Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 3, 1990 TAG: 9006010291
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: Ned Bane
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
I only get one channel on TV - the one that shows my daughter "Sesame Street." That's OK because I've seen the other channels and they're always digging up never-before-seen footage of Marilyn Monroe and trying to solve domestic shootings in Seedcorn, S.D.
Naw, I don't miss much of that, but I'm prejudiced because I was born here. I've lived all over the country and I'm back by desire, not necessity. Along the way I tried being a cowboy in New Mexico, a Southern gentleman in New Orleans, and a New England intellectual; all I lacked were the intellect and the accent. I could never convince Bostonians that Awlkan Boyeed pitched for the Red Sox. They thought I was talking about a sheik from some miniature potentate.
But now I'm back and I'm proud to call myself a recovering Yuppie. I dutifully attend support groups made up of those like me who are trying to break the vise-grip of foreign sports cars, silk ties and residences on the eighth fairway. So to expedite my return to a nornal existence, I am back in my native Pulaski. And I sure do like it - except for one thing: snakes. Yep, it's time for those slithering menaces to rear their skinny-tongued heads in mockery of those of us who chill at their sight.
For all practical purposes, we've only got two kinds of snakes to worry about around here - copperheads and a relatively small rattler. Yes, I said "relatively small." Now I suppose Professor Slink from Virginia Tech is going to write me and explain that there are really five kinds of rattlers, three of which are endangered.
I've got news for you, pal, there ain't no such thing as an endangered rattlesnake.
The other day I walked outside, down my back steps, and there was a snake, black and shiny and stretched out from roughly Roanoke to Bluefield. This big black snake was inching its way through pansies and snapdragons. I took a calming breath, turned, and went into the house to fetch my rifle. I came back out and Big Black was still making his way through the garden.
BANG, goes the screen door across the ravine, before I could squeeze off a single shot. It was my neighbor Ed, who obviously had been wathching the action from afar.
"You can't shoot that snake," said Ed.
"Ed, you miserable newt, you could have scared that thing off and I'd never get a shot at it," I replied.
"But they help cut down on pests," he said.
"Right now, the only pest around here is you. And before that, the only pests we had were your pack of hounds that stole my country ham and drank the toilets dry," I hollered.
"So unless you're planning to build a grain silo and want to come over here and catch this menace, then shut up."
Ed skulked back into the house.
I leveled my rifle, squeezed the trigger and put birdshot in the back of the intruder's skull.
Suddenly behind me, there's a shriek and inimitable sound of a sobbing child crying, "Daddy shot Slimey, Daddy shot Slimey."
I'm bewildered but learn several days later that Slimey is a pet snake on "Sesame Street."
Children with pet snakes on our one and only channel? Fooey. I'm going to get a satellite dish so my daughter can watch wrestling.
by CNB