lose it over a loose moth in the car. As Gomer Pyle would say, "Well, serprise, serprise!