The Rattlesnake Incident - Aftermath

I wrote recently about an incident in which I (reluctantly) helped a gentleman catch a rattlesnake on 108 between Tryon and Columbus.  I didn’t get the man’s name or intentions at the time which I regretted later.  I put a post including a picture on Facebook about it for fun and the incident took on a life of its own -- Polk County’s version of viral. 

For those unfamiliar with Facebook, I had 21 “likes” which means that 18 people read it, enjoyed it but had no comment.  Those who did comment provided a wealth of information.

The post:

“Off to the grocery store last night to buy kibbles.  Came across a car stopped on the road in my lane.  A man in front of the car was chasing something. I got out to play good Samaritan. He was trying to pin down a snake with a ski pole.  He seemed to know what he was doing. I asked what kind of snake. Rattlesnake, he replies calmly. I begin to rethink my samaritanship. He tosses me a plastic bag and asks if I could hold it open. I do so. He pins the snake and grabbed it just behind the head and deposits the creature in the bag.  Then he grabs the bag from my hand (which is good because I really don’t want to be holding a rattlesnake) and puts in in the back seat of his car.  He thanks me.  I thank him.  I wish I had had the presence of mind to ask his name. I’d love to find out what he did with the snake.  But instead I bought kibbles.”

The comments:

Bonnie Joy Bardos - It's the snake whisperer! He's either got himself a new pet named "Rattler" or he's having fried snake tenders for dinner. (and a new belt).

Wally Hughes - Did it look like a rattlesnake to you?

Elvin Clark - He was only a couple of feet long but he did have a rattleish tail.

Bonnie Joy Bardos - He might be *even* shorter now: those tenders are bite-size. Couple of feet: ON the feet. New boots. (can you tell I have a vivid imagination)

Lauren Field Halbkat - Dangerfield Ashton. I would bet money on it. He is the only guy I know that has a rattlesnake habit and carries ski poles for hiking. :)

Anne Foster Day - Elvin, his name is Daingerfield Ashton. I'm friends with him on FB. Known him forever. He taught Art at Spartanburg Day School for years. He posted about the snake on his page last night.

*(At this point, I contact my daughter who went to school at SDS and she remembers that he taught her and her friend Dana there.)

Susan Dore Kocher -  What an awesome stage name!  

Dana Orchoff Gencarelli - Yep, it definitely looks like Mr. Ashton from SDS! Too funny!

Elvin Clark - Dangerfield Ashton. I want to change my name.

Anne Foster Day - His personality matches his name. You need to have the chance to really talk with him.

Elvin Clark - I am now totally convinced of the power of Facebook.

Dana Orchoff Gencarelli - Dangerfield Ashton is not a man to be trifled with, in my experience! Once in 7th grade he actually managed to convince me that my purple LA Gear tennis shoes might actually be green when no one was looking.

Susan Dore Kocher - I think when Dangerfield gets introduced to his adoring audience in this made for TV movie he should have an Australian accent

Elvin Clark - and a hat.

Jacquie Ziller - That was across the street from my house!! Roy was there and told me. I am glad someone caught it before it crossed the road! So why did the rattlesnake cross the road? :) almost

Steve Carlisle - About 45 minutes later he Green River BarBQue was robbed by a man with a rattlesnake. Police are still looking for his accomplice

*(The instigator joins the fray.)

Daingerfield Ashton - dayum! I am soooo busted!

Daingerfield Ashton - but all I got was a BBQ plate and some ribs .....

Daingerfield Ashton - they said they didn't BBQ rattlers so I let him go .....

Rebecca Davis - Too funny. Where else but here would you post this story and less than an hour later have his name, work history and a new friend with a cool name and hobby.

Wally Hughes - Had to look.....people who inspire Daingerfield are Charles Manson and Osama Bin Laden. Under Activities and Interests-BACON!  One interesting person.

Susan Dore Kocher - ‎...as he dug into the BBQ with his ski pole... no that doesn't work.

Daingerfield Ashton - I am also inspired by Dick Cheney!

Anne Foster Day - Don't know many people who don't love Daingerfield Ashton!!

Wendy Reid O'Neal  - Mr Ashton, your legacy continues from one generation to the next! I have known you since I was 3.5 yrs and your crazy stories! Now, my children are glued to the Mac Computer as I read your FB stories to them!! My 2 year old is in speech therapy right now but said "rattlesnake: this morning.

I heard from Mr. Ashton the next day.  The snake was released in the mountains unharmed.

The Rattlesnake Incident

On Monday evening last at about 7:30 pm, I set out in my truck to BiLo to buy kibbles for my dogs.  Along 108 between Tryon and Columbus, I come across a car stopped in my lane.  No one in the car but there is a man in front of the car who seems to be tending something in the road.

