Rabbit Box, for those unfamiliar with it, is a monthly
gathering in which eight people tell a personal story related to the theme for
that month. The Athens edition of Rabbit Box began sometime in 2012 and I
appeared, I think, in September. Each story teller is limited to no more than
eight minutes and must tell their story without visual aids or notes. Each
person interprets what the theme means to them. The theme for the month I
presented my story was “Origins.” My idea was to tell my personal story of becoming
a herpetologist.
In Rabbit Box you have eight minutes to tell your story
without notes or visual aids. Telling a personal story in a short period of
time is not as easy as you might think, especially in front of a large group of
strangers. Plus, a story has a beginning, middle and end and lives are not so
cleanly divided; they have multiple beginnings and ends, and the middles are
often muddled.
Here’s my story as I remember telling it:
When I was three I saw something so exciting that the
memory of it is as fresh and vivid in my mind today as it was 70 years ago. I
was sitting on the back stoop of our house in Shawnee Mission, Kansas, watching
my mother do laundry, when something on the sidewalk caught my eye. It was long
and brown. When I got up to take a closer look it suddenly wriggled into the
grass and vanished. I shouted out the only thing I could think of: “Worm –
Worm!!” My mother came running. I told her what I had seen and she told me it
wasn’t a worm – it was a snake!
By the time I was nine I had decided, in succession, to
be a fireman, lion-tamer, or magician. And then I read the book that changed my
life – Thrills of a Naturalist’s Quest,
by Raymond Lee Ditmars. Ditmars was the curator of reptiles at the Bronx Zoo. In
his book he described his amazing adventures catching dangerous snakes in the
jungles of Trinidad. Reading it, I learned that some grownups study reptiles
and amphibians for a living. They’re called herpetologists. And I learned that
you could actively seek out animals in their habitats. You didn’t have to
passively wait for a random encounter. I knew then that I was going to be a
herpetologist when I grew up!
My obsession with snakes continued through grade school.
I caught them in the woods and the abandoned rock quarry near where we lived. All
my classmates in grade school knew about my passion for snakes and thought me
rather strange because of it. One weekend the phone rang and I answered it. A
girl’s voice said: “They’re selling snakes on Nall Avenue.” I could hear other
girls sniggering in the background. Knowing that it was prank call, I hung up.
But then my obsession overcame logic. “What if,” I thought, “someone was really
selling snakes. If I didn’t check it out
I would really regret it.” And I ran out of the house, down the street to Nall
Ave. I looked both way on Nall Ave. and didn’t see anything, but, by now, I was
captive. I ran three blocks down Nall Ave. before reality grabbed me and I
returned home, humiliated.
In high school I was still the only kid who wanted to be
a herpetologist (and there were over 2000 students at Shawnee Mission High
School). When I told people I planned to be a “herpetologist” I got mystified
looks. When I explained what a herpetologist was, the looks changed from
mystified to incomprehension or disgust. I quickly learned to avoid the “h”
word. “I’m going to be a scientist” seemed to be the best answer, especially
for the parents of the girls I occasionally dated.
After high school I enrolled at the University of Kansas
and in my sophomore year I got a job as a field assistant for Professor Henry
Fitch. Dr. Fitch was a real herpetologist. He studied the ecology of the snakes
on the Natural History Reservation outside of town. There he had established a
number of trap lines to capture snakes and these had to be checked daily. My
job was to accompany him and record the data on each snake that was captured.
Dr. Fitch would open the trap, remove the snake, make various measurements and
then mark the snake by clipping a unique pattern on the tail scales, if it had
not been previously marked. (We marked snakes so they could be identified if caught
again. Data on recaptured snakes allowed us to determine their growth rate and
also how far they moved.) Snakes do not like having their scales clipped and have
to be restrained while you are doing it. You not only have to control the tail to
count its scales, you also have to control the head end to keep from being
bitten. Easily done when the snake is small.
As Dr. Fitch measured and clipped each snake, I dutifully
recorded the data in his field book. This was pretty exciting at first but I
soon wanted to handle the snakes myself. I suggested to him that if I could
measure and mark the snakes to his satisfaction then I could run the trap
lines, freeing him for other work. Dr. Fitch agreed and, as we approached the
next trap said, in his mild-mannered way, “Why don’t you start with this one?”
The trap held a very large and very irritated Blue Racer. When given the
opportunity, most snakes will flee from a human being, but a Racer will often
hold its ground and strike aggressively. This one was no exception. On seeing
the Racer in the trap I was simultaneously filled with eagerness and
hesitation. It was a large Racer, perhaps 3 to 4 feet in length, and I had no
wish to be bitten while measuring or marking it, so I asked, “How would you
mark this one?” He replied, “Well, with a big snake like this, I usually grip
its head between my knees and then stretch it out to count the scales.” Before
I could blink he had the head of the Racer gripped between his knees and the
body stretched out with the tail scales readily visible. “If you just stretch
it out that makes it easy to count the scales”, he said. “Now you try it.” With
that he dropped the snake to the ground saying: “Don’t let it get away.”
I scrambled after the snake and just managed to grab the
tail as it was disappearing into the grass. By now the Racer was far beyond
angry and determined to get loose, but I managed to get a good grip on its neck
as well as the tail, but the body between was thrashing and whipping around and
I could feel my grasp on the neck slipping. I certainly didn’t want to lose
face with Dr. Fitch and I didn’t want to lose the snake either, so, emulating
what I had seen Dr. Fitch do, I released my grip on the head and swung the
snake by its tail between my legs and clamped my feet together. But I forgot
one crucial thing – I am bow-legged and when my feet are together there is a
considerable gap between my knees. I had also miscalculated the length of the
snake and about one foot of the head end was behind me. Before I could react
the Racer bit me. On the ass. Three times.
(I got such a good response from this last line I decided
that it would be anti-climatic to continue and stopped right there. This was my
planned final line: “If you don’t think the “h” word is an appropriate career
goal for your children, don’t let them read anything by Raymond Lee Ditmars.”
