This episode comes by way of teaching my students to use tangible details to establish setting. They also wanted to know if I had ever had an encounter with a dangerous animal. And here you have both:
My legs needed some space; sixteen-year-olds do not
belong with two brothers in the back seat of a minivan. Even after I would push one of them under the seat
so I could spread out a smidgen, the overflow of luggage that spilled from the
back invaded my space.
The constant droning of the siblings didn't make the
journey any easier. The family had been
on the road for a few days, driving from Illinois down to Arkansas and back up
through Missouri. We had already
traveled five or six hours that day, heading for Lake of the Ozarks to relax
and get away and enjoy the outdoors. However,
getting away from the sweaty, stickiness hanging in the air seemed
impossible. I was bored and sweaty. My Discman batteries had died. Reading was not an option. Midwestern stuffiness killed the air
conditioner’s attempt to circulate. The
aftertaste of Funyuns kicking around created a new-found carsick tendency deep
inside my abdomen. The corn chipness
that was David’s feet only made it worse.
The overripe wad of watermelon Bubbalicious that Nicole smacked didn't
help either; she reminded me of the countless farms of cud-chewers we had
passed along the way.
The four Mountain Dew refills from lunch at Taco Bell
(Toxic Hell) started to take their toll.
I wasn't sure how much more I could take. My innards bounced up and down wooded hills,
around hidden curves; the drive continued.
On and on. And on. And on.
My bladder and my stomach both called dibs on blowing first.
And then Dad stopped unexpectedly, pulling onto a little
gravel shoulder overlooking a narrow, green valley in the middle of a somewhat
rocky deciduous forest. Without
hesitating, I ripped off my seat belt and yanked open the side door, leaving vacation
exploded in my wake. I could breathe
again. Sure, I was drinking the humidity
in gulps, and I was perspiring like a fat man in a sauna, but at least it was
clean air.
I decided to give myself some space—and privacy—so I hobbled
through the woods to the edge of an outcropping. A shallow gorge lay in front of me. Without the urgency and pressure I felt and more
time to explore, I would have jumped the six or seven feet to the bottom, but
as it was, nature was calling, and refused to leave a message.
The relief was instantaneous. Taking my time, taking a leak, I took in the
surroundings that I hadn't noticed before: insects hummed, birds sang, a large afternoon
thunderhead rolled in. As I finished up
my business, zipped, and turned to leave, I thought I heard something coming
from the gully. A scratching sound like
twigs dragged through leaves.
Standing from where I had just whizzed, I glanced down
and saw my puddle. Then I froze. Three thick feet of the back end of a timber
rattlesnake slowly slithered away from the wetness and under the jagged rocks I
happened to be standing on. My eyes
followed the body, abundant as a Hickory Farms summer sausage, its dark gray
and black and brown diamonds tapering down its tail as it disappeared from
sight. Not quite six feet directly below
me.
The shiver did not come from the oncoming storm winds,
nor did it arise from the raindrops that stared to fall. The heebie jeebies full-on raced up my right
leg, spasmed me silly, and sped down the left.
My body streaked to the van, more than content to be confined in its restrictive
space. I still shudder whenever I think
of how close that reptile slithered without me knowing it.
However, it wasn't until I read an early draft of this to
a seventh grade class, that what I had inadvertently done hit me: “Mr. Anson, you
really peed on a rattlesnake?”
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