I leave my car and go out to play good Samaritan.  I find the gentlemen attempting to capture a snake with what looked to be a ski pole.  My first thought was that a putter would have been the better choice of club but he seemed to know what he was doing.  I ask what kind of snake.  Rattlesnake, he replies calmly.  I quickly begin to rethink my samaritanship.

It wasn’t a large snake as frightening, horrific, venomous snakes go, maybe a couple of feet long.  I take a quick look at the tail portion and decide that it did indeed look rattleish although not having any basis of comparison other more than a few Western movies seen in my youth.

The gentleman tosses me a plastic bag (I assume he keeps one handy for just such occasions) and asks me if I can hold it open.  I do so.  He then somehow manages to pin the snake with the ski pole, grabs the snake just behind the head, lifts him up and drops him in the bag.  Mercifully, as I’m standing there wondering what I’m supposed to do with a bag full of rattlesnake, he snatches the bag from my hand.  Very Indiana Jones like although Jones did not like snakes.  But I digress.

He thanks me.  I thank him.  As I reach my truck, I remember I have a camera and I take a quick picture of the gentleman and his capture.  He puts the bag in the backseat of his car and we go on our respective ways.

I wish I had had the presence of mind to ask him his name and what he was going to do with the snake.  I would love to write the story. It seemed evident to me that he wanted no harm to come to the creature.  I applaud his service.  If the gentleman sees this and would like to contact me, I would very much enjoy the update.  

I bought kibbles.

Through the power of Facebook, this gentleman to believed to be one Daingerfield Ashton. For any aspiring actors reading this, that would be one of the greatest stage names ever conceived.

Ironically, he taught my kids art at Spartanburg Day School.  I'm still trying to find out what he does with rattlesnakes.

Joe Paterno’s legacy has crashed in disgrace.  What should be his legacy is that he was a great man disgraced by loyalty.

How would any of us feel if a friend who you’ve known for 50 years was accused of being a pedophile?  Maybe the reports you’ve heard are only of the friend showering with young boys.  Yes, this shows inappropriate behavior beyond belief but he’s still your friend.

What would you do?

Would you do nothing?

At the very least, would you not talk to the friend.  Tell him the behavior is inappropriate.  Would you do nothing?

One of the great teachings of football is loyalty.  And everyone associated with a football team in whatever capacity is viewed as family.  It is an admirable trait and an admirable sport.

But if an adult member of your family is known to be showering with young boys and rumors allude to more, would you not talk to the friend?

Even if you are not the most powerful figure in your state, your town, your community -- WOULD YOU DO NOTHING!

Chances are that Joe Paterno never believed the allegations against Jerry Sandusky,  never believed them because he was a friend.  After all, how could a friend do such a thing?

The only action Joe Paterno took was to not let anything be done.  He did report to his “superiors” but then told his “superiors” not do pursue the matter. “All that is necessary for evil to triumph if for good men to do nothing.”

I feel for the Paterno family.  With JoPa’s death, they are left suffering the both his death and the dismantling of his memory.  For all the good he did, what he will be remembered for is what he did not do.  Is it fair?  No.  But the lifelong effects of Sandusky's victims is also not fair. 

Joe Paterno obviously did a tremendous amount of good for his school, his state and his profession.  Unfortunately, all the good will be lost because because what he did not do.  In this case, evil has triumphed over good.

“All that is necessary for evil to triumph if for good men to do nothing.” – Edmund Burke

Never was this statement more true. 

Obituary for Meg

Meg Clark, beloved family member and friend, died May 6, 2007 after a sudden and terrible illness.  Her suffering was relieved by a procedure too humane for humans.  She passed gently and quietly, as she led her life, looking into the eyes of those who loved her and those whom she loved.

Also known as Meggie, Meggers, Megala and Pretty Girl, she brought balance and grace to her family for 11½ years.   She will be remembered for her intelligence, beauty, affection, long-suffering patience and an occasional desire to become a 75 pound lapdog.   

She loved to dance.

She was preceded in death by her beloved friend and mentor Sam Clark, the golden retriever who raised this sweet brindle boxer/lab. 

On her first night at home as a 9 week old puppy, she was sequestered to the kitchen for obvious reasons.  The exit from the kitchen was blocked by an overturned piano bench.  After a few minutes of listening to some sad cries, the family emerged to find Sam looking at the pup over the bench.

When asked, “Would you mind, kiddo?” the bench was moved, Sam walked into the kitchen and lay down on the floor.  Meg snuggled up next to her new big brother and went to sleep.  They slept that way every night until she was too big to make the spooning practical.  She never cried again.

Surviving her were her two red-coated brothers who harassed her mercilessly and who miss her terribly.

