Blood coagulated between the eyes of the water moccasin like the Hindu bindi as its flaccid five-foot length dangled from the outstretched arm of the boy. One BB shot was all it took as the boy proudly presented the kill to the writer before he dropped the serpent in to the depths of the bayou. The writer wanted to dive in amidst the alligators and retrieve the creature. In those last moments she recognized beauty and knew she had done a terrible thing….
The serpent haunts the writer whenever she is on the bayou. The image is relentless and ruins Louisiana mornings that are otherwise stunning in the sultry warmth that wraps itself around the body like a sheltering blanket. Globes of water hang like holiday ornaments on the low slung branches of the cypress tree that shades the floating dock, but her eyes drift to the bank where the needless crime played out in the senseless murder of the innocent.
A day spent on the green waters of the Atchafalaya Basin did nothing to drown the persistent image of the serpent. As she poled the boat deep into the backwaters of the bald cypress swamp where blue dragonflies with green lips rested on her arms, the snakes were slithering through the waters—taunting—forcing remembrance of the unforgivable crime.
The captain of the boat warned the writer to avoid the cypress branches that brushed the bow because the snakes would rest there. This admonition caused the obstinate writer to lean into the branches—begging for a fair fight in which she would wrestle a serpent hand-to-hand and allow god or nature to decide who should live and who should die.
She looked into the compound eyes of the blue dragonfly that lingered with her and laughed as it cocked its head in an urgent staccato toward the cypress trees hanging to port. Bayou culture honors the belief that dragonflies are the protectors of the snake and will follow them as guardians, piecing them back together if they are injured, her southern companions tell her. They knew nothing of the murdered moccasin.
As the heat began to suffocate, a squall line pushed across the basin from the west, forcing a retreat back to the fish camp. Leaning across the bow, the writer saw the snakes watching the craft, swimming defiantly in its path and submerging in the final seconds before they would be overrun. The water snakes were not taunting; they were a remembrance….
Outrunning Fear on the Bayou
It was April and the writer was “home” in southern Louisiana, tracking the spring flood warnings that forced the opening of the Bonnet Carre’ spillway for the first time in eleven years. The National Weather Service had issued a flood warning for New Orleans as record snow melts and spring rains flowed into the Mississippi River Basin. Feeding on strong northerly winds that carried record cold into the delta, rapid river currents combined with a southerly shift in the winds. This increased tidal flow in New Orleans and surrounding backwaters, pushing and squeezing the water to “official” flood stages.
As the waters rose, the creatures that lived there were suddenly visible in backyards and along roadways and on docks. Armadillos, alligators, rats and snakes were duly noted in areas where they now preyed upon the mind of the humans who shared the water and land with them.
A neighbor knocked upon the door of the cottage where the writer worked and warned her that an aggressive water moccasin was seen in the neighborhood. It was a huge, fierce snake and would chase humans, so she should be aware. The writer initially laughed at the warning from the man, because she had never been afraid of snakes. Even when she was a little girl and the taunting neighborhood boys had tossed the garden snake on top of the books she cradled in her arms on the way home from grade school, she was undaunted by any serpent. The child writer gently held the green snake behind the head as her father had taught her and released it into the grass. The boys never bothered her again.
But this warning did something to her mind. She had never before heard of a snake chasing a person and did some research on this idea that was an anathema to her. It was true. Water moccasins could be very aggressive and the deadly things would indeed kill her. She resolved that she could and would live with this “threat,” since she was certainly smart and capable enough to outrun a snake should the occasion arise.
But, as the spring waters rose around her little cottage and she was forced to wade through ankle deep water to reach the refuge of the vista on the beautiful bayou, the fear began to take hold. She had seen many snakes swimming lazily around the dock, but now one of them was an enemy. But which one? Killing any living creature was never a possibility—until now.
Day after day, the fear built and she would stomp her feet and make all kinds of noise on the way to the dock. Small snakes would slither away, but the fear grew and palms began to sweat with the idea that something was stalking her.
One afternoon, the writer with the journalist’s eye saw the huge bulk of snake curled in the flooded garden tub at the base of the wooden walkway. Immediately calculations were made as to whether the serpent could escape the tub fast enough to hunt her down and kill her. A snake had never before chased her, so the answers were born in imagination.
