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 Richard Frisbie Author, advertising and publishing consultant, former editor of Chicago and other magazines, former creative director of Campbell-Ewald and other advertising agencies. For more information, click here. Or see Who's Who in America or www.midlandauthors.com, Margery Frisbie Consulting editor, historian, poet and author of several books. For more information, click here or see www.midlandauthors.com. The Uncommentator BLOGS and GLOBS: I have been writing a blog since 1966, only I didn't know it. In those days, it came out in the form of a newsletter on paper. Remember paper? It never got lost in cyberspace, although if it got wet enough blog turned into glob. I called it The Uncommentator, and tried to make it amusing. To read some of my favorites, see contents. Recent Books by the Frisbies.
© 2012 by Richard Frisbie |
(THIS SITE IS BEING TWEAKED) The Uncommentator: Story of the Day The Belt With a Forked Tongue May, 2012–A friend who is moving from Chicago to Albuquerque to be near a daughter remarked at lunch recently that the family had decided against purchase of an otherwise desirable house because they found out that local wildlife–including rattlesnakes–sometimes turned up in the yard. Instead, they chose a dwelling less rustic. I was reminded of my youthful fascination with reptiles and amphibians. For instance, while at Boy Scout camp in southern Michigan one year, I captured a beautiful hog-nose snake (Heterodon platirhinos) that had been hiding under a log. When time came to go home, I couldn’t bear to part with it. Although camp authorities had sternly warned us not to try to take such trophies home, I slid it inside my shirt just above my belt. Hog-noses are docile. They don’t even have fangs to bite you with. If they can’t scare off an enemy by spreading a hood like a cobra, they roll over on their backs and play dead. They make their living by swallowing a toad now and then. My specimen, about two feet long, had become used to being handled and seemed content stretched out around my warm waist. All went well till the Pere Marquette Railroad conductor came through my car checking tickets. This made the snake curious. It stuck its head and about four inches of neck out of my shirt between the buttons. For a moment, the snake and the conductor looked each other in the eye. I thought, good grief–I’m in big trouble now. Instead, the conductor passed on without comment. Not till years later did I realize that the last thing that conductor wanted was to have to do anything about a snake–or anything else a trainload of Boy Scouts might have in their pockets or tucked inside their shirts. The Southwest is, of course, full of rattlesnakes. But they really do mind their own business. When I was in college in Tucson for three years, I often hiked and camped in the desert without once seeing a rattlesnake, although I did see lots of lizards, including a beautifully beaded Gila monster. In fact, in all that time I saw only one snake of any kind. It was during a pack trip. We stopped for a lunch break where a small stream trickled down through the foothills from mountains above. The guide, who was in charge of the horses and the cooking, saw the snake, hauled out his revolver and fired several shots at it, causing consternation among the pack horses. After the excitement died down and we had eaten our lunches, I reconnoitered along the stream bank. The snake hadn’t been injured, only stunned. It was a western ribbon snake (Thamnophis proximis), about 12 or 14 inches long, a completely harmless relative of the common garter snake. Discomfitted by my attention, it slowly slithered into the water and swam away. Next time, if you show interest that seems sincere, I may tell you about the time my Florida rat snake (Elaphe obsoleta) got away backstage at the Goodman Theater in Chicago, ironically between performances of You Can’t Take It With You. Richard Frisbie To read back issues, click here
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