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Me and Dillard, Volume 2, Issue 3
It was the fall of 1957. Armadillos had not yet invaded southwest Arkansas. It was Saturday, and all was right with my world. This was one of the weekends I could go visit my friend Dillard.
I loved walking through the woods to his house. It was an adventure every time. I ran across the pasture and went into the woods. From that point, it was just following a faint logging road for almost a mile, and then veering right at the old chinkapin on a trail that was the mother of all trails. The trail was about a half mile in length to Dillard’s house but could also lead to the greatest adventure since time began if you were in the mood. No matter which journey you were on, it led you between two huge hickory trees just before you came out into the opening of Dillard’s back yard.
This particular year, the leaves were the brightest yellows, oranges, and golden browns I had ever seen. The squirrels were scurrying about, jumping from limb to limb, and completely ignoring my intrusion. I was close enough to hear Dillard clear his throat from his rocking chair on the front porch.
I wanted to watch the critters for a little longer, so I backed up to a big old white oak and sat down to watch the show. As if I had sat on a toggle switch, I heard the unmistakable singing of a rattlesnake. Even at eight years of age, I had been taught that snakes were best when seen or dead. He didn’t sound dead, and worse I couldn’t see him. But I could hear him, man alive, could I ever hear him rattling that tail!
I remembered Dillard teaching me not to move when I heard a rattler. He used to say that snakes were just as afraid as we were, and that’s why they rattled. That being the case, old Mr. Snake was fixing to have a heart attack any minute now!
Looking back more than 50 years ago, I really can’t remember whether it was my training or just plain old fear that paralyzed me. And perhaps it doesn’t even matter, but strangely, I remember thinking how much my uncle and aunt would miss me, and how lonely Dillard would be on the weekend when I was gone. I wondered how long it would be before he found me lying at the foot of that old tree.
“Don’t look and don’t move,” I heard a familiar voice say quietly and with purpose. “Whoosh!” was the sound that old double bit axe made as Dillard stopped the singing. “Can I get up now?” I asked. He replied, “If you can, walk around the tree and come over here to me. Watch your step!”
He brought me close to the snake, now separated from its head. We talked about the dangers of looking and not seeing. He put the blade of the axe in the mouth of the severed head, and I heard the ringing of the axe as the fangs repeatedly struck the blade. There were lessons to be learned, not just the feelings of lucky to be alive.
I held on to him as we moved back to the trail to make the brief trek to his house. I tugged on his shirt, “How did you know I was out here?” “I heard you walking,” he said. Then I asked, “Well, why did you come out in the woods?” He stopped briefly, knelt down, looked me in the eyes and said, “Because I didn’t hear you walking.”
He stood up, and off to the front porch we went. I knew there was going to be more discussions about what we learned that day. So I confessed, “It would be easier to talk about everything if I could change my underwear first,” I said. He just smiled a bit and said, “I thought it was probably you. I’ll wait for you on the porch.”
It would take me years to figure out the lessons learned this day, but that piece about “because I didn’t hear you walking” has been priceless to me in all facets of my life. Thanks again, Dillard, for taking the time to shape a life. I’ll try to follow your lead.
Where do you want to go today?
