When it’s cold I dress in the height of rural western fashion Carhart®
insulated overalls and coat. Though my insulated underwear beneath may not
match, I am totally coordinated in tan canvas as I make my way to the barn
through mud and ice. As I go about the morning feeding of horses, cattle, goat,
cats and dogs I consider myself fortunate to be living my life as a ranch woman.
I like to think that I do my chores efficiently, using as few steps as possible and
wasting little time. To save a trip back to the barn I often leave the shoulder
straps of my overalls loose forming a sort of chest pocket into which I stick tools,
feed supplements, etc. I then go about my morning feeding of the mares nearest
the barn.
This particular morning I walked into the feed room, reached up and pulled down
a square bale of hay. Stretching higher up for a second bale I pulled it towards
me, tilting it against my chest for balance. It was early morning and it was dark...
but not dark enough that I couldn’t see the bull snake on the other end of the
bale. I started to step back to let the bale just fall when my legs encountered the
previously dumped bale. I sat down with the second bale square against my chest.
As the snake slid forward, I swear to you, not since Eve in the Garden had a snake
smiled in such a mischievous way.
I am not afraid of snakes. I have a healthy respect for them, especially when I
have a hoe or shovel in my hands. As I pushed the bale away from me the snake
slid tail first into the "pocket" of my overalls. At this point I would like to tell
you that I was very calm and used lady-like language; however, that would be a
bold faced lie. Falling off the first bale onto my back I had a sudden flash of what
it must be like to be a turtle. Thick, insulated clothes make it very hard for short,
round women to get back up once they are in a prone position. Grabbing the wire
of the bale, I managed to turn myself over and get to my feet. Once standing I
began "the zipper dance". You know the steps...pull, tug, pull, stomp, pull, pull,
pull!
I made my way out of the feed room and into the small corral. Gathering my wits,
I grasped the top of the zipper and the tongue and moved the zipper on the front
of my overalls about halfway down. Unfortunately, this also loosened them at the
waist and instead of falling out as I had hoped; Mr. Snake proceeded down into
the left leg of the overalls, which fit me just snug enough that I could feel his
every movement. But hope springs eternal when you are in a desperate situation; I
figured he would go on down and would simply fall out the bottom of the leg of
his insulated prison. That, however was entirely too optimistic on my part. It was
wet and muddy and I had pulled on my big rubber boots, with the bottoms of my
overalls securely tucked inside.
As I danced about my son came around the cor+ner of the barn. Throwing myself
onto my back in the muck of the corral I shouted, "Quick, peel me out of these
overalls! Snake! Snake! Snake!" Kicking and struggling with the side zipper on the
leg, I awaited his help; but he was no where to be seen! The mental image of a
turtle on it’s back once again invaded my mind. Screaming his name I saw my
son coming from the barn with a hoe and looking at the ground. "Where Mom?
Where?!" he kept asking.
"IN MY OVERALLS! GET ME OUT OF THESE!"
Grabbing my boots he tossed them aside and began to tug at my overalls, which
were still secured by their straps over my shoulders…inside my coat. I was
grappling with the coat while my son dragged me around the muddy corral. I had
the sudden realization that I was a turtle on its back and had the irrational
thought "What would a turtle do?" (Pulling my head in and ignoring the
situation was not an option at this point.)
"COAT!" I screamed, "OFF!" Fortunately for me my son speaks fluent screech
and was able to translate my cries into directions. Sitting me up and jerking my
coat off, he returned to tugging at my overalls. With one industrious yank the
overalls came off and as they flew into the air, so did the snake.
I have always loved old Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons, especially when
impending disaster is played out in slow motion. This is the first time in my life
that real time took on all the qualities of that poor Coyote having a rock fall off a
cliff onto him. The snake flew up, went into a stall, hung momentarily (still
smiling, I assure you), curled into position, straightened out like an Olympic diver
and propelled himself straight onto my stomach! My son, also in slow motion,
watched the snake go up and down and made one comment, "Duh-ang!"
