On Snakes and Grandmothers

I like to consider myself a mountain woman in the making.

I pride myself on being able to drive on crazy roads that others cry and balk at when they see (none of our ward members and very few of our family members and friends will venture to our mountain in the winter time).  I pat myself on the back every time I have to boil water to make juice or baby food.  I have learned the difference between rabbitbrush and it's close cousin, sagebrush. I've traded in my pretty shoes for muddy hiking boots. Very muddy. And last but not least, when I came across a poor little wild bunny that had been ravished by a mink and then plowed in half by Dave, I didn't scream and only cried a little bit.

Yes, I figured, I am well on my way to becoming a mountain woman

And then...this sweet lady came to spend the weekend.

My grandmother.

We somehow got on the subject of rural living and she started story-telling about her early years.  In her sweet, un-hurried, soft, grandmother-ly way she told of how her and her siblings would be out playing and would often come across a rattlesnake.  They would hurry home and tell "Mother" and she would come out and unceremoniously CHOP OFF THE SNAKE'S HEAD with a SHOVEL. 

What?!

And once, while the "city" cousins were visiting they were up playing at the spring where they got their water.  They of course, came across a snake.  One of her brothers stoned the snake to death and then my dear sweet grandmother picked up the dead snake and chased her poor cousin with it and then proceeded to drop the snake down her cousin's shirt.  Her cousin, to this day, has not recovered from that event.

Oh, and they kept all of the rattles to store in "Father's"  desk.

How Naive I am!  I shall never be a true mountain woman.  Nope, not if it means having to dander with the slithery folk. 

Shudder.

And my Grandmother?  What a lady!