trash day.

Tuesday is Trash Day.

I dislike Trash Day.

(Just as I dislike putting air in my tires and gas in the tank of my car.)

I set an alarm on my phone to remind me that the trash needs to be down by the mailbox before 7 a.m. Wednesday morning.

Which means I should haul it down the driveway Tuesday night.

And some days the kids and I remember to do just that.

(And some days angels and leprachauns and unicorns apparently drag it down without my knowledge.  I rejoice loudly on those days.)

But then there are these other days.

Days like this:

“You guys!  It’s after 8 p.m.!  It’s dark outside already!  It’s Trash Day.  Boo!”

The kids are settled in for the night, cozying up in the living room, feet propped up, library book bounty on their laps.

Big sigh from me.  “Who wants to walk with Mommy down to the end of the driveway to take out the trash?”

And I just get the one response.

“Me.  I’ll go with you Mommy,” my charming eldest male child says.

 

He meets me at the door, his boots on and my boots in his hand, a thoughtful gesture I sincerely appreciate.

He’s got the flashlight and his arm on mine and he says, “We’ll have the whole way back up the driveway just to talk.”

Okay, well, when your ten-year-old says that you have to realize Trash Day has its upside too.

Bergen and I walk about a fourth of the way down the driveway.

My right foot nears the ground for my next step and some sort of instinct (ninja-like, I’m sure) pulls me back and I grab the flashlight from Berg’s hand and shine it right down a step in front of me.

It is so camouflaged that I almost miss it.

A copperhead.

Right there.  Middle of the driveway.  A step away.

I recoil and hustle back.  The snake coils and creeps me out.

I keep the light focused in on the enemy and Bergen runs off to find a shovel or a hoe or a something.

He comes back with some weird garden tool that only turns up the ground and whose ends are so small and sharp that I could never kill a snake with it.

(Also.  It should be noted here that I have never actually used any tool, appropriate or not, to kill a snake.  I am not a snake killer.  I am a snake avoider.  I am a go-tell-someone-else-to-kill-this-snake kind of person.)

I hand the tool to Berg and send him back to find something else.

He brings a machete.

Don’t we own a hoe or something on any kind of a long and extended pole of some sort??

I boldly reach down and start chopping away at the earth and the snake and the air.  (I also scream while I am doing this.)

I think I hit the snake but I clearly have not killed him as he has the energy and ability to coil himself up again.

Bergen and I discuss snake skills.

“How far can a snake jump, son?”

“Snakes don’t jump, Mom.”

“What?  Sure they do.  They strike people.”

“That’s not jumping.  That’s coiling and using their muscles to launch themselves.  I read it in a book.”

“Okay.  How long can a snake launch himself?”

“Half his body length.”

“Half?  Are you making that up?”

“I don’t think so.”

And suddenly I’m pretty certain I cannot make myself strike this lame, dull machete at this super creepy creature any longer.

“I wish we had a mongoose,” my son says.

“I wish I had a hoe.”

“Mom, let’s just go inside.  Leave the trash for another day.  Next week.”

“I don’t want to son.  It’ll be too full.  We’ve got to get it down there tonight.”

“It won’t be full.  I hardy even stuffed it down this week.  There’s plenty of room.  I can’t allow you to use the machete again, Mom.  I’ll have to stop you.”

“Huh?”

Enter Digory, the super hero dog.

He sniffs at the coiled up creepy copperhead.

And Bergen and I watch as Digory stalks the snake and grabs him by the back end, shakes the snake, drops the snake.  The snake coils up and they do the dance all over again.  In the dog’s mouth.  Hard shaking.  Snake slithering away.  Again in the mouth.  Again with the shaking.

Until the snake appears still.  Dead.  But maybe there’s some movement. Digory is shaking his head and staring at the ground and we just aren’t sure what really happened.

Both Bergen and I just want to go back inside.  

The rest of the driveway seems fraught with dark and potential snakes and who knows what else.

“Mommy, let’s make Digory a peanut butter sandwich to say thank you.”

“Yes, son.  And let’s leave that trash can right here till morning.”

We both turn, hold hands and run as fast as we can through the dark back to the house.

And the trash can is in the center of the driveway still and the dog is the hero and I think I left the dull machete on top of the trash can but I don’t even remember right now.

Trash Day!