Shootin' Snakes

I was seven or eight years old at the time, and goodness gracious it was hot as blazes that day. Shoot, it was so warm on the Florida panhandle that Wednesday afternoon that Satan himself sought the shade of a cypress and a tall glass of sweet iced tea. The world wavered under the heat, but if you squinted just so and held your cap at just the right angle to block the sun, you could see the far off forms of two little boys through the heaving air, one with an old Zebco 33 in his hands and one with a single shot .22 caliber rifle resting comfortably on his shoulder. They were standing at the far end of the Dead Lakes dam wondering what to do next.

I held the Zebco and my companion, Roy, had hold of the .22, and at the time we were debating the best way to shoot a snake. I voted for a shotgun at a considerable distance; but Roy said the old .22 was best at any distance provided, of course, you knew what do with it. It was that last little jab that raised the hackles on the back of my neck. Eight years old or not, I considered myself a darn good shot and pretty close to fearless on top of that; and such a statement challenged both assumptions.
 
The catalyst for this conversation was swimming seventy or eighty feet, give or take a few, off to the left of us out in a little lagoon of sorts. The water was flat and mirrored in the midday lull, so it was easy to make out the markings of the moccasin as he thrashed in the water desperately tying to escape. He looked to be somewhere around three or four feet long, a little chubby on account of the ample food supply and more than a little upset with his current situation. He had recently made a decision that had not gone his way.

You see Roy and I had been fishing together all morning, and by the time noon came around we were growing a little restless and looking for some mischief to get into. Roy’s dad, whose name I can’t recall, owned the little run down motel, bait shop and pool hall located a quarter mile or so from the far end of the dam. We were headed that way in search of opportunity when Roy noticed this moccasin swimming away from the bank.

Now I was proud of my casting ability and Roy knew it, so it didn’t take much prodding to get me to see if I could hit that moving snake with the rubber worm that was on the end my line.

If I say so myself, I did pretty good. I dropped that lure right on the top of that snake’s head while he was moving at a pretty good clip. As it turns out the snake took offense at this, whipped around, sunk his fangs into my rubber worm, got one of his fangs caught in the weed guard of my number 2 Eagle Claw weedless hook and was stuck fast.

The initial debate was between cutting the line and shooting the snake, but Roy would have none of that. So without another word he ran down to his house to get a rifle. When he came back with the .22 I was a little dubious. I mean having an angry, offended moccasin on the line is bad enough, but having an injured, angry, offended moccasin on the line raises things to a brand new level.

All of that considered, the debate ended and the competition began when Roy uttered those now infamous words, “… provided of course you knew what do with it.”
           
Since I had the Zebco and Roy owned the rifle, he got the first shot, and up until that moment I truly thought I could shoot. As he raised the rifle to his shoulder he was transformed. He was no longer a skinny little boy with an oversized rifle in his hands. The two became one as with a single fluid motion he raised the rifle, sited his target, and relieved the tension on my line.

I was truly impressed, more so I might add than Roy’s mamma was. She came running at the report of the rifle, fully intent upon tanning our hides for scaring her to death. That being said even she had to give begrudging respect to her son for a shot that left me with nothing more than a rubber worm, a couple of fangs and a brand new appreciation for Roy.
 
As I finish this story I am looking for a moral in it. When I lay down to go to sleep last night, I was wondering what to write this month, and this old story came to mind. When I awoke it remained lodged there; so I figure Christ wants it told.
I will leave it to you to discover what He wants you to get out of it, but I can tell you this. I will think twice before I go to picking on a moccasin again. The next time there might not be a Roy around to bail me out.
 
Love,
Pastor Tony
 
 
James 1: 13 – 15                                                                                                     1st Peter 5:8

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