I gave her the finger, too. The “I need chewing time” finger. After finally rendering the potatoes lumpless, I swallowed. “I know, I know. I was just crunching through a bite of food. So, why, Dad?”

“Snakes.” The word slithered slowly from his mouth. I was no friend to poisonous reptiles, despite my slogging around snake-infested ponds at an early age.

I remembered the time my best buddy and I had walked around the edge of his farm pond lifting large, thin sections of Styrofoam. The mother snakes had built their nests there, and from under each piece a handful of tiny snakes would wriggle, leaving trails in the mud. During that moment of recall I realized why some city folks called country people stupid. I didn’t know for sure that uncovering snake nests was more dangerous than walking around New York City at night, but it certainly seemed dumber.

I also thought of my grandfather’s days in the swimming holes of Mississippi. “So, you’re telling me I have to do like Granddad did. I have to jump in first to scare off all the snakes.”

I caught Dad with his mouth full. Ah, sweet revenge. As he gave me the fork-point and the nod, golden-fried batter hung loosely from his bite of chicken-fried steak.

“Okay, I hate snakes. That sounds a little too scary to me,” Shannon said.

I tried to reassure her, and myself. “I’ve been checking it out, and I haven’t seen any snakes yet.”

“That’s not very comforting,” she replied.

People fall into two philosophical categories in life: snake finders and… nevermind.

As I spoke with relatives I had never met before and, sadly, might never see again, I occasionally glanced over at the zip line that ran between two trees on opposite sides of the creek. The tree on my side was on a sloped hillside that ran down to the 30-foot cliff. The rope continued on a downward slant to a somewhat smaller tree on the other shore, creek level. A rope with a handle ran down from the main line. I thought of how much fun it would be to go glide down the rope, then plunge into the water. A switch flipped inside my head.

It was the setting from stump dodger to stump finder.

I always was uncomfortable around heights, but unknown 30-foot cliff or not, and snakes be danged, I was going to do it. I got Dad’s truck keys from him and went to grab my swimming trunks. A quick restroom change later, and I was in the backyard, blinding white upper body in full view of everybody. I am glad nobody was still trying to eat.

A couple of the kids who lived there (some sort of distant cousins, I presume) showed me exactly what to do. They had a rope securing the handle to the tree to keep it from sliding down to the other side by itself. A few pieces of wood reminiscent of a treehouse ladder were nailed into the tree. “Just take a few steps up and take hold of the handle. Then when you’re ready, just lift your feet.”

Piece of cake.

The only thing that saved me was that I did not say, “Hold my beer and watch this.”