For the last two nights, my four-year-old son, Josiah, has woke up crying or otherwise agitated because “there are snakes under my pillow!” Understand that his “room” is actually a 5 x 6 foot area that’s attached to our bedroom. It’s like a large walk-in closet really. My point is that if the snakes where really in his room, they’d have also been in ours.
And that’s a problem. Because I’m terrified of snakes. I’m talking the I’d-trample-an-elderly-person-to-get-away-from-the-slimy-devils kind of fear. When I worked for the city of Florence, Kansas a long time ago, one of my jobs was to be the cemetery caretaker. (The real term was “sexton” but I can’t say that with a straight face. But I digress). Anyway, one time I was weed-eating around some stones and hit a snake. The snake landed on my shoe. To this day I have no idea where the weed-eater landed or how I made it back to town.
Now, back to my upset toddler: he claimed there were snakes in his room…directly under his pillow. So I asked his mother if she was going to just lay there or go do something about it. Here’s another difference between me and my wife: she’s not a writer…I am. Which means that while she’s going to comfort our snake-threatened youngin’, my writer’s brain was asking, “What if?”
I mean, we were up. I might as well be using the time wisely. I don’t know if it will ever work it’s way into a story, but time will tell. And if there ever are real snakes in our room, I’ll be writing that story from the camper.
I’m just sayin’.