We used to go fishing out there. Never did much catching, but it was an excuse to get out of the house. Mainly, we stuck bread balls on hooks and forgot about them until minnows had eaten the bait in quick, darting patterns through the water. It was a little pond that was fed by a fresh spring flowing from limestone crevices. It was close to the woods, on the edge of a fallow field. Moss was everywhere, along with small orange flying insects. They stood out in neon against acrylic blue skies. Late in summer, it was lush and green and full of poison ivy. We stayed covered in rashes until each one of us became somewhat immune.
It was there that we carefully laid out some rabbit tobacco on a flat rock until it was almost crisp and ready to smoke. Corn cob pipes were twenty five cent apiece at the dimestore and we each had one - me, my cousin Alvina, and my best friend Kelly. Sometimes some dirty looking teenagers came down there to fish, too. We stayed on the other side, in case they were juvenile deliquents. They always left beer cans where they had been, and cigarette butts. Which we carefully saved and smoked in our dimestore corn cob pipes.
Once, they left a half empty pint of whiskey. We left it there for several weeks, thinking they were going to come back and get it, but they didn’t. So now it was ours. And it was then in our lives that we learned about the dangers of alcoholic drink. Alvina and I were the first to try it. It came in fiery, choking sips at first, then began to taste good. Kelly almost vomited, but didn’t. Then, we were on top of the world. Crazy drunk, the world spinning by in front of us. Poison ivy was of no concern at this time. Neither was anything else, except we were riding a deliciously forbidden high. Don’t remember how we started to run, but we did. All through the bushes, chasing each other.
Suddenly Alvina was still. Sickeningly still and white. We stopped, sensing that something was wrong. The look in her eyes told us that something frightening was happening. And when we stopped, we heard it. The warning signal of a rattlesnake. We had always been told to stand perfectly still when confronted by a rattler. This time it was put to the test. Alvina was starting to hyperventilate and I was afraid she would pass out, fall down, and cause the rattler to strike. This would have been fatal, due to the enormous size of the diamondback. It’s head was as big as two large fists.
We sobered up immediately, the effects of alcohol diminishing with each breath. The snake was tightly coiled and throbbing with energy, poised to strike. With great effort, Kelly slowly knelt down and picked up a large stick. In a slowed-down version of our softball days, he threw the stick past Alvina and the snake, where it landed with a thump in the grass. The reptile immediately turned and struck at the stick and at the same time, Kelly yelled “Run!” Which we did. Thank goodness, for in our altered alcoholic state, our responses were unusually mercurial.
By the time we stopped running and reached the hard road, we were almost back to normal. It is amazing what adrenaline can do. After that, we never went back to the pond. Now we knew and the magic was spoiled, another of life’s lessons learned the hard way. Yet, still, to this day, beautiful images of slow, hypnotic afternoons haunt my mind. We were crazy with youth and drawn by the lure of water, blissfully unaware of the nearness of death.
