The Last Snake Hunt…
Get comfortable and I'll tell y'all a story about a couple boys in Oklahoma several years back.
Only a couple of y'all might remember I was a snake hunter at one time. My older brother, Paul, had been the youngest licensed professional snake handler in the US while he was still only sixteen. Me, being his faithful companion, I had to be a part of those years during which time our Momma's Cherokee Raven hair began to turn multi shades of grey and white.
I could tell lots of stories from that stage in our lives, but this one stands out as being tellable to a mature audience such as might be reading this. This took place in ’64, and was our last snake hunt together.
Paul and I had spent the past couple days at a rattlesnake roundup in Okeene, Oklahoma. This would be our last snake hoo-rah due to the fact he would be shipping out for Viet Nam shortly thereafter. Wherever he went, I usually followed soon enough.
We were heading back to our home from Western Oklahoma, the sun was setting behind us, and we were making good time in the old 47 Plymouth four door sedan averaging forty miles per hour on the main back roads. We had purchased the Plymouth the year prior for fifty dollars, and it had worked out great for our kicking about needs. It was a nice lima bean green color, had a six cylinder motor, fluid drive tranny, fair condition six ply bias tires, factory 4/45 air conditioning (four windows rolled down at forty-five miles per hour), and comfy seats big enough for sleeping. The suicide doors made it perfect for loading our gear, and the rear turtle hull space was plenty big enough for our snake boxes to safely stow away. I mean, the danged old Plymouth might not have been a puss-eye getter, but it sure was great for snakin’.
The snake hunt had been successful for us, our having sold more than enough snakes to pay for expenses. We had only a few snakes we kept from the hunt, and they were tucked away in the snake box in the rear. For those un-familiar with a snake box, it was usually a plywood box roughly 1'x 2' x 4' with a hinged doorway on one end. The door usually had one or two hasps to keep it securely latched. Anyway, the contents of the box were intended for deep frying in a few days before Paul headed overseas to where the Dragon lived. And yes, fresh deep fried rattlesnake really does taste similar to chicken.
The scorching heat of the day was gradually giving way to the coolness of the night. The headlights of the old lima bean green Plymouth bounced their lightbeams in rhythm with the graveled roads, which eventually turned into pavement. A few miles later the old headlights illuminated the rear end of a stranded vehicle on the edge of the road ahead.
Back in those days, it was the custom for one to stop and offer assistance to a stranded motorist. We slowed down and came to a stop behind the other vehicle. The driver was alone, and quite wary of us when we pulled up alongside his stalled car. He appeared to be very concerned, and rightfully so.
I would be negligent not to explain that we lived in a different time back then. From his viewpoint, we were two white boys, out in the middle of rural no-where Oklahoma at night, and he was an elderly grey haired black man....alone. He was also well dressed, and driving a fairly new automobile.
I leaned my head out the passenger side window and asked if he needed help. The apprehensive elderly gentleman slowly, and very politely, replied as to how he was in route to the next town twenty-five or so miles down the road where he was the Pastor of a church. His automobile had given up the ghost for unknown reasons, but quickly added someone from his church would surely be looking for him since he was long overdue in arriving.
Paul and I explained as to how our Dad was also a preacher, and offered to give him a ride to either his church or home. After some apparent consideration, or perhaps a prayer, the grey haired black preacher accepted the offer though somewhat reluctantly. In his mind, he was probably stepping out on faith to voluntarily get into a car with white boys at night. I stepped out and opened the rear door for the gentleman to enter the old Plymouth. Once he was comfortably settled in, we were off again into the darkness of the night.
The preacher had taken a chill being out in the evening air and asked if we would be so kind as to turn the car's heater on for a while so he could warm up. We were most happy to roll up the windows and to oblige our traveling companion.
We had only traveled a few miles, each of us within our own thoughts, when the preacher began talking to us and graciously thanking us for stopping to help him. We informed the old gentleman it was our pleasure, and to just be thankful we came along when we did.
The heat from the car’s heater was feeling good in the drafty old Plymouth, and the Good Reverend was getting his circulation back. The trip to his church should be both comfortable and uneventful.
We bounced along on the rural two lane country road for a few more miles before the Good Reverend spoke again. He asked if there was a dome light we could turn on, something was moving around on the floorboard and he wanted to secure it. I turned in my seat and reached up to turn on the dome light. Within a mere second of switching on the dome light, the screaming began.
