Another facebook post rolls by and I wonder if anyone reads beyond its headline. I only have five minutes to sift through the myriad messages; the 400 emails in my inbox are calling me as the facebook photos, comments, and jokes roll by and there’s always the ones who journal their days walk for the public feed: “I tied my shoe and ate lunch and blew my nose and am so addicted to this that I will recount every move I make”.
And here comes the political stuff. The anti-this and so-and-so said that – likes and comments pour out with passion and I wonder how many people know how to have a real conversation anymore, beyond pointing the finger and virtual unfriending. The surface of life barely gets touched and I snicker when I think of the reaction I would get if I posted pictures of my Dad’s gun shop. Conversation? Probably not. Maybe
inaccurate statistics, a few “likes” and the possibility of being blocked by others. I bet I’d hear something about Hitler.
Should I tell them about the snakes?
After all, it would be first-hand information, and after watching one of the news stations
pulverize talk about the Heroes 19 story, we could all use some truth.
I was raised with cactus and javelinas, cowboys, dirt, and…..snakes. I hate snakes, especially rattlesnakes. I know, God created them and they have some purpose (like being satan’s first choice of disguise in the garden), but I still hate them. They slither, blend in with perfectly good trees and sticks that kids may play with – and they can kill.
Sometimes they would find their way into our yard, the wood pile (Mom has since graduated to a pellet stove), and porch. Occasionally the cats would corner one for my Dad who would come in for the kill (Remember, gunshop). Boom and that devil became part of the landscaping.
The porch was a different story. Cement porch, brick house. If you know guns (and you should if you have one), you shouldn’t use them if there’s a chance for ricochet. So here are three little kids who run around outside and there’s that nasty rattlesnake coiled up on the porch.
My Dad grabs a shovel and he and the snake waltz back and forth; jab, rattle – jump, jab, rattle – jump, until the snake gets it from the makeshift guillotine.
The back door step was a pallet and sometimes we’d see the head of (satan) a snake peeking through the top, waiting for it’s latest human victim.
And the family is safe again.
This is one peek into the life of a family that needed a gun. Don’t worry – we were responsible – if the snake was non-venomous, it got to live. But we also knew this wasn’t the type of story that people heard on the news. And if it was – it would probably be full of politically correct holes.
Kind of like those quotes on facebook that tell 1/1,243th of the story.
If I don’t remember the whole story, men who get paid $1 million to hold a gun in front of a camera may try to tell me that guns are evil in the “real” world and snakes are people too.
I’ll stick with grumpy cat.
Do you have your own story that needs told? Tell us in the comments.