FORT POLK, La. -- My wife, Susan, is Army strong - she spent eight years on active duty, put up with a husband who spent twice that amount of time dragging her from one side of the world to another, then "survived" having a son spend tours in Iraq and Afghanistan.
During her tenure as a noncommissioned officer she took to heart the beginning of the NCO creed: "No one is more professional than I."
She passed all of her PT tests, promotion and Soldier of the Month boards and excelled on her annual military occupational specialty tests. She stood up for her Soldiers and took no quarter from anyone. She embodied the characteristics and traits of a leader as laid out in Field Manual 22-100.
However, there is one scenario in which one of those traits was unable to sustain her. The trait - courage; the scenario - dealing with snakes.
Susan lives by the theory that the only good snake is a dead one. It doesn't matter if it's a common garter snake or a black mamba - in her eyes they are all vile creatures. Her motto is "God called them snakes for a reason."
I recall once shortly after we had met and were taking a leisurely walk through the woods that I spied in the distance - probably 20-30 feet away - a large snake lying on a sand bar in a creek. In the time it took me to say, "Hey, Susan, look at," she was already 100 meters away and moving quicker than Jamaican sprinter and world record holder Usain Bolt.
I learned quickly that snakes were nothing to joke about with Susan. Sneak up behind her and pinch her on the leg when she is unaware and you're likely to draw back a nub or receive a rather large lump on your head. Remember, Army strong.
I provide this background to help explain the predicament I now find myself in. Susan and I recently paid a visit to our son, Justin, in Corpus Christi. We had a nice, week-long trip and arrived home Sept. 11 exhausted, but happy - at least until we entered the breakfast nook by our back door.
There, stretched out on the carpet and basking in the rays of sunlight streaming in through the sliding glass door, were three - yes THREE - baby water moccasins. Ever the heroic type, I told Susan, "Stand back, I'll handle this." Needless to say the pronouncement was unnecessary, as Susan had already vacated the premises.
Armed with a hammer, weed whacker, meter stick and sun shades (who knows, they might have been spitting moccasins) I launched an attack and quickly subdued the intruders. When I had removed the carcasses from our home, I told Susan it was safe to return, to which she replied - "OK smart aleck, where's the mother'"
For one of the few times in my life I was left speechless. The only snappy retorts I could think of would have probably resulted in grave injuries to yours truly. A passing neighbor stopped to give us his expertise and said not to worry about the mother. He said if she had been in the house it would have smelled like a wet dog. Fortunately, both of our sons have grown up and left home and we didn't have to worry about confusing the smells.
With no wet dog smell, I was confident we had managed to rid our place of the only three intruders there were. At least I was confident until the next morning when we found another baby by the window. Three more days led to three more babies, but now it's been a week with no sightings. My research revealed that most female moccasins give birth to between six and 12 live young. With seven confirmed kills and no further sightings, I think we've got them all.
One tip we received was to spread mothballs around the house. Apparently, the critters don't like the smell. We now have little while balls all around our house and - for additional protection - Susan had me surround our bed with mothballs to make sure we're not attacked at night. Other than the entire house smelling like my grandmother's closet, it's not been an inconvenience.
Susan is still not completely convinced we got them all. She sleeps with a 12-gauge shotgun, a samurai sword we picked up in Okinawa and boxes of mothballs on her nightstand. If she sees a snake, I think her plan is to pour the mothballs on it, shoot it, then chop its head off. Hey, whatever helps her get through the night.
At least we won't have to worry about moths any time soon.
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