Some years ago, I (sort of) helped my sister Laura and her son Landon get two big black snakes out of Landon’s chicken house. Landon had called Laura for help, saying that he had finally figured out why twenty chickens were only giving about two eggs a day. Laura went over there, and I tagged along. My family does not kill black snakes (and only under certain circumstances do we kill poisonous ones), so the plan was as follows: catch the snakes by lifting them up with a stick or something, drop them in a bucket, and take the bucket somewhere to relocate the snakes. Landon chased the first snake around, picked it up with the end of a stick, and it kept sliding off. Laura grabbed it expertly by the tail, under the theory that a snake cannot raise its head more than about a third of its body length under such circumstances. This time, however, when she was moving it toward the bucket, one of its middle coils touched the edge of the bucket, and it was able to launch itself in such a way as to barely miss biting her. A black snake’s bite (I am told) stings kind of like a mild wasp sting, and apparently, they have blood thinner in their fangs. Anyway, it missed. I suggested a forked stick, but none were to be found in the immediate area. Landon finally managed to get the snake into the bucket, and Laura clapped the lid on. By the time they turned their attention to the second snake, Landon had the technique figured out, so he was able to quickly deposit the second snake into the bucket. My job was to open and close the lid at appropriate times. The first snake did not lunge at me while the lid was open.

When I was small my parents taught me not to kill black snakes, explaining that they were not venomous, would not bother me unprovoked, and were, in my father’s words, “just trying to make a living.” This tenet even held true when one got after a nest of baby birds. My father relocated it vigorously but did not injure it. One evening he came home with a six-foot black snake wound around his torso, with one hand holding it carefully but gently behind its head, and sat down to tell us one of his bedtime stories. Probably the story was about a snake. Another time, many years after that snake story, my Aunt Kathy brought her friend Nancy to visit the farm, and Mama put her in the guest room. Many months later, Nancy told Aunt Kathy that she had waked up in the middle of the night to find a large black snake slithering around in her room. She spent the balance of the night sitting up in bed with the light on.

Several years ago, my nephew Landon was hired to keep wildlife, particularly the kinds that creep and scurry, away from a movie set. He caught the snakes humanely and released them gently. While I do not seek out the company of snakes, I am glad I was taught to respect them. I also appreciate seeing this attitude working its way down the generations.