Snakes, Summers, and Willow Whip Tag

“It’s going to take at least five guys,” the men would say when hefting a too-heavy object into the air. “Or one girl from (my small town).” It was the running joke from a neighboring posh community. Also true.

The girls from my town were tough. My sister and I played horsewhip tag with the neighbors. Our parents shut it down when my mother, alarmed by her tears, lifted my sister’s nightgown and found slashes across her back. “But it’s fun,” we protested. We substituted stripped willow branches and kept right on playing all summer long.

We jumped from the hayloft onto the bales of hay after throwing them down to feed the horses. Spun two full three-gallon buckets of milk from our shoulders while carrying them to the barn for calves, proving centripetal force before we had words for it, not spilling a drop.

I spent summers catching snakes to show my dad when he returned from work, setting each carefully in a fishtank which had been my birthday gift. Every nightfall after his long commute, he would feign admiration and take the tank into the nearby field to let them loose once again.

This game continued until a water moccasin was found in the tank. Then animal control was called, and the game was shut down.

Snakes remember, though.

Forty years later, I sat on a New York City subway next to a woman wearing a corn snake around her neck. People stood up and moved away. I stayed put. She told me his name was Fire, that he was her emotional support animal, and also that in fourteen years, he had never left her neck except for her to sleep or to let him spend time in his cage.

Then he slithered away from her and onto my chest and shoulders.

She began sobbing. “Fire, Fire, what are you doing? How could you leave me, Fire? What is happening?” Passengers started filming. Fire stayed on me, and I did not touch him at first.

“I know why,” I said quietly. “I’ve always been kind to snakes. He’s just saying hello.”

I told her about catching and releasing them as a child, about watching them, from up on a branch of a nearby tree in the woods, as they ate mice. Then I lifted him gently and handed him back.

“Really?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s all. Just a nod of respect. He is lovely.”

We laughed and talked for the rest of the ride. Other passengers kept a wide berth, and I noted that her choice of support animal had a useful side effect: in a crowded city, Fire gave her space.