 

She will also be remembered for her tail which matched a nightstick in both texture and, occasionally, ferocity.  For years and including the last day of her life, the first conscious sound that the family heard was the gentle thump of her tail signaling that a new day had dawned and life was good.

Her ashes were buried on the family property next to her Sam as both would have wanted.  In her honor, once the proper type is found, a tree will be planted on the Clark property.  Preferably one that thumps.

The Evil

Some boys are born evil.  Some have evil thrust upon them.

In an early post, I alluded to a “(save one)” incident.  This was me at my absolute worst.

I can’t remember how old I was exactly.  And as with most evil, it came as a result of boredom and obsession with a new toy. 

My toy of obsession was not actually a toy but a compass.  Not the directional finder tool but that thing you could draw circles with that all school kids used to carry around in their school bags.  It held a pencil in one of its arms and a sharp pointed spike on the other.  I doubt it’s used in schools any longer as it would probably be categorized as a weapon.

I can remember spending inordinate amount of time drawing circles and then drawing circles within circles, connecting circles with circles of various sizes.  For some reason the symmetry just fascinated me.

Eventually, I must have filled all the available paper with circles and went on find other worlds to circle.  At some point, I found myself sitting on the floor next to our big, black, upright piano in the room we called the living room (even though we spent very little time there).

I never knew why we had a big, black, upright piano in our living room.  I think I saw Mom sit down at it maybe twice in 18 years and play a little.  The piano had one key in the center that was completely dead and it laid there like a flat tire for eternity.  It was basically a piece of furniture that covered a lot of wall space.

So there we were; a stately, ancient, black piece of furniture and a bored male child with essentially a knife in his hand.

I don’t remember what I was carving into the side of the piano or how long I was carving into the side of the piano before I finally realized that I WAS CARVING INTO THE SIDE OF THE PIANO.  I still rate that moment in the top 3 panic attacks of my life.  I knew I was in deep shit.  I even thought for a while that at that moment I had coined the word “shit”.

My life passed before my eyes.  It didn’t take long.

As bad as this moment was – we haven’t gotten to the evil part yet.

Here’s the evil part.

I decided, for some inexplicable reason, that my only hope for survival was to somehow cast doubt on my own guilt by implicated other possible suspects.  I then proceeded to carve my sister’s name into the piano.  JUDY

Needless to say, this ploy failed miserably.  It also had an added undesirable effect.  My initial fear had been of what my mother was going to do to me.  That was quickly superseded by the fear of what my sister was going to do to me.  I’ve never seen anyone, before or since, look that angry.

I don’t actually know what was done to me.  The brain fortunately blocks out excessive trauma.

After 20 years or so my sister eventually forgave me;  she hasn’t  forgotten.

The one solace I take from this experience is that even though I did, indeed, commit evil; I wasn’t very good at it.

For the record, I was not an evil child.  At least I don’t think so.  I say this because I do not remember (save one) any of the crimes although I have vivid memories of the punishments.

Please keep in mind that this was when corporal punishment was still in vogue and, in fact, expected by both perpetrators and corrections officials.  In today’s world I could have sued Mom for everything she had. 

These occasional “corrections” took place when I was a wee lad probably before I was 6 years of age (save one).  I say this because there were certain size restrictions; meaning that I remember trying to hide in small places.

I knew whenever I had crossed that line from precocious to criminal because Mom’s face had a tell.  Mom could get mad and her face would turn red but even then she could still be calmed down by some random act of cuteness or contrition.  If, however, she put her tongue in her cheek so that her face pushed out on one side – the end was near.

Three things you must know.  First, Mom did not paddle.  She did not rap knuckles.  She preferred the switch.  For those who may not know, switches are very young, thin, flexible branches that grow from the base of a tree that if allowed to grow to maturity would eventually create a new, tall, strong base adding itself to the existing tree.  At the switch stage however, these branches are basically small organic bullwhips and were most effective when used on the legs.

There was a tree of at the edge of the driveway whose purpose in life was to produce these weapons.  Every year it would generate a new batch of high quality, skin peeling switches that were the envy of the neighborhood parents.  Mom could have made a fortune by starting a cottage industry.

Second, the rear part of our house was not enclosed but was propped up on cinder blocks and open on two sides.  Too small for parents, but large enough for a kid.

Thirdly, I was always wearing shorts so that my legs were always bare.

From the parent point of view, the switch technique eliminated the immediacy of punishment because you had to get a small knife or scissors, leave the house, walk to the tree, assess the pros and cons of each potential tool, cut it and then return to the victim.

From the child point of view, the switch technique heightened the terror and dread factor exponentially,  heightened it to the point of desperation.  So at least few times, I chose to use this delay to crawl under the house.  I’m not sure how long I thought I could hide but terror does things to a boy.

