By KAREN MADORIN
Decades ago when we replaced windows in our country home. I expected dust, noise, flies, and suffering through hundred+ July days, but I didn’t expect an Oscar quality actor to appear. However, when you live rural, expect the unexpected. Because of that remodel, I faced woman’s dreaded fear—a snake in the kitchen.
Reading in the living room, surrounded by snoozing dogs, I had enjoyed a quiet morning. Unexpectedly, I heard a loud thump that sent 3 dogs barking frenziedly toward the south side of our kitchen where basement stairs emerged.
After dragging a howling mob out of the house, I returned to find a monster-sized snake coiled and rattling in a shadowy kitchen corner. Poor lighting forced me to rely on sound and silhouette to identify the agitated creature striking toward me.
Wrapped in tightening circles and rattling like an overcharged bingo machine, the invader thrust its head repeatedly my direction. Unfortunately, the snake’s location between garage entry and porch door limited options for dealing with it. Though I didn’t know much except my heart pounded out of my chest, I knew I didn’t want that serpent slithering to a closet, cupboard, or drawer to surprise me later.
During long minutes of frantic problem solving, I repeatedly dialed the resident game warden, seeking professional assistance. Unfortunately, Hunter Safety Class occupied his attention so he’d silenced his phone. Next, I called my visiting daughter then shopping at Home Depot. No answer. At that point, I had to yank up my big girl panties and take charge or panic every time I opened a door or heard a weird sound. If I intended to sleep in peace, I had to remove this uninvited visitor.
My first thought was my shotgun would do the job. Then I remembered that would ruin the floor we’d just replaced. Destroying perfectly good linoleum seemed an overly-dramatic option. That brought to mind the hoe on the other side of the door to our garage, feet from that agitated reptile. Unfortunately, this forced a detour out the front door and around the house to retrieve my chosen weapon. I brainstormed how to keep the snake in place.
I wanted this reptile in one spot, unable to crawl away, so I ticked Mr. Hiss Pot into rising to a vibrating spiral while I dashed for a pair of shoes. Once I had them on the right feet—try to put your tennies on when you’re panicking--I feinted toward it, triggering a tail-stand offering me time to race for the hoe.
As I grabbed the garden tool, my daughter called. Hearing a shrill “Snake in the kitchen” caused her to pass the phone to a logical friend who directed me to throw a basket over it. Duh!
Once again, I tormented ol’ Hisspot into upright mode while I sought the laundry basket. With hamper and hoe in hand, I returned to face every woman’s mortal enemy since the time of Eve.
Still thinking rattlesnake, I maintained my distance. Thankfully, my first toss corralled the creature. I delivered the coup de grace when it poked its head out. Lizzie Borden and her 40 whacks had nothing on me.
After my heart slowed enough I heard nothing but the refrigerator running, I saw the intruder had exhaled its final breath. Lifting the basket off the headless carcass, I realized I’d witnessed nature’s greatest dramatic presentation. That foolish reptile shouldn’t have mimicked an Oscar worthy rattlesnake performance. I’d have lugged a bull snake outside on the end of my hoe.
Karen Madorin is a retired teacher, writer, photographer, outdoors lover, and sixth-generation Kansan.