Snakes and Spiders

She said the high point of the weekend's excursion was tripping over a green snake. Snake. My worst nightmares are Freudian night movies of falling and snakes. The thought of camping on the same ground that a green snake calls home or highway is unsettling. Getting into my sleeping bag and curling up to a green snake would cure me instantly of my perennial itch for the Great Outdoors. At the bottom of the tent entrance is an opening between side and bottom zippers large enough for a cat to pass through if it skinnied itself. Definitely not a problem for a day-glo chartreuse snake.

When she yelled out to me, "snake" I expected the usual variety of green and black garter snake. They are as common as worms. Any other snake is foreign and equally unnerving.

Memories do not fade quickly when it comes to snakes. Years ago, the sighting of a six foot granite-red and sand-tan snake near the house makes me wary of the place even now. Walking up the railroad tie steps between the lower yard and the house, I am unaware a bull snake is sleeping on a step. I leap two steps when I spot the sleeping giant, heart in my mouth. Coming home from work, I'm directed to the backyard. A snake crawls out of a drainpipe. Above the white PVC culvert, a squirrel is poised to attack. The crunch of the squirrel's teeth on the snake's skin is loud and disturbing. The snake fights back biting the squirrel once, then twice in the area below its neck. The squirrel beats a retreat.

I'm not afraid of spiders. I should be more afraid. She's not afraid of snakes, but spiders strike terror in her heart. I intellectualize that snakes and spiders are as important as bats in the ecosystem. My mind is a strange jumble of fear and information.

A friend shows me her shoulder. In a motel room in a small northern Wisconsin blurb, she is bitten by a wolf spider. The shoulder looks like the aftermath of a bout with a prize fighter. An area the size of a grapefruit just below the top of the shoulder is multi-colored red and purple. The pictures from the emergency room visit are equally disturbing. I turn my head. I remember a camping trip in Canada. A man comes through the same portage. With a canoe on my shoulders avoiding rocks strewn in the path, I look at his face. His lip is huge. When he talks, his lower lip flaps like a small pancake.

An important point of communication arises, prompted by spider stories.. Because I do not share the same fear of spiders, I dismiss her feelings with an insensitive, "Ah, what are ya afraid of?" Then, an image pops up in my mind. She's lying in bed wrapped in bandages. Guilt and shame follow. Would she rush you to the hospital when bitten by a snake? Of course, she would.

In a relationship simple problems can make communication difficult. Sometimes the solutions are simple, too. All one really has to do is communicate. Talk to me. Humor softens terrible times. In an ironic twist, my sister tells me of her daughter's husband. He's walking to the convenience store for a six pack of beer. Along the way, he spots a snake in the bushes. He's intrigued and not at all afraid. Toying with the snake with a stick, the snake bites him on the arm. Undaunted, he purchases his beer. On the way home he realizes he has a problem. If he leaves his beer at home and goes to the emergency room, his no 'count brother will drink the beer. Solution, drink the beer and then go to the hospital. The flight for life helicopter transfers him from Georgia to another state because they do not have enough anti-snake venom. He dies in flight.

The snake in the picture? A stuffed reminder not to be afraid. The snake sits atop an old record player at the far end of the living room. Locals tell of a year when the drought was so severe, rattlesnakes descend the limestone cliffs looking for water. I live 100 yards from a river. It'll be difficult to sleep tonight.

Radio Silence

Penelope Camille- A True Story

In 7th grade we worked as office monitors. Once, just as the bell rings, she says,"Don't you wonder sometimes what IT is like?" She kisses me softly and walks away.

Throughout high school, I take great pleasure in walking into the auditorium behind her, marveling at her long blond pony tail and blue pleated skirt. I watched as she joined the cheer leading team, dated Doug M. , asked her to write something in my yearbook when we graduated. I lost track of her.

My ex-wife tells me to look up Penelope. Joanne and I are dating after our divorce. Stupid but not uncommon. I find that Penelope makes jewelry in a suburban cluster of buildings fashioned out of a defunct grist mill. I walk in and ask her to make me a ring. "What kind of ring?" she asks. Make something that you would make for the man you would marry. I know that she's 40 years old and single. It's a classic line straight out of old romantic movies.

