My last post briefly referred to the “snakicidal tendencies” of my earlier years. I really was quite surprised at the number of people who have commented on that portion of my post, a post primarily about a new dog!
Those snakicidal tendencies… probably better referred to as herpetocidal tendencies… stem from the fact that I really have a problem with ophidiophobia. Ophidiophobia is a variety of herpetophobia, a generalized fear of reptiles. Wikipedia says “an ophidiophobic would not only fear them [snakes] when in live contact but also dreads to think about them or even see them on TV or in pictures.” That pretty well describes me.
I have held snakes. That didn’t gross me out or anything. But the reality is I fear them at a very basic level. Like the definition, I have problems watching them on TV… my hands sweat, my heart rate increases, my breathing gets fast and thready. I get jumpy, having a hard time sitting still. My body tenses like rock. I used to hate thumbing through the “S” volume of our encyclopedia as a kid. When I would push myself and come to the snakes, if I turned a page and discovered that my finger was on a picture of a snake, I’d darn near wet myself! Scott loves going to the herpetology displays in zoos. I tag along. I hate it. When we finally finish, I have to go to the bathroom, then drink huge quantities of water. Then go to the bathroom again.
Where does it come from, this ophidiophobia? I suspect it came from my mother. I think she genetically implanted it in my DNA before I was even born. Mom was terrified of snakes too. She came by her fear a little more naturally. She often told me a story about how that fear developed. It seems that back in the 30s, the lake she lived by with her family (Lake Manawa, south of Council Bluffs, Iowa) came very close to drying out. Of course, being the 30s, it was the pit of the depression. Mom tells that she was out playing on the dried lake floor. Maybe she was with her sister, my Aunt Jeanie, I don’t know. As I recall the story, she stayed out later than she was supposed to, then went running home. On the way, her foot caught in a deep fissure in the dried mud (you know how mud dries… in a jig-saw design?) and her shoe came off. Arriving home, my grandfather, her dad, was extremely upset with her over losing that shoe, so he made her go out with him to find and retrieve the shoe (remember, this was the Great Depression; I’m sure the expense of having to buy a new pair of shoes would not have been greeted warmly by Grandpa.) Anyhow, at some point they stepped over a log and there was a snake. As I recall the story, the snake was large, and grandfather grabbed mom and jerked her away from it, thus implanting her fear of snakes. Also, as I recall the story, the snake was a rattlesnake. But I am not sure of that part.
And so, from my earliest memories, snakes were very much NOT liked by mom. I remember Dad taking snakes caught in our yard, little garden variety snakes, never longer than a foot, foot and a half, down to the sewer grating where he killed it then dumped it down the sewer.
Years later, while working at a Boy Scout Summer Camp as a young man (21) I had two more experiences (in about 3 days) with snakes. The first one was while out hiking. I startled a snake, and the sound of it slithering off made me jump. I followed the snake, getting relatively close to it, fascinated, and trying to overcome my fear. Later, I had the Camp instructor who was teaching about snakes and reptiles help me to hold a snake. It was ok. Even managed to keep my terror under control. But, then, the next morning, any progress I made was erased.
It was my habit, as the person in charge of the aquatics program, to get up before my staff, go down to the pool, do a walk around making sure everything was okay. Then, against all safety rules, regulations, and common sense, I’d go for a swim. The morning following my snake handling break-through, I decided to forego my walk around, and just dove in to the pool and started swimming. I was about half way across the pool when I heard a shout. It was the camp ranger, a big burly man, standing on the edge of the pool off to the side waving and motioning for me to swim towards him. “HURRY! HURRY! Swim like you’re in a race for your life!” So, I swam toward him as fast as I could. As I neared the edge of the pool he reached down, caught me by one wrist and yanked me out of the water.
I was sure I was in big trouble! He just set me down and pointed. There, in the pool, not far behind me was a rattler.
“We’re having a bit of a dry season up here. They sometimes come to the pool, drawn by the water and the mice that come around here. They sometimes fall in. You should look before you leap.” He scooped the snake out, killed it, then left, taking the corpse with him. Nothing more was said about my irresponsible swim. And I never swam alone there again… much to the chagrin of my staff, as I thenceforth made one of them wake up early with me and watch while I swam. And I ALWAYS looked for snakes!
But that didn’t end my experiences with snakes. When I moved back to Council Bluffs in 1998, we lived about 6 houses from a big creek that runs through town, under the 16th Street Viaduct. One day, coming home from work, I tromped up the stairs to our apartment on the 2nd floor. As I entered the room, I thought I sensed movement, and reached to turn on the light. There in the middle of the floor was a garden snake, about 18 inches long.
I screamed.
I turned, and ran down the stairs to the living room, and sat with my friends until Scott could come home and go get the snake out of our apartment for me. A few days later, there was another smaller snake. Again, I screamed, and ran downstairs, and waited for Scott. This soon became a pattern. I finally got smart, and waited for Scott to come home before going upstairs. It wasn’t long before we discovered the walls of the house were infested with snakes. And can you believe it? I lived there for 10 months knowing that!
One night, I awoke in the middle of the night, feeling the call of nature. Not thinking I trudged through the apartment, and in to the bathroom. I stepped on one of them.
I screamed.
On The Road II 