Sam the Snake

I'm afraid of snakes. I originally wrote, "I'm terrified of snakes," but I feel that "afraid" is a better word. I have been afraid of them my whole life.

When I was a child, around four or five, I was afraid to put my arm over the side of the bed in the dark, fearing a snake would coil and strike me. If I woke up and had to go to the bathroom, I overcame it because walking barefoot in the dark to the bathroom seemed like a recipe for death before dawn.

If we went to the zoo, I refused to enter the reptile building. When a venomous snake escaped from the Bronx Zoo a few years ago, I sent my daughter daily updates on what to look out for, cautioning her to only look down as she walked the streets of Lower Manhattan, miles away from the Bronx. She never responded to any of them. As they age, they are more ungrateful, not less.

When I saw snakes on my social media feeds, I quickly moved on. During a documentary film at the Hamptons Film Festival, when hundreds, maybe thousands, of snakes were seen running up a beach on a dangerous island, I threw my box of popcorn up in the air. In my opinion, they should have given a warning before the film started. Do you agree?

I think I’ve made my point.

Then I moved to Maine.

I walked out my door that first spring, and in the gravel path to my parking area, there it was: a black garter snake with a yellow stripe running down its back. It was in the path. I screamed, a sound that could probably be heard for miles, but no one came running. Note to self: my neighbors are nice when I meet them on the road, but do not depend on them when your life is possibly nearing a terrifying end.

It slithered away.

A week later, when I met with my gardener, the following conversation took place:

“There was a snake right in front of my door. It was big. Like a few feet, and had a yellow stripe on its back. What is it? A viper? Black mamba?”

He and I do not speak the same English.

“It’s a garter snake. There are no poisonous snakes in Maine.”

I think it was the way he said it, as if I were stupid and wasting his time.

“Can you catch it and take it to your house?”

“I could, but no, I won’t.”

I just looked at him.

The thing about people in Maine: they never explain. They use as few words as possible in most conversations, as if more words cost more.

He sighed. “That snake is doing good things in your garden. He stays.”

I don’t need to tell you that I am pretty sure he was suggesting it would be better if I moved. Okay, don’t project your insecurities onto other people, Christine.

…three years later.

The snake’s name is Sam. He is still here. He is larger now. He lives under the lip of the large flat boulder that sits right outside my front door. I decided I was going to overcome this fear, for my own sense of self.

I started talking to him when I saw him, which is actually quite often. He suns himself on the path to the gate, so we cross paths often.

Yesterday’s conversation:

“Hey Sam. Remember I told you I was going to the Cape for the wedding? It was really beautiful. I wish I looked thinner after seeing a few pictures, but I’ve come a long way with that. You good? Anything up while I was gone?”

And he quietly slithered away, but not as fast as he used to.

I tell him secrets I won’t tell you.

Sam the Snake.

My friend.

My neighbor.

My Sam the Snake.