So there we would be, the plot of infinite action movies.  The outmanned hero, trying desperately to escape after striking a blow for democracy at the enemy versus the superior equipped enemy stalking his prey unforgivingly.

Mom was good.  Real good.  She learned very quickly that I was more of afraid of the things that might be under the house than I was of taking a switching – although the two were very close.  She would walk around so that all I could see of her was from her calves down and tell me about all the rats and snakes and crawly things that lived under the house and the terrible things they did to young boys.

My next tactic would inevitably be to crawl out from under the house and run.  This proved to be humiliating as well as terrifying because she would catch me.  She was faster than she looked in those days.

As I grew certain things conspired to eliminate this correction practice.

1)      I became a better kid.  Questionable but possible.

2)      I started school and started always wearing blue jeans.  I don’t think I wore another pair of shorts until I was in high school.

3)      When I was old enough to mow the law, the first thing I would do is cut down the switches around that tree.

4)      I could finally out run my mother.

Rinaldi Street (or Renaldi if you prefer)

The house(s) and yard where I grew up in Elizabethtown no longer exist.  In 1942, Ernest and Maxine Clark bought two lots on Rinaldi (alternately spelled Renaldi) Street from Nobie Thompson. 

In 1979, the house that I remember was not destroyed but moved to somewhere near Dublin.  This is a fact had no emotional impact on me at the time but which now gives me some sadness.

The yard is now a set of mini warehouses for rent which can be found on Google Earth. I can’t tell you the address.  I suppose it had one officially but I never knew it.  As far as we were concerned, our address was P.O. Box 61 and the post office was only a couple of long blocks away.

The street was most likely named for a William S. Rinaldi who was a justice of the peace in the mid 1800.  Judging by the street given his name, he was a competent if not remarkable public servant.

Like many things concerning my family’s history, there are holes in the information that makes things a little unclear.  As you face the property from the street, a house was built on the right lot a few paces from the street.  It burned, at least partially, when I was an infant and all that remained from that time on was a set of concrete steps leading nowhere but providing a wonderful jumping off place for youthful energy.  There are pictures of us in that house but neither Judy nor I have any memory of it.

Another house was built on the edge of the lot to the left about 20 yards in.  This is the house that I remember. Dad built it. I don’t know if this house was in the process of being built when the other burned or started afterwards.

It was a white clapboard house that perpetually looked like it needed painting possibly because it did.  The initial structure was basically square and my father added the undamaged rear portion of the burned house to extend the length and provide a rear porch.

Behind the house was a long three line clothesline where my mother spent a good deal of her time over the years.  At the left rear corner of the property, Tony Inman and I built a quasi-treehouse from which we would swing Tarzan style over the rear fence and back again.

A straight driveway lead from the street by the side of the house past the pecan, walnut and chinaberry trees into a tin-roofed open shed.  The shed was about the size of a garage.  While my father was alive we used the shed for cookouts and making vanilla ice cream in a hand-cranked churn on Saturday evenings.

Next to the shed, Dad built a playhouse for Judy and me.  The right half of the playhouse was a room complete with door and floor.  The windows were screened. The left half was a large sandbox.  Sometime in my youth, I dug a tunnel from the sandbox underneath the room and thus escaped from the Germans.

Behind the sandbox and into the right corner of the property there was, for many years, a sizeable garden.  Rumor has it that my grandmother told my mother that babies were found in cabbage leaves;  a rumor which might help explain my late arrival but there is no truth to the speculation that that was the last year we had a garden.

The right edge of the property had a second straight driveway that lead to the garage where my father would park his Chevrolet.  After his death, we stored the leftover lumber brought from his shop on Ice Plant Road.  The black Chevrolet then took up rather permanent residence in the shed as none of us could drive it.  Judy was a year away from getting her license and my mother never drove in her life.

Those concrete steps I mentioned stood in memorial.  Eventually, a mobile home, where my grandmother Steenie was to live, was moved onto the property and attached to the plumbing hook up left by the house that burned.  Steenie lived alone essentially because no one could live with her.

What was left behind Steenie’s trailer was a large(ish) playground where I and other the neighborhood kids would play whatever sport was in season year round.  In the summer our houses were used for sleeping, eating, using the bathroom and virtually nothing else and sometimes not even the bathroom requirements.  And shoes were irrelevant.

There was a large walnut tree beside the driveway near the house which was generous enough to provide a perfect limb for a swing.  My father attached a heavy chain loop and fashioned a seat with notches cut on either side to hold its place in the chain.  I once built a parachute for myself out of cloth and string.  I attached it to myself somehow and tested it by swinging as high as I could and jumping out.  Results were not encouraging.

We had a basketball goal whose rim (despite my best efforts) maintained a rakish angle to the right.  I spent much of my teenage years negotiating its eccentricities.  To this day I tend to see everything just a little tilted.