Copperhead Grove

When my family jacked up the shotgun farmhouse and transplanted it to Desdemona, we plopped it smack down in the middle of a briar thicket that was home to a well-established nest of copperheads.  Dad cleared the oak grove dutifully and planted thriving St. Augustine among the mustang grapevines, and he often braved the dark, damp recesses beneath the pier & beam foundation to work on the plumbing (boy, he hated that, quite a bit more than he hated diving in the muddy green stock tanks to clear clogged pipes among all the water moccasins.)  While the creep factor involved in crawling in the dark beneath the house with copperheads and swimming in sightless brown water with water moccasins is easily understandable, I know my dad well enough to know that it bothered him that copperheads kept to themselves and avoided confrontation while "cottonmouths" were aggressive.  Dad hated disturbing those who were minding their own business and didn't want it done to him, either.

Our grove was not just shady, it was shadowy.  It was a sweet reprieve from the blistering Texas sun and sand, the gritty winds that blew against the house from the south field, and the usually rainless dustbowl that surrounded us like a doodlebug pit.  The day darkened among the leaves and the vines, and moisture trickled in delectable drops from the little rock waterfall Dad made for us to enjoy (though he said the sound of it made him have to use the bathroom at night.)  I don't think he minded it all that much, really.  I know those quiet moments at night when a wandering soul gazes out at the grove and appreciates the smell of green and the blessing of moonlight.  It's hard to resent lost moments of sleep when such a precious bit of night is yours alone.  One regards the astounding beauty of it all and nods one's head in silent respect for this nourishing morsel.  The sun will bring blinding brightness, searing heat, and relentless duty, but this one moment, pressed to the mossy bosom of earth, reminds a farmer of the love he has for his home.

Apparently, copperheads like it a great deal, too.  They are quiet fellows who blend seamlessly with fallen leaves and offer no indication of their presence except maybe the faint hint of cucumbers for no reason, far from the garden.  They dislike the spray of cats, and a tomcat is the best defense against a proliferation.  Even so, every summer, they have an orgiastic mating night, the likes of which I can only imagine in a Baptist blush.  One night, on my way down our road and past the cattleguard, I killed 8 of them within a quarter mile.  It was on these brazen nights the otherwise shy romeos would crawl up onto our porch and bask in the incandescent light, finally the better to be seen.  This was too much, though, and as long as we were awake, Dad kept his boots and Levis nearby so that he could run for a hoe and decapitate the interlopers.  They cannot be allowed to get up into the house like that baby rattlesnake that snuck in with a bag of pecans and gave fight in a corner, resulting in .22 pistol freckles on the hardwood floor.  A man has boundaries (and the missus still complains about her floor and the near miss on the antique piano.)  Some mornings brought a vision of squiggly lines draped over the barbed wire fence for the buzzards to clear away for us like some barbarian warfield.  Bloody hoes would be sharpened by the bastard file in the early eastern sunlight, with the filer's careful glance beneath the porch step to make sure no residual lotharios were warming themselves on the stone after a night of debauchery.

For 35 years, our families have coexisted, and it is remarkable that they wounded none of ours in the face of so many fallen to our defenses.  I played in that grove as a child.  I stepped bravely forth on any mission my capricious heart desired.  I married my husband beneath the largest oak.  I bring my babies to play in the luscious shadows.  It is the safest place on earth for me, and yet I cast a wary eye because I know that I share it with equally brave and defensive mothers.  We don't tread on each other, and perhaps, they are a bit more forgiving than we have been.  And someday, hopefully years from now, my ashes will be spread beneath that tree.  And I, well, truthfully, I hope it stings their snaky little skins, but I also hope that I fertilize  the soil that has nourished us both and allowed us to thrive, two families who respect each other and aren't so much different after all.