OH DEAR JESUS!!!! SNAKE!!!!! SNAKE!!!!!! GOOD LAWD LET ME OUTTA HERE!!!!! HELP ME LAWD!!!!!! SAVE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Paul slammed on the brakes and stopped the lima bean green land yacht in the middle of the road just as the preacher was climbing over the seat back to get into the front seat with us. The Good Reverend was still screaming as both front car doors flung open and all three of us exited the vehicle like we were having a Chinese fire drill at a red light in downtown.
The suicide doors were quickly opened to ascertain the situation. We had a snake loose in the car. The Good Reverend had been right, bless his heart. As fate would have it, one of the rattlesnakes had escaped the snake box and was attracted to the warm air flowing along the floor board. He was apparently on the move and had crossed over the preacher’s feet thereby causing the abrupt stop to an otherwise cordial evening.
The snake was quickly wrangled, and deposited back into the snake box. Any snake handler worth his salt is always aware of how many snakes he has in a snake box. We were aware, and we also knew a snake had been loose. There was only one thing to do. We quickly moved the snake box to the front of the car where the headlights illuminated the pavement, and emptied the box of snakes onto the middle of the road in order to get a count to determine if any were still loose inside the vehicle.
In our haste to gain the count, we had not paid much attention to the screaming preacher who was standing in front of the car, both trouser legs pulled high, checking his body for bite marks. Well sir, when the Good Reverend saw the snakes there on the highway he literally came unhinged and began to speak in a language neither Paul nor I could understand. He then proceeded to run like hell into the darkness down the road.
The snakes were all accounted for, and safely placed into the snake box. The padlocks were securely snapped closed, and checked twice, just in case. All was well once again...well, except for the Good Reverend. He was somewhere up ahead of us in the dark, if he wasn’t in town all ready.
Within a few minutes we had pulled up by the preacher, who was now walking quickly as if on a mission. I informed him as all was well now, and we all could get back on the road again. He adamantly refused to go any further with us. No amount of coaxing on our part was going to get him back into the lima bean green land yacht, so we eventually drove away after giving him a flashlight. Paul decided against telling him to be careful walking, as snakes have a tendency to soak up the last heat of the day found on the road pavement at night. There was no need to have him worry.
We never saw the Good Reverend again, but felt certain he would be rescued, and could use the "incident" in a new sermon. We, Paul and myself, were preacher's kids after all.. and it was expected of us to help others out.
I hope someone found him.
Get comfortable and I'll tell y'all a story about a couple boys in Oklahoma several years back.
Only a couple of y'all might remember I was a snake hunter at one time. My older brother, Paul, had been the youngest licensed professional snake handler in the US while he was still only sixteen. Me, being his faithful companion, I had to be a part of those years during which time our Momma's Cherokee Raven hair began to turn multi shades of grey and white.
I could tell lots of stories from that stage in our lives, but this one stands out as being tellable to a mature audience such as might be reading this. This took place in ’64, and was our last snake hunt together.
Paul and I had spent the past couple days at a rattlesnake roundup in Okeene, Oklahoma. This would be our last snake hoo-rah due to the fact he would be shipping out for Viet Nam shortly thereafter. Wherever he went, I usually followed soon enough.
We were heading back to our home from Western Oklahoma, the sun was setting behind us, and we were making good time in the old 47 Plymouth four door sedan averaging forty miles per hour on the main back roads. We had purchased the Plymouth the year prior for fifty dollars, and it had worked out great for our kicking about needs. It was a nice lima bean green color, had a six cylinder motor, fluid drive tranny, fair condition six ply bias tires, factory 4/45 air conditioning (four windows rolled down at forty-five miles per hour), and comfy seats big enough for sleeping. The suicide doors made it perfect for loading our gear, and the rear turtle hull space was plenty big enough for our snake boxes to safely stow away. I mean, the danged old Plymouth might not have been a puss-eye getter, but it sure was great for snakin’.
The snake hunt had been successful for us, our having sold more than enough snakes to pay for expenses. We had only a few snakes we kept from the hunt, and they were tucked away in the snake box in the rear. For those un-familiar with a snake box, it was usually a plywood box roughly 1'x 2' x 4' with a hinged doorway on one end. The door usually had one or two hasps to keep it securely latched. Anyway, the contents of the box were intended for deep frying in a few days before Paul headed overseas to where the Dragon lived. And yes, fresh deep fried rattlesnake really does taste similar to chicken.
The scorching heat of the day was gradually giving way to the coolness of the night. The headlights of the old lima bean green Plymouth bounced their lightbeams in rhythm with the graveled roads, which eventually turned into pavement. A few miles later the old headlights illuminated the rear end of a stranded vehicle on the edge of the road ahead.
