Mick Ratliff and the Copper Headless

While you might be thinking this is a radical name for a band, I assure you it is actually a true story. I feel like I've documented my interaction with Mick Ratliff prior to this evening, but it bears being repeated.

We had lived in our home in Chanute but a few weeks when a white city truck came rolling down our driveway. Lucky for us, our shared drive is long and gravelly, so we can hear folks coming for a while - usually even before we see them. It's early and I'm not expecting anyone and don't even know much of anyone yet, so I step onto the front porch to welcome the visitors.

After the appropriate introductions, and I did hold myself back from asking, "Mick Ratliff? . . . that your real name? Are you a bonafide red-neck cause you sure sound like it?" I would soon find out that the question needn't be asked. He was eager to show me himself.

"Came out to fix your light. Noticed it was blinkin' a little bit." Pause. As I wonder how he would know it was blinkin' a little bit. "Actually, I live just over the hill and it's drivin' me nuts, so I'm just gunna fix it fore ya."

"well, don't let me stop you, it's drivin' me nuts too."

After they finish, and jeez, don't I wish I could demonstrate this whole drama for you, Mick Ratliff and the other guy stand in the front yard and here's what unfolds:
Looking down, arms crossed, deliberating - when you know there is still something left to be said. Stares at the yard of small children's outdoor toys and then looks soberly back at his sidekick. "I feel like I oughta tell you this . . . . Oh, maybe I shouldn't. . . . .(long pause for effect) . . . Well . . . . . Do you have little kids? . . . . I don't want to be the one to tell you (looking around and then staring at his feet. Obviously begging me to ask him) . . . . . I hate to tell you this, but we kind of have a bit of a problem out here."
Seriously, the guy deliberated so dramatically, you almost think he might be having spells or something.
I ask, " OK. I'm listening. You have to tell me now." Finally he makes eye contact. I think he didn't want to miss my reaction. After all the build up, I was convinced he wanted me to be terrified.
"We have a bit of a copperhead problem out here." Pause. Are you waiting for me to faint?
"Well . . . what do I need to know? Boots? Shovels? Guns?"
"You probably oughta get a gun."
The week following, I ask some of the neighborhood moms, who have gathered for a brunch to welcome me if they've talked with Mick Ratliff. IMMEDIATELY eyes are rolling and heads are shaking, "Did he drag the copperheads to your house already? You wouldn't have believed the stunt he pulled last spring. 17 dead smelling copperheads in the back of his pick up and he made all the kids in the neighborhood get a good look at them so they would know what to stay away from."
Up until then, none of the moms had ever really seen one. Angie found out later that the "snake" her husband found in the kitchen one day was, in fact, a real live copperhead. But other than that . . . .
This evening, we burned a brush pile in our back tangled jungly woods. I can't say back yard, cause it's just not tame enough for that. While I was carrying over the last of the sticks, what should I meet crawling up the hill next to me?
You got it.
The real deal. Not huge, not angry, not fast, but too close for sure. Brett took care of it while I watched on. The kids were just up the hill obediently sitting on the blanket. We made sure they looked long and hard at it and told them carefully and repeatedly what they needed to do if they ever saw a snake. Brett had been on the phone with his mom and had quickly shoved it in his pocket when I said, "copperhead babe!" She never hung up, listened to the whole thing.
The things you teach your kids when you live in the sticks. Heck, Vera isn't even 2 and thinks it perfectly normal to pee outside. Who knew.