The topic that triggers an angry inbox

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Sometimes, I get angry emails. It doesn’t happen often, which is good because I don’t try to inspire irritation. But when you write for the public every week for more than 20 years, you’re bound to tick off a few people now and then. Want to know what topic has most often sparked unhappy responses? It’s not politics. Not religion. It’s snakes. 

So before we go further, let me say right up front that this column contains a true snake story. Turn back now if you’re a snake sympathizer who cannot understand why a weenie like me is so afraid. 

If you’ve made it this far, perhaps you, too, are unnerved by an uninvited slithering visitor who may or may not have the power to kill you dead. Here’s what happened at our house last week:

I was loading the dishwasher, and Tom had just laced up his tennis shoes to go out for a walk before dusk. He got as far as the front steps before coming back into the house to make an unusual announcement.

Him: “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, but I don’t want you to freak out.”

Me: “Oh, God. What is it? What happened? Is it bad?”

Him: “No, it’s just something I want to show you because it’s weird but brace yourself because it does involve a snake.”

Me (searching the floor): “WHAT? Where! In the house?” 

Him: “No, it’s outside. Just come look.”

Me: “Have you met me? You know I’m not going outside to see a snake. You go out there, and I’ll watch from the window. Just point to it.” 

Then he stepped outside while I peered out the narrow window next to the front door. He pointed at the wall two feet away from our welcome mat — mere inches from where my terrified face was pressed against the glass. But I didn’t see anything except the brick wall bordering the front steps. Tom pointed again and said, “Look closer.”

That’s when I noticed a long, black line tucked into the mortar joints between bricks. Its body was lying horizontally, then vertically, then horizontally again along the mortar line. The squishy invader had snaked its way up to eye level as if it had every intention of ringing my doorbell to borrow a cup of sugar. 

As the realization hit me, I jumped back from the window and yelled to Tom through the door.

Me: “How did this happen? Can snakes climb walls?”

Him: “Apparently.”

Me: “What if I’d gone out there with the dog? You’ve got to either get rid of it, or we’ve got to burn down the house.”

Him (rolling his eyes): “I should’ve never told you. I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into the garage and came back a few minutes later with a broom — an utterly inadequate weapon. I was hoping for a machete or a flame thrower. I watched in horror as he swept the thing out of the mortar lines and into my beloved flower bed, where it slithered off into my nightmares. Tom came back inside as if the job was done, and I pounced.

Me: “Why did you let it go? It’s going to climb back up the wall and then drop down on my head when I go out to get the mail!”

Him: “I let it go because it’s solid black. Not poisonous. It’s a nice snake.” 

Friends, I’ve heard all the arguments about “nice snakes,” and I’m not buying it. When I see something that triggers my fight-or-flight response, my instincts don’t tell me to stop, get closer, and check for colors and patterns. It just screams, “Run for your life, or grab a flame thrower!” From where I stand, a snake can either kill me with one strike, or it can cause a fatal, fear-induced heart attack. Both are bad outcomes. 

Is this an irrational reaction? Probably. But for the record, I didn’t start this fight. There are millions of people just like me who grew up going to Sunday School, where we were taught about Adam, Eve, and a devil who showed up in the form of a snake. Not a panda bear. Not a duckling. A snake. The character assassination of snakes pre-dates me by at least 3,000 years.

Think of it this way. There’s a large species of shark, called a basking shark, that won’t harm humans because it only eats tiny plankton. But if you were swimming at the beach and saw a fin pop up out of the water, would you wait around to check its ID? No, you’d high-tail it out of there like a sane person who’d like to stay alive.

Speaking of staying alive, I can’t step foot outside the door without a thorough inspection of the ground and the walls. I scrutinize every stick and shadow to make sure it’s not something more sinister. If that makes you angry on behalf of innocent snakes, go ahead and write your email. But just know that this life-long paranoia is its own form of punishment.

I wonder where I could get a flame-thrower.

Gwen Rockwood is a syndicated freelance columnist. Email her at gwenrockwood5@gmail.com. Her book is available on Amazon.