Generally, I consider myself to be a pretty manly kinda guy. I'm not walking around most days looking for someone to push around or kick sand on, but I feel pretty capable of handling most any circumstance with which I'm faced. I suppose it has served me well to be 6'4" and more over 200 lbs than I'd like. It also works well to have a big ol' booming voice.
But I will admit that my big ol' booming voice sounds a bit like the shriek of a 12 yr old little girl when I am confronted with something 862 times smaller than I. It depends on the number of legs. I will drop my manly demeanor and admit that I do NOT like anything with more than 2 legs, and nothing with less than 2 legs. Every ounce of my 6'4" 250 lbs being shrivels when I confront something of that description. Today, we'll discuss less than 2 legs.
Last summer, I became the Snake Killer of the Universe. On 4 occasions there was a slithering monster wandering around the yard like it had not a care in the world. On each occasion, having been summoned by Linda, from next door, or Cheley, I was put face-to-serpent with the long, shiny, slithering, menacing objects of my disdain.
The first was actually on the patio. At about 12" long, it died by the blade of the shovel.
The second was near the house, very close to the front door. He managed to get into the bushes. I'm so sorry, but that close to the front door of the house means there has to be a search. He is NOT going to show up swimming around in my toilet in the middle of the night. Cheley and I were trying to look around the bottom of the bushes when...there he is! He has climbed up into the bush and is laying across the tops of the branches looking right at us. Having no real choice at that moment, I sprayed wasp spray down the throat of that jerk while he was laughing at my laundry basket-size eyes. Take that, Snarky!
Number three met his demise by way of the weed eater while trying to knock down the tall weeds. I was doing the weed-whacking, not him. What was an accidental hit at first, became a "here it comes!" attack in the next moment.
The last was the biggest and the meanest. At about 3'+, he was sliding along the back yard like he was surveying his kingdom. He had to die. Armed again with the shovel - sharp point tip, wide spade, long handle - I started toward him. He rounded the back of the pine tree and stopped to look at me. I was probably about 8' away from him, and I froze. I froze like Michelangelo's David. To be quite honest, with him looking at me while flicking that serpent tongue, I felt about as clothed as David, too.
Now somewhere in all my many years, I seem to remember having the knowledge that snakes are color blind; or at least to the point that their sight is "movement-mandated." I don't know for sure, and at that moment it didn't matter. I froze. He stopped, looking right at me and flicking that forked tongue over and over and over. I didn't even let the hair on my arms blow in the breeze. After 8 days, or maybe a couple of minutes, he finally decided there was nothing there and began to move toward the bushes and toward where Cheley was standing with her camera and a zoom lens.
A C-130 from Pensacola NAS came right over the top of our house at about 500' above the ground. The vibration and noise gave me the chance to take a long step and a turn that put me standing over the snake from behind - and he didn't notice. With a quick sweep, I brought the shovel down right behind his head. He flailed around to no avail. His head was still connected by a thin skin and he was pinned to the ground by the shovel tip buried in the ground. He was not happy. He was damn mad. And then he was dead. (Thank you, God!)
My heart was racing somewhere around 440, and I was finally breathing again.
I took him over to the bushes and threw him in with strict instructions to tell all his friends - "Stay the hell away! Snake Killer is King!"
I only hope the warning works. I don't know how many more of these victories I have left in me. I've already had to use one this year.
I hate things with less than 2 legs.
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I suppose it's something the largest majority of males are born with. It might be something in the food we are raised on, but I expect it's more a natural-born item. It is the need to be seen as, and to feel Macho.
The dictionary says: macho | ˈmäCHō | adjective | showing aggressive pride in one's masculinity
That definition contains a key, very important word in understanding males: aggressive. aggressive | əˈgresiv | adjective | ready or likely to attack or confront; characterized by or resulting from aggression
Here is my disclaimer:
Before I go any further, let me clarify a couple o' points. I didn't watch the George Zimmerman trial. I didn't hang on every report that came out. I haven't watched any of the pontificating by the media. I tried to keep up with the facts and progress of the case through the headlines only. As a result, I have opinions based less on what I feel is biased reporting, and more on the facts I believe I gleaned from "less-in-depth" reporting. So - If I mis-state something about the facts, forgive me and chalk it up to my own misinformation.
I believe that this trait we carry, this need to be macho, may well be the single largest factor in the recent Zimmerman / Martin tragedy. I do think of it as a tragedy. But I do NOT feel it caused by racism, or profiling, or a full moon, or a bite from a rabid moth.
I believe the final outcome of that night was the inevitable result of two people who became overwhelmed by the need to be feel, and be seen as macho. Yes, there were some ridiculously stereotypical pieces to the puzzle, but I feel them to be very small in the overall picture. Apparently George referred to Trayvon as a "punk." Apparently Trayvon called George a "cracker." Posturing in the macho style. George was on the phone with the Police. Trayvon was on the phone with his friend. Posturing for their respective audiences.
Many, many years ago, when I was in elementary school, we were at recess. I can't remember now what began it, but I became entangled with one of the school bullies - I'll call him Russell Latta, because that was his name. Russell and I began to argue and that evolved into posturing because our friends were watching. At a point, there was nothing left but the fight. It lasted exactly two punches: I landed a non-effective blow to his chest; he landed a straight-on plant to my nose that caused a gusher. It was over. I went to the restroom and cleaned my bloody face, and he was the winner. Two little boys caught up in the moment of needing to feel, and be seen as macho.
Needless to say, I was the lesser macho of the moment, but he did get suspended for a day. But... I digress!
I truly believe that, as sad and tragic as it is, the horrible outcome of that night was caused by the refusal by either person to succumb to a feeling of reduction in his macho.
It's sad. It's a tragic and unnecessary loss of life. But, and this will get me some criticism, I think it was about the only likely outcome. And that is sad.
What is even more sad is how many across the country latch on to the opportunity to make something more out of this than it is. Sure - neither of the two (if you're honest it IS both of them) was without fault. Neither was an innocent little angel moving through this life. But the people across this country who are using the circumstances to create tension, cause unrest and CRIME, and even justify their own racism and stereotyping are the ones killing our country. It takes no macho to be a leech. It takes no macho to lead a riotous crowd who will cover your criminal activity. It takes no macho to stand in front of blind mobs and preach unrest and hatred. It takes no macho to use a high-ranking office to impose your biased, opinionated, discriminatory feelings on the country. (There, I said it!)
I hope and pray the people of this great country we call "America" will realize that we must fix our country and return to civility, or we will most certainly lose our country to the same type of blind hatred suffered by too many other countries. If we give in to that blind hatred, we may find ourselves fighting in OUR country in the same manner we are fighting in those countries now.
I would like to hope intelligence will prevail before I die.
Sadly, I become a bit less optimistic every day.
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