I was at the lake in remote Alabama this weekend, like I often am. And when you have things done at the lake, you often call on fellas that sport camouflage hats and pants, beards and deadpan expressions, men that arrive in pick ‘em up trucks, y’all. With gun racks. You might as well not be a man in Alabama without the gun rack.
And I bonded with the son of the seawall man. He was cute and bearded and wearing his mandatory camo uniform and he spoke of hunting a lot of deer. He had a quick smile and easy laugh and he thought I was funny, so I was immediately charmed.
But I wondered how he wanted to shoot the things that I’d rather cuddle. I take tree hugging to the next level. I’m a deer hugger… if one would have me.
I mourn the sight of a dead deer on the road and I marvel at the sight of the flash of brown liquid eye and tawny pelt, patch of white tail, when I get that magical glimpse of a deer’s bounding athleticism.
Funny thing that Kate noted was that my pick ‘em up was BIGGER, by a country mile. I won’t begin to postulate what that represents.
And because I am a blonde woman with boobs of substance, and not some effete man, I’m safe and life is good.
And this is totally my assumption, because how the hell do I know? For all I know, the country blokes would relish working for a girly queen in skinny jeans and I’m just stereotyping. And the gay guy would bring out the sensitive side in the country guys and they would start dishin’:
Clyde: Girrrrrrl, are those True Religions? Because they snug up on your ass like a fawn on her doe.
Jacques: They so are. Holla! And where did you get that peck-hugging camo undershirt, because Clyde, that is niiiice. I can tell you craft sea walls by the way you flex that chest, Boy-o.
Clyde: I move walls for the Lake Folk and move about 15 ton of block a day. It makes for rough hands, but there’s a tradeoff with the chest development. (more chest flexing up and down)
Of course I made that up, but I would hope that they would get along. Aren’t we all the same?
Which brings me to my story: I once caught a snake with my bare hands at the lake.
I’m just not afraid of snakes—certainly not the way I am of predatory spiders and murderous roaches. I think snakes are slinky and sort of sensuous and nice to the touch. The skin is soft and smooth and the way it slides, when the muscles of the snake expand and contract is really elegant, for lack of a better word.
It feels good. Sadly, the snake never feels the same and I almost always get peed on.
And a snake pee smells. But doesn’t all pee? I’ve never smelled pee that is reminiscent of lavender. And I don’t enjoy pee. I know that there are people that do, but how weird are they? Not to get judgey because I guess we aren’t all the exactly the same.
When my ex and I were building our lovely octagon lake house, I spotted an adorable little garden snake innocently slithering its way through the construction site and I grabbed it behind its tiny non-poisonous head.
And I showed it to my excited two year old daughter. Because daughters should see snakes and get to touch their leathery segmented hide and realize that they aren’t really the devil. And most aren’t poisonous and I really do know the difference.
Well, this act of total Crocodile-Hunter bravado made the builder-men squirm. I mean some of them practically jumped into the arms of the others.
My head contractor, a burly mustachioed gentleman, sporting head to toe camo, uttered a small shriek and said, “Kara, that’s a baby rattler.”
I assured him that the snake was not poisonous and gave him my best Medusa smile.
These are men that casually cut huge timbers with exposed circular saws. Men that smile whilst traipsing along the 50 ft. rim of a turret’s roofline, whistlin’ Dixie. Men that seek out early morning chill to crouch in brush for three hours for the mere chance to shoot a big turkey bird.
I’m not even exaggerating that these men ran away from me upon seeing me hold up the smallish garden snake and walk in their direction to show my child. They literally skeee-daddled sideways like frightened crabs.
And after that, they treated me a bit like a voodoo priestess, like a woman of some danger—a woman not afraid to confront and wrestle a terrifying reptile…on purpose and for jollies, not just out of necessity.
Or perhaps a woman so stupid as to be a danger to rational people working nearby.
I was never quite sure.
