I had more love than an orphan could hope for.
In wintertime, you could see the water in the creek from my grandparents’ porch. When spring exploded, all signs of creek and riverbank disappeared under new green growth. Each year, the sycamore trees reminded you of how grand they were. It was easy to forget how massive they were during the cold months. Bare limbs sort of blended into the winter sky. After each new burst of spring, you were reminded of just how close the sycamore trees were to touching the sky.
Grandma and Grandpa got their water from a spring just a couple dozen yards from the house. The springhouse was prime real estate for live bait: crawdads, minnows, hellgrammites. Each prize in the Ozarks comes with its own cost, however. In order to get to the cornucopia live bait, one must traverse the springhouse steps. At story hour, when the librarian read about medieval, dark, and gloomy dungeon steps, my brain visualized the springhouse steps. A massive walnut tree loomed over the spring house. Not only did it make the narrow and steep stairway darker, it added the potential bonus of a twisted ankle in the late summer when walnuts feel like mana.
I don't ever remember not seeing a snake somewhere near the spring house. There were snakes in all of those old buildings on my grandparents’ property. I once saw a black snake fall off of a cellar door onto my grandpa’s shoulders. One day, innocent Little Jake was throwing rocks into the creek. Until all of a sudden, the rock Jake was about to pick up started to rattle. I don't like snakes. If you have a snake as a pet, I’m excited for your joy. Please don't show me your snake because “[your] snake is so cute it will change [my] mind on snakes.” It isn't. It won’t. I don't fucking like snakes.
My five-year-old inherited my love of water and adventure. This brings me great delight. I think about my Tom Sawyer-esque adventures on Flat Creek in Barry County, Missouri. I learned a lot about how the world worked on those adventures, and I cherish them. And then I think about how frequently water moccasins were characters in those adventures. The thought of my baby boy anywhere near any sort of snake gives me the most intense anxiety. But I don't want to teach him that fear.
My dad talked a lot about respect when I was growing up. I remember being out on the lake before school with Dad. Steam came up off Table Rock Lake, and you felt like nobody had yet claimed the lake as their own that day.
“You have to respect it,” he would say.
I remember him saying that about bodies of water, firearms, and electricity specifically. He didn’t want to foster a fear of these things, but wanted me to have a healthy understanding of their power. That always stuck with me. Last summer, I explained to my five-year-old how to safely, cautiously, and enjoyably, walk an Ozarks creek bed, as best I could. There’s a fine line between fear and respect. So I’m pushing myself to better understand my surroundings while not letting the unknown keep me back.
-Little Jake
P.S. Sometimes I listened, Dad.
