Smokey Mountain Breakdown

So, Max is once again barking his frantic--OMG! OMG! OMFG! Lookit! Lookit! Lookit!--and that can mean only one thing--Snake. Or trapped something.

Anyway, I find he is yapping at a black racer snake living behind my heat pump. The racer has caught a baby bunny wabbit and is squeezing it to death. Not sure how the bunny got there--unless the bunnies are living there and the black racer came upon them. Or Max chased the bunny into the snake's opportunistic reach. Not sure, but squeezing was well under way by the time I found them.



I'm actually sort of glad to have this sort of snake living around the house because they eat mice and rats and all sorts of things I don't want around. But I've kept snakes before and I would have sworn this was a much more ambitious meal than a snake this size could handle. I found a big one in the chicken coop once that had eaten the fake easter eggs I'd put in the nests to encourage the hens to lay. Had to kill that one since it wouldn't have survived with all that plastic in its gullet.


I gave him some privacy to concentrate on consuming the bunny and when I came back out he had stuffed himself in the hidey hole between the heat pump and the house. So I didn't get a picture of the lump. But it might have looked like this:


Except with a bunny rabbit.

Max running through the grass. I toldja the grass was high.

It occurred to me I haven't shared a tidbit of Appalachian snake folklore I picked up earlier in the summer. It's just a smidgeon. Black snakes are plentiful here. There are the big, fat, slow kind that eat your chicken eggs and the long, thin, whippy ones that move like mercury--you never quite can catch them and if you do, they seem to move in your hands like they weren't there to begin with. The whippy ones are said to keep other snakes away, so you like to keep them around. The ones that eat your eggs also eat lots of rats and mice. The farmers say if you put your hoe handle under your arm so it can soak up your B.O. and turn it to the snake it will chase them off, but not too far off. It will stay on your farm and keep other snakes away and eat the rats--but will get out of your garden.

I can hardly wait for Pastor Jimmy's new folklore book to come out. It's going to be wonderful. I'm dying to read through all of his stories and compare some of the stuff I've heard to his versions.

I ran into this guy on the road on the backside of the property. I think he's a copperhead, but he may be a corn snake. Prolly a copperhead. I rarely see non-venomous snakes here unless they have something like chicken eggs to go after. I, unfortunately, had to kill a big seven foot black snake once. She got into the chicken coop and ate all the fake plastic Easter eggs I'd put in the nesting boxes to encourage the hens to lay. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't have survived with all that plastic in her. The snakes have been on the move for the past two weeks. They cross the hill to go down the mountain to sleep for the winter in the crevasses and crannies of rotten stone.

Happy Ssssthunday.

I had to leave the house today to take the trash to the dump. I haven't been going out much lately and the beans are up and needing some staking. Actually the garden is going to be a bust this year. If you didn't get your garden planted during that early bit right after the hard freeze and the drought that started a week later...nothing is going to grow. My tomato transplants died, but I did go ahead and plant my okra thinking it an African vegetable that will probably do just fine.

The old timers are saying this is the worst drought in 50 years. It's never been this dry in recent memory. The storms arrive every afternoon to shut down the power, phone and satellite, yet no water falls from these clouds that come crashing across the mountains. Just fire. Fire rains down.

My poor little frog pond has almost completely dried up. There is just five inches of green stagnant water there. The geese used to love to go down there every morning to swim, but there is hardly enough water to get them wet.

I stopped the jeep and looked sadly down at my pond. I suppose there will be no bullfrog gigging this fall. A lone copperhead was laying there in the shallows and I thought maybe I should give Jimmy a call or go try to find him up on Naillon's where he is restoring a 19th century graveyard. My friend fussed at me when I said I might try to just put them in a big bucket if I found any. She said they can jump 10 feet. They can't, but I'd just as soon not tangle with one.

(Disclaimer!!! I have some really smart people who read my blog. Way smarter than I am. I want to make clear that this story is mostly true. The un-mostly true part was changed to protect the situation of the character involved. Names, amounts, and certain details are complete and utter lies. The person who the character is based upon has complete and utter control over what is in the story. If he/she wants it to come down...it most certainly will come down. All details were hashed out over a pizza at a secret unnamed location in Hartford, TN(since Bubba had closed the damn kitchen at the BCD&M, depriving us of our Chez Burgers) before publishing. I wouldn't dream of outing someone without their permission since that would be tacky and common. Also, I have nothing but the utmost respect for our valiant men and women in pinstripes fighting on the frontlines of The War on Taxes. Also, do not try this at home. I tell you, it won't work. This is the sort of hapless event that can only be accomplished by a professional six foot nine naked gay man.)


He was sleeping on the sofa when the phone rang. His hand groped out from the blanket covering him and felt through the detritus of cigarettes, keys, matches, rolling papers and pistol on the coffee table until he finally found the hand-set, hit "talk" and dragged it to his ear.

"Mr. Smith?" A precise voice asked.

"Uh...yeah?" His voice was raspy from too many cheap cigarettes. He indulged in a morning smoker's cough.

