Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SUNDAY, August 6, 1995                   TAG: 9508290066
SECTION: EDITORIAL                    PAGE: D3   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: SANDRA TUCKER-MAXWELL
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

VACATION

One year he really outdid himself. The place was not a camp; it was a lodge. A huge screened-in porch overlooked the river; it had two good-sized bedrooms and a kitchen one could really cook in. Mother was satisfied.

My little sister, Nancy, was an outdoors-person from the word go. She stripped out of her clothing, yanked on her swimsuit and headed for the Greenbrier, so low that year you could see the bottom, covered with shiny pebbles, algae-covered rocks and fresh-water clams. She splashed in, and for the rest of the week we rarely saw her unwrinkled - or unchiggered, since the woods held great interest for her as well. One year she looked like she had lavender measles. She used my fingernail polish to smother the chiggers.

I, on the other hand, chose not to do more than wade in the sparkling water, or lie, posed and poised on a blanket in the yard, under a tree, protecting the lily-white skin that went with the auburn hair. It didn't work. I had freckles galore.

Nancy and I shared a dislike of the outhouse. This one was situated on a little rise above the main building, well upwind. Mountain laurel and other vines trailed over it. It was painted white, had two holes (plush!).

However, it was - outside. So we used a bucket discreetly hidden by a screen - inside.

Daddy always had latrine duty. He picked up the bucket and his magazine and headed for the johnnie. He would empty the bucket and then sit down for a leisurely visit with his True Detective.

Mother was in the kitchen, getting a picnic dinner ready for relatives. Nancy and I sat on the porch and tried to figure ways to do in the boy cousins without getting blamed when we heard loud noises coming from the privy. Whack! Bang! Thud, thud, thud!

``What in the world is your daddy doing? Killing snakes?'' Mother addressed the stove.

Daddy came down the hill, knees wobbling, no bucket, no magazine. He mopped his forehead, which was white under his tan.

``You're not going to believe this,'' he began. ``I emptied the bucket and sat down. I was pulling up my shorts when I heard a funny noise. I lowered the lid over the hole and lying there across the back of the hole I had just vacated was a rattlesnake! All I could think of was to kill it so I beat it to death with my magazine. Darn! I wasn't half finished with it yet, either.''

For some reason, we never spent any more time in camps - or lodges. I guess that was one snake too many.

Sandra Tucker-Maxwell of Roanoke is a substitute teacher and tutor.