Rolling to one side I dumped the snake into the mud, grasped a panel, scrambled
to my feet and grabbed the hoe. I would like to tell you again that I was very lady-
like and magnanimous and that I allowed Mr. Snake to make his escape
unscathed. This also, would be a lie. I do believe however, that when Mr. Snake
got to reptile heaven he told the gatekeeper that he was dispatched from earth by
a Marine Corp drill instructor who was wearing only muddy long johns and
socks. I will admit I may have overreacted a teeny bit, as Mr. Snake vaguely
resembled stir-fry when I was done.
My husband made it in from his latest job in the Gulf and went out to do the
evening feeding. I had not related the day’s events to him as I was in the
shower for the second time that day. (More mud, a skittish bottle calf, you get the
picture.) Fortunately for me, my son was with a friend and had not regaled his
father with his version. (Which differs slightly from mine. I did not pummel the
snake with my fists nor did I shout, "this is for women everywhere!" Not that I
recall anyway.) As my husband came back into the house I heard him ask, "Who
killed my snake?"
"What do you mean by my snake, Cowboy?" I asked in that unnerving controlled
"mommy" voice that children and husbands fear.
Silence from the hall.
"You knew, it was there?" I asked. "And you didn’t kill it?"
"Well, it eats mice and it never causes any trouble."
Wrong answer.
"It slid off a bale and into my overalls."
More silence.
"I think I’ll go back out and spend a little time in the barn before supper" he
said. Smart man.
Believe it or not, there were lessons learned from this incident. I have learned that
children do listen to what we say. My son made me put seven dollars in the swear
word fine jar for what he heard and told everyone in the county that his mother
can kill a snake with lightning speed once it is outside her clothes. I have learned
that it doesn’t matter whether not your long johns match as mud co-ordinates
everything into barnyard brown. I learned that my husband is pretty savvy when
it comes to knowing when to make a quiet exit. I also learned not to repeat this
story to friends or Jon will write a song about it.
The snake learned a valuable lesson too…Turtles, are tougher than they look.
insulated overalls and coat. Though my insulated underwear beneath may not
match, I am totally coordinated in tan canvas as I make my way to the barn
through mud and ice. As I go about the morning feeding of horses, cattle, goat,
cats and dogs I consider myself fortunate to be living my life as a ranch woman.
I like to think that I do my chores efficiently, using as few steps as possible and
wasting little time. To save a trip back to the barn I often leave the shoulder
straps of my overalls loose forming a sort of chest pocket into which I stick tools,
feed supplements, etc. I then go about my morning feeding of the mares nearest
the barn.
This particular morning I walked into the feed room, reached up and pulled down
a square bale of hay. Stretching higher up for a second bale I pulled it towards
me, tilting it against my chest for balance. It was early morning and it was dark...
but not dark enough that I couldn’t see the bull snake on the other end of the
bale. I started to step back to let the bale just fall when my legs encountered the
previously dumped bale. I sat down with the second bale square against my chest.
As the snake slid forward, I swear to you, not since Eve in the Garden had a snake
smiled in such a mischievous way.
I am not afraid of snakes. I have a healthy respect for them, especially when I
have a hoe or shovel in my hands. As I pushed the bale away from me the snake
slid tail first into the "pocket" of my overalls. At this point I would like to tell
you that I was very calm and used lady-like language; however, that would be a
bold faced lie. Falling off the first bale onto my back I had a sudden flash of what
it must be like to be a turtle. Thick, insulated clothes make it very hard for short,
round women to get back up once they are in a prone position. Grabbing the wire
of the bale, I managed to turn myself over and get to my feet. Once standing I
began "the zipper dance". You know the steps...pull, tug, pull, stomp, pull, pull,
pull!
I made my way out of the feed room and into the small corral. Gathering my wits,
I grasped the top of the zipper and the tongue and moved the zipper on the front
of my overalls about halfway down. Unfortunately, this also loosened them at the
waist and instead of falling out as I had hoped; Mr. Snake proceeded down into
the left leg of the overalls, which fit me just snug enough that I could feel his
every movement. But hope springs eternal when you are in a desperate situation; I
figured he would go on down and would simply fall out the bottom of the leg of
his insulated prison. That, however was entirely too optimistic on my part. It was
wet and muddy and I had pulled on my big rubber boots, with the bottoms of my
overalls securely tucked inside.
