Every year, the snake
returns to the front garden,
reminding me of my ambivalent
relationship with the
great outdoors.
At least, I assume it’s
the same snake. I’m not
quite sure of a snake’s average
lifespan, but I know
that I’ve been seeing a progressively
larger snake every
summer for three
years.
It is a garter snake, I
think. I tried looking up
species of New York snakes,
but the photos and descriptions
made me feel like I
was about to shed my own
skin, so I closed the browser.
Assuming it’s the same
snake, let’s call her Serpentina,
she has grown to a
healthy length of 18 inches
or so. She is greyish brown
with yellowish stripes running
the length of her, close
to the ground. In the mornings
or on days when the
garden is particularly cool
and wet, Serpentina likes
to make her way out onto
the stone walkway, where
she waits to scare the
beejeziss out of me when I
take out the dogs or walk to
my car.
Okay, I know she is not
trying to frighten me. I
know she is trying to get
herself all warm and dry.
And I know that I am far
more frightening to her
than she is to me. I know
this because she slithers
back into the garden the instant
she sees me coming.
The problem is, she usually
sees me before I see her. I
see her when she makes
that last-ditch effort to
avoid being stepped on, and
I scream — the very same
scream I scream when a
cow looks in my dining
room window.
It’s not dignified.
I love the outdoors. I love
the garden overflowing
with lilies and Queen
Anne’s lace and dotted with
wild strawberries. I love
that it’s possible to walk
barefoot in the yard, something
you could never do in
my Southern hometown,
unless you wanted to shred
your feet to ribbons on sand
spurs. I love the hillsides
and sunsets and moonlight
pouring over the surface of
the lake. I can think of almost
nothing so splendid
and breathtaking as the
landscape that surrounds
us.
But deep in my heart, I
know that I am less like
Thoreau and more like Eva
Gabor’s Lisa Douglas on
``Green Acres.’’ I understand
the romance of retreating
to Walden and living
in harmony with the
natural world. But the natural
world is just so startling.
Reach into the garden
for a strawberry, and a
snail might decide to hitchhike
on your hand. Pad
barefoot through the warm
grass, but look out for a
rain of tent caterpillars
from above.
Nature inspires and
soothes, but it also creeps
up behind you and says,
``Boo!’’ Or it slithers along
your sidewalk and says,
``Don’t mind me — I’ll just
be in your garden giving
birth to live young.’’
Elizabeth Trever Buchinger
wonders if there’s a
merit badge for shrieking.
You can connect with her at
www.moremindfulfamily.wordpress.com.
