remarks in conversation. But that didn’t seem to make much sense because most remarks are personal, including everything my mom ever says. Besides, we didn’t figure Ralph was too involved with etiquette or anything like that.
“Maybe he thought it had something to do with sex,” Flip said. But then we didn’t see why Ralph, the big hero of all our adventures, would be shy on that subject.
Later that summer, we saw him again. He was riding down East Lincoln Avenue in a four-door Dodge. And a girl was driving. That was really the end of him as far as we were concerned.
Anyway, that’s how we learned to swim, two years before the end of the friendship between Flip and me.
Twelve
“ GOD ALMIGHTY , IT ’ S A COBRA !” Flip yelled and fell back flat on the mud bank. I was halfway up a convenient tree before the words were out of his mouth. We were both so scared we didn’t know whether we were in India or down along Warnicke’s Creek.
And it wasn’t a cobra. It was a puff adder—what my dad calls a “hognose.” When we came across it, our faces were about a foot and a half straight over the snake, which was puffing up fast and thinking seriously about going into a coil.
I hate a snake worse than anything. While Flipwas pulling himself together and darting around for a long branch to pester the puff adder with, I was yelling out instructions from my tree to get a big rock to drop on its head. But Flip was conquering his shock by trying to see how close he could get to the snake. By now, it was going into its second act.
When they get excited, puff adders swell up around the neck and look even uglier than they usually are. They may even start striking, pretending to be poisonous, which they aren’t. But if they sense this isn’t convincing anybody, they roll over and play dead. They’re big fakers and harmless, but they can scare you to death.
As the old saying goes, snakes will leave you alone if you’ll leave them alone. But we met up with this one purely by accident. It was the middle of that summer after seventh grade. We were down exploring along Warnicke’s Creek a little way above the big railroad bridge. It’s complete wilderness along there, and we were slogging through the undergrowth when we came on this old rowboat about halfway out of the water.
It wasn’t anything but a wreck, but Flip thought maybe if we pushed it into the creek, it might float. Then we could continue exploring by water. We hadn’t thought about details like oars, of course. We got behind the boat and started trying to push it down into the creek. It was dried hard to the bank, so we gave it a couple of kicks before it budged. Then it began to slip a little, and we were bent double giving it an almighty shoulder shove.
Suddenly, it shot right down into the water—and sank. And we were staring straight at the snout of the puff adder lying under it. It’s a miracle we didn’t sprawl right on it. There it was stretched out in acool, damp, sunken part of the bank. The next thing I remember, I was up a tree and looking down.
While Flip thrashed around, looking for a long stick, the puff adder rolled over on its back, turning up a cream-colored belly. It was playing dead. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Then it changed its mind, and rolled back, and started oozing toward the weeds. I kept quiet, hoping it would get away before Flip came back. But he came charging up, swinging a big stick. And the snake stopped—“dead.”
“Come on, move, you big con artist,” Flip said, dancing around at a safe distance and poking at it with the stick. But it didn’t quiver a scale.
“It’s alive,” I advised Flip from my tree.
“I know it,” he said, and slid the stick under its body at the thick middle part. He lifted it up off the ground, and the big monster just hung there, limp as a dishrag.
“Throw that damn thing in the creek!” I yelled down, but Flip was acting cute now, so the show had to go on. For one
“Maybe he thought it had something to do with sex,” Flip said. But then we didn’t see why Ralph, the big hero of all our adventures, would be shy on that subject.
Later that summer, we saw him again. He was riding down East Lincoln Avenue in a four-door Dodge. And a girl was driving. That was really the end of him as far as we were concerned.
Anyway, that’s how we learned to swim, two years before the end of the friendship between Flip and me.
Twelve
“ GOD ALMIGHTY , IT ’ S A COBRA !” Flip yelled and fell back flat on the mud bank. I was halfway up a convenient tree before the words were out of his mouth. We were both so scared we didn’t know whether we were in India or down along Warnicke’s Creek.
And it wasn’t a cobra. It was a puff adder—what my dad calls a “hognose.” When we came across it, our faces were about a foot and a half straight over the snake, which was puffing up fast and thinking seriously about going into a coil.
I hate a snake worse than anything. While Flipwas pulling himself together and darting around for a long branch to pester the puff adder with, I was yelling out instructions from my tree to get a big rock to drop on its head. But Flip was conquering his shock by trying to see how close he could get to the snake. By now, it was going into its second act.
When they get excited, puff adders swell up around the neck and look even uglier than they usually are. They may even start striking, pretending to be poisonous, which they aren’t. But if they sense this isn’t convincing anybody, they roll over and play dead. They’re big fakers and harmless, but they can scare you to death.
As the old saying goes, snakes will leave you alone if you’ll leave them alone. But we met up with this one purely by accident. It was the middle of that summer after seventh grade. We were down exploring along Warnicke’s Creek a little way above the big railroad bridge. It’s complete wilderness along there, and we were slogging through the undergrowth when we came on this old rowboat about halfway out of the water.
It wasn’t anything but a wreck, but Flip thought maybe if we pushed it into the creek, it might float. Then we could continue exploring by water. We hadn’t thought about details like oars, of course. We got behind the boat and started trying to push it down into the creek. It was dried hard to the bank, so we gave it a couple of kicks before it budged. Then it began to slip a little, and we were bent double giving it an almighty shoulder shove.
Suddenly, it shot right down into the water—and sank. And we were staring straight at the snout of the puff adder lying under it. It’s a miracle we didn’t sprawl right on it. There it was stretched out in acool, damp, sunken part of the bank. The next thing I remember, I was up a tree and looking down.
While Flip thrashed around, looking for a long stick, the puff adder rolled over on its back, turning up a cream-colored belly. It was playing dead. I couldn’t take my eyes off it. Then it changed its mind, and rolled back, and started oozing toward the weeds. I kept quiet, hoping it would get away before Flip came back. But he came charging up, swinging a big stick. And the snake stopped—“dead.”
“Come on, move, you big con artist,” Flip said, dancing around at a safe distance and poking at it with the stick. But it didn’t quiver a scale.
“It’s alive,” I advised Flip from my tree.
“I know it,” he said, and slid the stick under its body at the thick middle part. He lifted it up off the ground, and the big monster just hung there, limp as a dishrag.
“Throw that damn thing in the creek!” I yelled down, but Flip was acting cute now, so the show had to go on. For one
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