Grandma and the Rattlesnake
This is as good a story as any to tell on the occasion of my grandmother's 90th birthday. There are other facts that demonstrate the awesomeness of grandma, but I suppose they're fairly commonplace when you think about it. Longevity being what it is today, someone deciding to retire at 89 is great and impressive and all, no question. But how many of those folks have a rattlesnake story? I didn't think so. A good rattlesnake story sets one apart.

So, then. It's a story that improves as I've gotten older, not due to embellishment, but because of a greater understanding of social roles and expectations back then.

Grandma had these rattlesnake rattles from her youth growing up in a sod house on the South Dakota prairie. Despite the handling by an army of kids and grandkids, and trips to show and tell, they're still around, and in good shape. The first version of the story you hear as a little kid is the most basic. Maybe you're told more, but the bare fact is all that you retain:

"Grandma killed a rattlesnake when she was a little girl."

oooh, cool, we thought.

My uncle's kids are all about 10-15 years younger than me. When they heard the story -- from my mom-- it had taken a dramatic twist. Grandma killed the rattlesnake, my mom said, because it was threatening her younger brother Fred.

WOW. So suddenly the tale of pioneer life has an element of heroism! If something had gone wrong that day on the prairie, none of us would be around, but grandma's courageous actions prevailed. Except...

"MARY! Who told you that? That's not what happened at all!"

To this day, Mom's not sure how she added that to the story, but Grandma set her straight. "Fred wasn't even around! The older boys all had rattles and I wanted some too. I knew where the snake was, and that it'd be vulnerable when it was uncoiled. I killed the snake just to get the rattles."

Okay. Valor's out the window, but it's replaced with sheer badassery that's just incongruous with this sweet, kind woman, whom I've heard say "crap" once. If my cousins are hearing this at age 6 or 7, then I'm an attitude-bomb of 16 or 17, and what I'm hearing in my head is suddenly punk as hell. I know what I want and I know how to get it. I'ma kill this snake for the damn rattles!

So the kids grow up and eventually there are great grandkids old enough to hear about the rattles. Last year we came up for her birthday, and stayed at her place. Over breakfast before we took off, I got her telling some of the family stories, including the snake.

"It was such a stupid thing to do, I know. I knew the bush where the snake was, so I tied my horse a ways away, and got a big stick. I got it to strike, and then hit it to death before it coiled up again."

But then comes the part you don't think about growing up in the 1970s and later.

"They were trying to raise me as a lady. Whenever I was inside from riding or doing chores, I'd have to change back into a dress. Part of that was I wasn't allowed to have a knife. Ladies didn't carry knives. If I needed one for some task, I could borrow one from my grandpa or uncle, but I had to give it back. I had to rip the rattles off by hand."

***

Grandma said she wanted to visit the prairie again this year. The family took her a couple of years ago. This time Kirsti and I are coming along as well. Additionally, we're hitting all the touristy stuff you're supposed to do in South Dakota. And snakes: you are on notice; our protector will be with us.