Three Strikes and You're Out

Even the most ordinary life has it's extraordinary moments. With very few exceptions the first half of my life was painlessly ordinary. You see, we never really intended to move to the country. OK, my husband had always said he wanted ten acres with a pond, but like most husbands nobody paid much attention to to him so the whole event actually occurred somewhat by accident.

It all started harmlessly enough two days after Christmas ten years ago when I was lounging around reading the real estate section of a newspaper that had been conveniently deposited on the doorstep of our urban abode. Having repeatedly vowed to spend the rest of my life in the two-story downtown structure we had spent a decade renovating, I was just a little curious about what was on the market. That's when I came upon an ad for a place twenty miles outside of town that sounded sort of intriguing. It was too early to take down the Christmas tree so I called the realtor to see if we could ride out and take a look at the listing.

Real estate sales tend to slow down in the winter and the hungry agent who met us at the prospective property reminded me of a starving lion who had just spotted a wounded wart hog on the Serengheti plains of Africa. Unfortunately for her, we weren't serious buyers. Sufficiently entertained by a quick tour of the premises we thanked the agent for her time, ready to escape the afternoon chill and return home to our cozy old house in the city. Realizing her snack pigs were about to escape, the agent pounced informing us there was one more place she would like for us to see.

As the setting sun cast ominous shadows around loblolly pines, we innocently followed our stealthy predator down two miles of bumpy dirt road and finally turned into a long, tree lined driveway with fenced pastures on either side. Nestled among tall oaks to the left sat a quaint red barn trimmed in white. Powerless to refuse the bait, the killing blow had been dealt and I was doomed before I ever saw the house. Totally obsessed from that moment on, the acquisition and occupation of Camp Clamp became a mission embraced by our entire family.

We successfully marketed and surrendered the old home I'd sworn never to leave and on our middle son's tenth birthday began the process of moving all our worldly possessions to their new final resting place. It is pretty amazing how many possessions two adults and three kids can accumulate and by the end of this sunny day in May everyone was ready to take a break and eat a little cake. Gathering on the front porch that was littered with cardboard boxes, we sat on the ones not marked fragile and began singing happy birthday to Kyle. Barely into the second verse, it became apparent that an uninvited guest had joined our weary party.

Unnerved by the day's activities a mama finch had temporarily deserted her nest on top of the porch's corner post. In an attempt to dine on the abandoned fledglings, a bold black snake had slithered up one of the chains supporting the wooden swing that hung nearby. Having gone unnoticed, the large serpent seemed to be keeping time with the music and was now melodiously swaying near one of the moving men who was sitting in the swing. With the alacrity of a mongoose, my husband sprang into action and grabbing the snake by its tail, he tossed it like a boomerang back into the woods. Temporarily shocked by the audacity of our reptile invader, everyone then returned to the celebration.

Later that evening I set about making up beds in preparation for our first night's respite at Camp Clamp. Becoming fascinated by the sounds of bull frogs emanating from the pond behind our new country house, I stopped for a moment and stepped outside onto the porch. Enthralled by the amazing chorus I then spotted something resembling a dark stick resting on the molding near the ceiling. Upon closer examination I realized this was not a stick, but the insatiable black snake who had returned for a midnight snack. Like a frontier woman defending her territory from Indian invaders, I grabbed a broom, knocked the snake down and swept him off the porch and into the shrubbery.

A few days later our house was finally beginning to resemble a home. My mother came out for a visit and we were sitting on the front porch swing enjoying a little break before dinner. As fresh corn steamed on the stove, we entertained ourselves by watching my three year-old daughter chase the bright green lizards who were attempting to warm themselves in the cascading sunbeams. About this time the relentless viper reappeared. Quietly raising himself out of the shrubbery, he slowly slid onto the railing right next to my daughter. Poisonous or not, old Fred-No-Shoulders was far to close to my youngest hatchling and this would prove to be his fatal mistake.

Removing my child from harms way, I went inside and retrieved a twenty gauge shotgun from the bedroom closet. Placing two yellow, high brass shells in the chamber, I tried to remember if there were improved or modified chokes in the barrel. Taking aim, I figured at this distance the resulting pattern would do the trick either way. Well it did and I obliterated the serpent doing significant damage to wooden pickets and railing as well.

Moments later smoking black fragments settled onto the front yard and my two sons came running around from the back of the house to see what Mom had blasted. Thinking to myself, "three strikes and you're out sucker," I unloaded the unused shell from the gun's chamber and happened to notice a small, familiar finch perched on the arm of the porch swing. Safe from intruders for the time being, we exchanged a satisfied glance and both of us returned to the work of tending our nests in the country.

Since then there have been ten delicately woven structures built in the corner of our porch and an equal number of black snakes who have met their untimely demise because they encroached upon this sacred ground. Oddly, somehow my husband's dream became my reality and protecting this precious place probably rescued me from an ordinary life focused on French manicures and fax machines.