As I danced about my son came around the cor+ner of the barn. Throwing myself
onto my back in the muck of the corral I shouted, "Quick, peel me out of these
overalls! Snake! Snake! Snake!" Kicking and struggling with the side zipper on the
leg, I awaited his help; but he was no where to be seen! The mental image of a
turtle on it’s back once again invaded my mind. Screaming his name I saw my
son coming from the barn with a hoe and looking at the ground. "Where Mom?
Where?!" he kept asking.
"IN MY OVERALLS! GET ME OUT OF THESE!"
Grabbing my boots he tossed them aside and began to tug at my overalls, which
were still secured by their straps over my shoulders…inside my coat. I was
grappling with the coat while my son dragged me around the muddy corral. I had
the sudden realization that I was a turtle on its back and had the irrational
thought "What would a turtle do?" (Pulling my head in and ignoring the
situation was not an option at this point.)
"COAT!" I screamed, "OFF!" Fortunately for me my son speaks fluent screech
and was able to translate my cries into directions. Sitting me up and jerking my
coat off, he returned to tugging at my overalls. With one industrious yank the
overalls came off and as they flew into the air, so did the snake.
I have always loved old Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons, especially when
impending disaster is played out in slow motion. This is the first time in my life
that real time took on all the qualities of that poor Coyote having a rock fall off a
cliff onto him. The snake flew up, went into a stall, hung momentarily (still
smiling, I assure you), curled into position, straightened out like an Olympic diver
and propelled himself straight onto my stomach! My son, also in slow motion,
watched the snake go up and down and made one comment, "Duh-ang!"
Rolling to one side I dumped the snake into the mud, grasped a panel, scrambled
to my feet and grabbed the hoe. I would like to tell you again that I was very lady-
like and magnanimous and that I allowed Mr. Snake to make his escape
unscathed. This also, would be a lie. I do believe however, that when Mr. Snake
got to reptile heaven he told the gatekeeper that he was dispatched from earth by
a Marine Corp drill instructor who was wearing only muddy long johns and
socks. I will admit I may have overreacted a teeny bit, as Mr. Snake vaguely
resembled stir-fry when I was done.
My husband made it in from his latest job in the Gulf and went out to do the
evening feeding. I had not related the day’s events to him as I was in the
shower for the second time that day. (More mud, a skittish bottle calf, you get the
picture.) Fortunately for me, my son was with a friend and had not regaled his
father with his version. (Which differs slightly from mine. I did not pummel the
snake with my fists nor did I shout, "this is for women everywhere!" Not that I
recall anyway.) As my husband came back into the house I heard him ask, "Who
killed my snake?"
"What do you mean by my snake, Cowboy?" I asked in that unnerving controlled
"mommy" voice that children and husbands fear.
Silence from the hall.
"You knew, it was there?" I asked. "And you didn’t kill it?"
"Well, it eats mice and it never causes any trouble."
Wrong answer.
"It slid off a bale and into my overalls."
More silence.
"I think I’ll go back out and spend a little time in the barn before supper" he
said. Smart man.
Believe it or not, there were lessons learned from this incident. I have learned that
children do listen to what we say. My son made me put seven dollars in the swear
word fine jar for what he heard and told everyone in the county that his mother
can kill a snake with lightning speed once it is outside her clothes. I have learned
that it doesn’t matter whether not your long johns match as mud co-ordinates
everything into barnyard brown. I learned that my husband is pretty savvy when
it comes to knowing when to make a quiet exit. I also learned not to repeat this
story to friends or Jon will write a song about it.
The snake learned a valuable lesson too…Turtles, are tougher than they look.
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| Feature Column for February 2005 |
| "Riding Drag" |
| Snakes in My Décolletage Debra Coppinger Hill ©2004 |
| Debra Coppinger Hill ©2004 * For more information on Riding Drag, CDs, books and personal appearances by Debra go to Debra's pages here on CnC, or Visit her at oldyellowslicker.com or contact her at PO Box 348, Chelsea, OK 74016 |
| Column by Debra Coppinger Hill |