It was a scene right out of a horror movie.

I was alone in the house. A summer thunderstorm was sweeping north over Blue Mountain. I’d stationed myself in a rocking chair on the porch, a cold glass of water silently beading at my elbow. As the sky darkened from gunpowder grey to a menacing black-green, thunder shook the distant hills.

And then, a strange sound from the kitchen: something dropped or fallen. A solid “clunk,” too heavy to be a bag of potato chips blown from the top of the refrigerator; too hard to be a sheaf of newspaper; too dull to be a wayward pot lid.

This was no random noise. My throat tightened. Maybe I wasn’t alone!

The storm front charged up from the pond, spinning the windmill like a roulette wheel. As the first fat raindrops pounded the metal roof, yellow leaves flew like sweat from the crown of the big walnut tree.

I got up, armed myself with the glass of water, and tiptoed inside.

A glass of water might not sound very threatening, but a person could do a lot worse. It’s a decent projectile. An accurate throw would, at the very least, douse a home invader; at best, it might give him a faceful of broken glass.

I’m as prone to violent hero fantasies as the next guy, especially when it comes to protecting home and hearth. But in my heart of hearts, I’m a man of peace, and here’s where a glass of water really excels. In my experience, nothing calms a tense situation like some good, old-fashioned hospitality.

Think I’m a dreamer? Now be honest. Which of these two scenarios is more likely to escalate into tragic violence:

a. A large red-faced man bellows at you and wildly hurls something shiny and wet at your face…

or

b. A calm, slightly bemused homeowner introduces himself and offers you a nice glass of water?

But back to the horror.

Armed with my trusty glass of water, I tiptoed inside and instantly spotted something out of place: the cordless phone was lying on the floor.

Cordless phones don’t just climb out of their charging stations and leap off decorative shelves. No, this was proof positive that something was wrong. My imagination went into overdrive. Perhaps the intruder was trying to cut the phone line. I’d seen it plenty of times in old movies.

It was then that I noticed something strange about the phone charger. The wires were all twisted up, exactly the way you’d expect if some maniac in a hockey mask had ripped the line from the wall.

But these wires were thicker than the phone line. Thicker even than the power cord. As thick, in fact, as a broomstick.

And they were moving.

Slithering, rather.

I looked closer. That’s when I noticed the flickering tongue.

It was an intruder, all right, but of the herpetological variety: a big healthy black snake coiled around the charger, sniffing at the spiral notebook we use for important phone numbers.

You’d think that this would be a big relief. After all, I’d just established that the stranger in my living room was not a serial killer with a taste for human liver, but instead a harmless, and even beneficial neighborhood critter. Given the noticeable reduction in the mouse population in our house this year, I probably should have given the startled snake a hearty “thank you!”, a snack, and a medal.

Instead, I ran for my camera.

After the photo-op, there was a bit of gentle reptile-wrangling which ended in both of us beating a hasty retreat: the snake, to calmer pastures beyond the vegetable garden; and me, to my rocking chair.

Black snakes have always been a fact of life in these parts. I’ll leave you with an entry I found in the Perry Forester, the first newspaper to grace the kitchen tables of newly minted Perry County, dateline July 14, 1825, Landisburg, PA:

 

William B. Mitchell, Esq., of this town has now in his possession, four living snakes, a rattlesnake, a copperhead, a spotted viper, and a black snake, well secured in a cage made for the purpose. They are all of the common size; the rattlesnake and viper, about a yard in length, the copperhead about three quarters of a yard and the black snake about four feet. The bite of the three first is considered of the most deadly nature, but it is not a little singular, that the whole coil together in the most perfect harmony. The rattle snake was the first taken, five or six weeks since and his companions were encaged with him about two weeks since and to this time it is not known that any of them have taken food.

 

 

This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 13 September 2012

For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com