Back in those days, it was the custom for one to stop and offer assistance to a stranded motorist. We slowed down and came to a stop behind the other vehicle. The driver was alone, and quite wary of us when we pulled up alongside his stalled car. He appeared to be very concerned, and rightfully so.
I would be negligent not to explain that we lived in a different time back then. From his viewpoint, we were two white boys, out in the middle of rural no-where Oklahoma at night, and he was an elderly grey haired black man....alone. He was also well dressed, and driving a fairly new automobile.
I leaned my head out the passenger side window and asked if he needed help. The apprehensive elderly gentleman slowly, and very politely, replied as to how he was in route to the next town twenty-five or so miles down the road where he was the Pastor of a church. His automobile had given up the ghost for unknown reasons, but quickly added someone from his church would surely be looking for him since he was long overdue in arriving.
Paul and I explained as to how our Dad was also a preacher, and offered to give him a ride to either his church or home. After some apparent consideration, or perhaps a prayer, the grey haired black preacher accepted the offer though somewhat reluctantly. In his mind, he was probably stepping out on faith to voluntarily get into a car with white boys at night. I stepped out and opened the rear door for the gentleman to enter the old Plymouth. Once he was comfortably settled in, we were off again into the darkness of the night.
The preacher had taken a chill being out in the evening air and asked if we would be so kind as to turn the car's heater on for a while so he could warm up. We were most happy to roll up the windows and to oblige our traveling companion.
We had only traveled a few miles, each of us within our own thoughts, when the preacher began talking to us and graciously thanking us for stopping to help him. We informed the old gentleman it was our pleasure, and to just be thankful we came along when we did.
The heat from the car’s heater was feeling good in the drafty old Plymouth, and the Good Reverend was getting his circulation back. The trip to his church should be both comfortable and uneventful.
We bounced along on the rural two lane country road for a few more miles before the Good Reverend spoke again. He asked if there was a dome light we could turn on, something was moving around on the floorboard and he wanted to secure it. I turned in my seat and reached up to turn on the dome light. Within a mere second of switching on the dome light, the screaming began.
OH DEAR JESUS!!!! SNAKE!!!!! SNAKE!!!!!! GOOD LAWD LET ME OUTTA HERE!!!!! HELP ME LAWD!!!!!! SAVE ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Paul slammed on the brakes and stopped the lima bean green land yacht in the middle of the road just as the preacher was climbing over the seat back to get into the front seat with us. The Good Reverend was still screaming as both front car doors flung open and all three of us exited the vehicle like we were having a Chinese fire drill at a red light in downtown.
The suicide doors were quickly opened to ascertain the situation. We had a snake loose in the car. The Good Reverend had been right, bless his heart. As fate would have it, one of the rattlesnakes had escaped the snake box and was attracted to the warm air flowing along the floor board. He was apparently on the move and had crossed over the preacher’s feet thereby causing the abrupt stop to an otherwise cordial evening.
The snake was quickly wrangled, and deposited back into the snake box. Any snake handler worth his salt is always aware of how many snakes he has in a snake box. We were aware, and we also knew a snake had been loose. There was only one thing to do. We quickly moved the snake box to the front of the car where the headlights illuminated the pavement, and emptied the box of snakes onto the middle of the road in order to get a count to determine if any were still loose inside the vehicle.
In our haste to gain the count, we had not paid much attention to the screaming preacher who was standing in front of the car, both trouser legs pulled high, checking his body for bite marks. Well sir, when the Good Reverend saw the snakes there on the highway he literally came unhinged and began to speak in a language neither Paul nor I could understand. He then proceeded to run like hell into the darkness down the road.
The snakes were all accounted for, and safely placed into the snake box. The padlocks were securely snapped closed, and checked twice, just in case. All was well once again...well, except for the Good Reverend. He was somewhere up ahead of us in the dark, if he wasn’t in town all ready.
Within a few minutes we had pulled up by the preacher, who was now walking quickly as if on a mission. I informed him as all was well now, and we all could get back on the road again. He adamantly refused to go any further with us. No amount of coaxing on our part was going to get him back into the lima bean green land yacht, so we eventually drove away after giving him a flashlight. Paul decided against telling him to be careful walking, as snakes have a tendency to soak up the last heat of the day found on the road pavement at night. There was no need to have him worry.
We never saw the Good Reverend again, but felt certain he would be rescued, and could use the "incident" in a new sermon. We, Paul and myself, were preacher's kids after all.. and it was expected of us to help others out.
I hope someone found him.