After days of this imagining and fretting, the answer became clear. The situation had become intolerable and the snake had to die. The young girl who inhabited part of the writer’s mind was certainly not afraid, but the grown mother had a responsibility to defend the innocent children of the neighborhood from the monster that inhabited the garden tub
Georgianne Nienaber is a writer, author, and investigative journalist. She lives in the world. Her articles have appeared in The Huffington Post, SCOOP New Zealand, Glide Magazine, Rwanda's New Times, India's TerraGreen, COA News, ZNET, OpEdNews, The Journal of the International Primate Protection League, Friends of the Congo, Africa Front, The United Nations Publication, A Civil Society Observer, and Zimbabwe's The Daily Mirror. Her fiction exposé of insurance fraud in the horse industry, Horse Sense, was re-released in early 2006. Gorilla Dreams: The Legacy of Dian Fossey was also released in 2006. Nienaber spent much of 2007 doing research in South Africa, Rwanda and the Democratic Republic of Congo. She was in DRC as a MONUC-accredited journalist, and recently spent six weeks in Southern Louisiana investigating hurricane reconstruction. She is currently developing a documentary on the Gulf of Mexico DEAD ZONE.
This beautifully written piece is an allegory for the drama being played out in society today regarding Bush's way of getting what he wants through rhetoric.
by
Jerry Lobdill (9 articles, 0 quicklinks, 3 diaries, 23 comments)
on Sunday, June 29, 2008 at 1:13:28 PM
Many people fear the symbolic serpent, not understanding the symbolism.
Many Christians fear the wrath of an unmerciful god, not understanding that our God is merciful, and loving.
They fear the coming of an Antichrist who will rule the world, not understanding that the spirit of the Antichrist was already in the world two thousand years ago, and is alive and well in George W. Bush, and in all other leaders who fight and kill to try to control and rule the world, in the name of God and Country.
Of course, we have reason to fear the consequences of our harmful behavior, and the consequences of our government's harmful behavior.
But, now we also have reason to have hope and faith in a bright future.
Each time I read your words, I think they cannot possibly get any more eloquent, lovely or poetic. And each time, yet again, I'm nearly speechless at the beauty and depth. I don't remember a recent time where a story was described in such a way that I could see it clearly in my mind's eye. Not only could I see it, but all of my senses were active and involved. Your words are gifts - and I understand your haunting. It was not yours to take, or end, but the lesson learned is part of the journey.
by
Jan Baumgartner (52 articles, 137 quicklinks, 10 diaries, 252 comments)
on Sunday, June 29, 2008 at 3:48:39 PM
Thanks for the positive thoughts from those here and those that wrote privately. It really was just all about a snake, though. Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss, and sometimes it is much more. It just goes to show that words have power that goes far beyond what is in the mind of the writer. Not that I am making a comparison, but I wonder if Thoreau was just writing about his favorite pond, never intending the political meaning?
by
Georgianne Nienaber (145 articles, 46 quicklinks, 13 diaries, 337 comments)
on Sunday, June 29, 2008 at 11:49:41 PM
Perhaps had the writer turned away and never looked at the death she countenanced, she would never have had to endure the remorse.
When I bite into a hamburger, would it be just as satisfying and delicious had I met the animal before it's killing and slaughter? No, I only briefly consider the possibility of madcow disease before consuming the meat that others killed for me.
But I do remember the tiny field mouse that darted across my bedroom and into the closet when I was a boy. It did that every night at eleven o'clock. It never really bothered me, yet I decided to target it with my new bb gun, bored with shooting inanimate objects. On time the critter scooted and I shooted.
Still haunting my mind today the scream, the jerk to a full stand. The wounded little thing still managed to get to the closet where I found it's carcass the next day. I carried it by the tail to the alley for some stray cat's breakfast.
It truely never bothered me, but I killed it anyway. And I am still sorry and sad that I did. I actually missed it's nightly scoots to my closet.
When a bb ricocheted into my little sister's eye (her eye survived) I threw the gun away.
by
Robert Arend (4 articles, 16 quicklinks, 19 diaries, 178 comments)
on Monday, June 30, 2008 at 10:27:38 PM
It is just amazing to me how powerful words can be and what a responsibility we writers have to never, ever, to use them to manipulate, or trick or influence the emotions of others for our own benefit---whether monetary or personal or political.
I met a songwriter once who boasted of her ability to manipulate words to sell her music. That has bothered me and made me suspicious of anything the critics term "art." She kept boasting that her "masterpiece" of manipulation was yet to be written, but that fortune would surely follow--and that the critics would love her more.
It is truly a miracle when a personal story that is true and comes from the recesses of the heart can bring us all closer togther. I am humbled when this happens...and it does not happen often. It is a gift to me when someone recognizes my own humanity...a humanity we all share.
Your humanity, which shines forth in your story of the mouse, is truth in all of its purity and deserves attention more than any fake songwriter who makes money from preying on the suffering of others.
by
Georgianne Nienaber (145 articles, 46 quicklinks, 13 diaries, 337 comments)
on Tuesday, July 1, 2008 at 8:38:20 AM
7 comments
How would you rate this?
You must be logged in (if signed up) to do ratings.
It's free to signup! And easy. And takes just a minute or two....
Must Read (
Well Said (
News (
Touching (
Funny (
Supported (
Interesting (
Inspiring (
Valuable (