We begin dating. I'm a free bachelor 2 weeks out of the month. After 16 years of penal servitude as bad guy, chief bread winner and keeper of the realm, I have joint custody of three children-one of which isn't potty trained. Penelope is coming straight out of a crippling relationship. Really, after discovering her lover in coitus on the kitchen table, she is unable to walk. She is confined to her bed for weeks. I'm also seeing a busty music teacher. I cancel a date with Penelope. The date with the well endowed music teacher falls through. 9:30 in the evening, the doorbell rings. My high school sweetheart is at the door. She thrusts a large folded piece of sketch book paper at me, pushes her way inside and tells me , "Read this." She's consumed an unknown amount of wine. The note castigates me for abandoning her. She wants to spend the night. I make sure that the encounter is strictly platonic-which it is, kind of.

After a whirlwind, fairytale Christmas, Penelope decides to join an ashram in Lenox ,Mass. I'm crushed. I sing, "Que sera sera," to myself and wait. In May, she returns with a different attitude. Eight hours of chopping carrots, a daily exercise regimen, fasting, Kuchicha tea and visions of Babjii's feet, she comes back in poor health. She asks me to marry her.

Our wedding was choreographed by Walt Disney. Part Hindu ceremony, part Christian, we hire a bagpiper and a rotund black woman who is the soloist at the symphony. Both force people to their feet. I bring them to their knees with a wedding program that includes excerpts of love letters we exchange before tying the knot. I should have been suspicious when a friend is consoling a sobbing Penelope in the back of the church. Warner Brothers could not make a better movie.

After the ceremony, we ride a white, horse drawn coach to the Women's Club on the lakefront. A 7 piece classical ensemble plays soft music while dinner is served. Rock and roll music straight out of Wedding Crashers and a last minute ceremonial drum session at our new digs rounds off the night.

Let me pause, for a moment while I compact the next 2 years, 7 months and 28 days.

It's late. Penelope isn't home. I'm worried. At midnight I call several hospitals and the district headquarters of the police. Nothing. Nada. Out of curiosity I open the bedroom closet door. All her clothing is gone. No note, no phone call, nothing. Two days later a man approaches me at my place of business. He asks my name and hands me divorce papers.

The following week Penelope and her boyfriend drive up to My house. As I approach their vehicle, I notice he's holding a silver scepter crusted with black onyx and jewels. The sight is so startling, I 'm briefly speechless. He holds it up toward me like they do in the vampire movies. "We want you to leave the house for 30 minutes while Penelope gets her things," he says. I avoid replies that could be cliches with a firm, No. Later she sends the same clown to my business with mortgage papers for my house I need to make payments. I emphasize the my house portion of that statement. I call for backup from the third floor warehousemen and dial the police. They escort him from the building. "Could I have hit him?" I ask one of the boys in blue. "Yes, but then we'd have to take you in also."

Enter Dawn my present wife. Being something of a white witch, she shreds notes from Penelope at the entrance to her jewelry fabrication studio. She returns everything negative Penelope conjures with her own brand of vehemence. Penelope hires an old, crippled crone as a divorce attorney. Here's the last scene before it fades to black:

The County courthouse has three doors. Before the days of metal detectors and security, all three are unlocked. I gaze up at Justice and walk in the door. At the elevator, I push the up button. The door opens. There's Penelope in a green shapeless wool smock. She looks like a nun kicked out of the convent. I gape and mutter, "I think I'll wait for the next car."

There's more, but I have been told by my superiors to rig for silent running and maintain radio silence.

I Hope You Can Laugh

Bored. Can't breathe. Can't go outside. Don't feel good. Tired of looking out the window. Can't write. Don't want to clean the house. Can't get excited 'bout nothing. Don't want to climb on the roof and look at the chimney. Don't want to walk around the house, lost, anymore. Don't feel like having a beer. Barking at everyone. Need someone to talk to, but nobody comes out here in the sticks. Can't think up any projects. Need something to occupy my mind and fingers, but I don't want to have to think. Tired of music, tired of the same old stuff. Can't even move the furniture around. Too darn lazy to feel the blues. I should whittle something, but I don't know what. I know this day will end up wasted. It really shouldn't. The only thing that makes me feel better is writing this. Even turned down a sloppy kiss from the dog. Things have been like this before and each time I don't figure a way out of the tunnel. If you know how, please tell me. Please, please don't suggest a movie. I hope you can laugh.