Attic Surprise

As our society becomes further and further removed from agriculture, we tend to think “farms are farms.” That is to say, we are prone to believe that one farm is pretty much the same as the next—I assure you that nothing could be further from the truth.

I grew up on a cattle farm.

On a cattle farm there is always something that needs doing: Gathering hay in the brutal heat of the summer, then distributing those same bales before school each morning the following winter, branding cattle, vaccinating calves, “fixing” male calves, fixing fences, bush-hogging the pastures in the summer, and on and on…

Did I mention fixing fences?

As a teenager I became convinced that our cattle had some secret insight into my social calendar. Having this insight, they would choose the most inopportune, disruptive time to find a hole in the fence, and then begin their sampling of the proverbial “greener grass.” A cow out on the road invariably forced me to to cancel whatever I had planned, rustle the bovinian escapee back into the pasture, go collect the necessary fence fixing tools, and (finally) repair the broken fence.

It never ended…

When I graduated high school, my dad sold every head of cattle we owned. Despite the fact that cattle prices at that time happened to be at an all-time high, I remain convinced that he was motivated primarily by the anticipated loss of his free labor force—me.

On a somewhat related note, our family also purchased its first riding lawn mower at this time. I’ve always contended that, even though the mower was likely purchased with the proceeds from the aforementioned cattle sale, the transition from push mower to riding mower was motivated primarily by the same anticipated free labor loss as the cattle sale.

As I neared the end of my freshman year at college I approached Wiley Hatcher, a prominent local farmer, businessman, and citizen, in search of a summer job. In addition to his local farming activities, Mr. Hatcher owned a sizable land surveying and mapping company. Since he had survey crews covering much of the U.S. the big question in my mind when I applied was, “If I get this job, I wonder where I will spend this summer? Colorado?, Texas?, North Carolina?, Utah?”

Mr. Hatcher surprised me by offering me a job—on his farm. Oh well, it looked like my summer would be spent right here in Port Gibson, Mississippi.

I reported to my new job thinking, “I grew up on a farm. Surely I know what I need to know to be a successful farm worker.”

Wrong!

Mr. Hatcher farmed nearly 3,000 acres of cotton, corn, and soybeans—a “dirt farm.” Almost nothing I learned on our family’s cattle farm prepared me for this, the very different world of row-cropping.

Our work days began at 7:00 a.m. and ended at dark—roughly 8:30 p.m. Each day in the field, lunch was delivered to us. We would step off the tractor, hopefully find a nearby shade tree, eat quickly, re-mount the tractor, and get back to work. The lunch menu was quite predictable: a quarter-inch slab of cotto salami served between two pieces of white bread, a ninety-degree-(hot)-bottle of Coke, and a honey-bun for dessert. Yum! I got home each night around 9:00 p.m., ate dinner, showered, then fell into bed. The next day we did it all over again—six and seven days a week.

Although the schedule was insanely demanding, my mother observed that she had never seen me happier.

About two weeks into the summer, friend and co-worker, Ross McGehee, and I decided to move into a vacant house near farm headquarters. While this initially sounded like a good idea, I quickly realized that I had grossly under-appreciated the value of a breakfast prepared for me each morning, a dinner prepared each night, clothes and sheets washed and waiting, groceries bought, etc. etc. etc.

One morning, during our first week in the house, one of us accidentally left the refrigerator door ajar. When we returned home that evening around 9:00 p.m. we were greeted by a refrigerator full of spoiled food—and ants.

Discouraging.

Soon after moving in we were awoken one night by a significant “thumping” sound, a strange noise, coming seemingly from our attic; the next night, we heard it again. On the third evening, before going to bed, we made sure we had a flashlight and a .22 rifle handy before going to sleep.

About 2:30 a.m. the sound woke us again. Ross grabbed the .22, I picked up the flashlight. We climbed the ladder leading to the attic, first Ross, then me. Using the flashlight we looked intently for what could possibly be making that strange sound. It didn’t take us long to notice the attic insulation moving slowly up and down about 12 feet away. What in the world? Tiptoeing from rafter to rafter Ross slowly approached the mysterious movement. As he reached the active area, he carefully lifted the insulation. I shined the flashlight on the space beneath the insulation.

Together, we saw it.

A large writhing pile of…snakes!

We were both shocked. I quickly descended the ladder. Uh, this left Ross alone—in the pitch dark—with the snakes. He hollered at me (understandably). I quickly recovered, re-climbed the ladder, and shined my flashlight in his direction. This enabled him to tiptoe his way back across the rafters, down the ladder, and out of the attic.

After a while our heart rates returned to normal and we were able to go back to sleep. A few days later I decided to move back in with my parents.

My decision to move back home was due solely to our taxing work schedule and the burden added by living on our own. To this day Ross enjoys attributing my departure to our unsettling late-night snake encounter.