"This is Mrs. Althea Johnson with the IRS. I'm calling about the 2,500 dollars you owe us."

It was shortly after this that he began to cry.

Friend Scott is six foot nine, handsome and charming. He speaks and behaves like he should be hanging out with the Camden Cup crowd. He has that congenial manner that certain well-bred Southern men exhibit that is a little bit cultured, a little bit momma's boy and a little bit bad boy. He tells great stories and if you are a Southern woman, you laugh, but are not quite sure if you believe him. Because as a Southern woman...you know the kind of man he is.

I'm afraid, however, that Friend Scott has gone quite native up here in the mountains. He has eschewed the chinos and polo shirts that are his birthright for flannel and overalls.

When Friend Scott "came out" to me a few months ago, I was shocked. Shocked, I tell you. After all, the first time I met him, he was outside Food City in Newport, on his way home from a Garden Club meeting. Also, during our friendship, he has exhibited an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the Brit comedy, Absolutely Fabulous, and every John Waters film ever made. He grows roses.

I mean...who'd a thunk it?

Yes, I seem to have found the only gay hillbilly on the mountain to be my buddy. He's actually quite good company and has a knack for getting himself into situations that can only be described as extremely gonzo.

Last year, Friend Scott got a letter from the IRS. He brings it over for me to look at since I am supposedly "the smart one". He is indeed being audited because they are questioning his claim that he has a son by his cousin who he is claiming as a dependent. I question this as well.

"Well, she told me he was mine."

I look at Friend Scott in all of his six foot nine gayness. I'm imagining that there were large amounts of recreational drugs and alcohol involved. And unconsciousness. There had to be unconsciousness. I really don't want to know more.

I've not met the cousin involved. I have heard of her by reputation. Evidently, the cousin and her mother often get into altercations with each other over men. Friend Scott tells me the mother is very homely. "Butt ugly", I believe were his exact words. Once the mother moved in on one of the cousin's boyfriends as the boyfriend was passed out drunk. The boyfriend awoke to the mother applying "oral pleasure" to his...uh..."member". The boyfriend was most distressed since the mother had failed to take her snuff out of her mouth.

I now have this image and concept burned indelibly into my brain. Thanks, Scott.

I advise Friend Scott that he needs a lawyer. Actually, I think Friend Scott should have a lawyer surgically grafted onto his left earlobe. But he can't afford one.

So now, Friend Scott owes the IRS a buttload of money. And you know how accommodating our friendly IRS folks are.

It is already mid-morning on the day Mrs. Althea Johnson, IRS agent, calls.

He sits up and wraps the blanket around his waist. He's not wearing any clothes.

"Yes, ma'am. I've been meaning to call y'all." He says, trying to get his wits about him and stalling for time.

"Mr. Smith, when can we expect payment of this amount? With interest and penalties, it will come to a sum of just over 8,000 dollars."

Scott is desperate. He's actually crying now. It is fairly clear that Mrs. Johnson is not responding to the charm and good looks he is trying to project through the phone connection.

He stands. The blanket falls in a puddle on the floor. He begins to pace, naked, about the room as Mrs. Johnson drones on about penalties and charges.

"Isn't there something we can work out?" He sobs into the phone.

Scott picks up his pistol on the coffee table and grips it, swinging it back and forth with his free hand. Looking out the front door he sees a big black snake crawling on the porch.

Mrs. Johnson continues to say mean, hateful IRS things to him.

Scott points the pistol at the snake and shoots it. It's quite a loud pistol to go off so close to the phone.

When he realizes what he's done, he drops the phone in a panic.

Mrs. Althea Johnson's voice can be just barely heard from the phone on the floor.

"Mr. Smith?! Mr. Smith, are you alrig...." The line disconnects leaving the ghost of her voice hanging in the air.

"Oh, Shit."

Scott pulls some shorts on and puts the phone back on the coffee table with the pistol. He stares at the phone. He seriously considers shooting the phone with the pistol.

Mrs. Althea Johnson, IRS agent, didn't sound like someone who was just going to go away.

What to do....what to do? Shit...what to do...

He lights a cigarette and tries to think.

A siren is heard coming up the road. This is unusual here.

Two of his cousins get out of the sheriff's patrol car. It is not unusual that they are his cousins. You can't spit in Cocke county without hitting one of Scott's cousins.

"Hey, Scott! You okay, buddy?" The shorter of the two asks. "We got a call from some damn IRS lady that you done shot yourself."

Scott explains that he was talking with the IRS lady when a great big snake crawled across the porch and he shot it. He got disconnected when he dropped the phone fumbling around with the pistol.

They all laughed in the way Southern men do when they know they are in the middle of what will later be a great story.

Scott explains to Mrs. Althea Johnson, IRS agent, what actually happened when she called back.

I'm thinking Mrs. Johnson is a Southern woman, because she has been very accommodating with Friend Scott since the gun shot incident.

I don't think she actually believes there was a snake.