The Lush Life


The Lush LifeThe Lush Life, Volume 8

(Now Available on Amazon)

After selling their art gallery to someone else, Clay’s friends, Alicia and Chris Worth, decided to take their postponed trip to Europe for a month to collect some personal art. Clay promised them I’d housesit for them while he took on another case. They were offering me a cash bonus and their lush life.

The question is would I survive it?

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An Interview With Samantha

An Interview With Samantha: Looking Back At Vol.1 The Puzzle

It’s FREE on Amazon

The PuzzleFirst thing I noticed: my interviewer appeared nervous. Her foot was tapping a mile a minute on the floor, as she glanced down to reread from her notepad resting on her lap. Why the unease? I was the one being scrutinized here. Or did she think she was? Was she worried I was analyzing her? After several mysteries under my belt, I noticed I have that effect on people. She did admit it was her first interview with an author of my stature.

My stature? I had to laugh at that. No pretention here.  

I did just fine as an author. I had a great agent, terrific editor and a reliable publisher. I kept writing for my enjoyment and my fans. They loved my mysteries and blog/posts, leaving enthusiastic comments on my website:

With that in mind, I said, “I’m ready when you are.”

She gave me an eager smile. “Why mysteries?”

So I explained about my husband, Stephen’s suspicious death, unanswered questions, doing my own investigation, how I couldn’t move on until I knew the why of it all…

“Was there any apprehension or reluctance about taking on that task by yourself and what you might uncover?”

“At first, yes, but then the more I dug into his past, the more I learned about myself, as well and our relationship. It was a learning curve I never would have experienced if I didn’t take a leap of faith about my own ability in solving it. I always took a backseat to my husband. With him gone I had no choice. It was enlightening to say the least.”

“What did you gain and come away with from that?”

“Self-respect and self-confidence.”

“Were you ever plagued with self-doubt at any time?”

I laughed. “Just about every time I bungled an interview or blew an opportunity when it fell in my lap.”

“What did you lose from that experience?”

I smiled. “I lost my helpless attitude.”

“What did you gain from that experience?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Insane and crazy friends I cherish.”

“I noticed you sit back, listen and watch people.”

“I’m always looking for dialogue, deceit and evasion.”

“So when you’re solving a mystery, that helps?”

“Absolutely. You’d be surprised how people trip up.”

“In what way?”

“Can’t keep their lies straight, get overconfident…”

“Like you repeat in your Samantha Jamison mystery series.”

“Exactly. I’m always watching how people react.”

“To what?”

“When I push the parameters of their safety zone.”

She laughed. “And do you have one of your own?”

“I have a line in the sand that gets redrawn daily.”

“Who’s shocked most at the end? You? Your suspect?”

This time I laughed. “My readers!”

Okay, so I lied. Even I’m shocked sometimes… 



P.S. I do hope you will try my Samantha Jamison Mystery Series Vols. 1-8 & Memoir!

Chase your dreams & remember, everyday is a blessing.

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The Diary

peggy I remember getting my first diary. It was one with a lock and key. This was an event. But what would I write? It didn’t come with a set of instructions. There had to be some magical secret because my sister treated hers like gold. She was an older sister: older enough in years for me to be constantly in her hair. But I was desperate to start writing and had to know that secret. I had no choice but to start spying.

We had separate rooms. She needed her privacy. After all, a little sister can be such a pest. At first I tried the glass-against-the-wall trick. I listened and listened. It was not a bright idea. I could hear her conversations with her friends, but I couldn’t hear the locking of the diary and the hiding place she placed it when she was alone.

I tried the friendly approach. Why not drop in on her and try to borrow things to catch her writing in her diary. Maybe I could accidentally read a page. No such luck. Have you every tried to borrow something from an older sibling?

“Oh, you can’t have this, it might break.”

“You’ll stain that!”

“What would you need this for? Forget it!”

Bottom line: I was not gaining entry into her domain.

She was much too clever to leave her diary around out in the open. I never got the chance to read any of her writing.  It must be top-secret what you wrote in it. Was there a special time diaries were opened? This was all new to me.

I scratched plan A and went with plan B: the surprise approach.

Unannounced I could burst into my sister’s room and surprise her. The first time I pulled that stunt I was yelled at and had the door slammed in my face with her yelling something about having her privacy invaded. The second time she did the body-block-in-the-doorway thing then yelled, “Mom! Get this pest away from my room! I have to have my privacy!”

Once again, I didn’t get the chance to visually scan her room for that mystical diary. I wondered if all this frustration on my part would stunt my growth. I gave it another try, still hopeful for a surprise approach. I’d just leap at the door, open it and fall into her room. There was just one flaw. A lock was on the door.

This caper was going to be a hard nut to crack. I could have sworn I heard snickers on the other side of the door after I hit it and fell to floor in the hall.

I had to be very cunning about this. I had no choice. I had two creative and resourceful older sisters as role models. I always watched, listened and learned.

I thus proceeded to plan C.

When my father added onto the second floor our two bedrooms, we ended up sharing one good-sized heater vent, which led to both of our rooms. It was hollow inside except for the upright vent covers that closed the openings into our rooms. With a little lever you could open or close the vent if you wanted more or less heat. Well, he, he, he, I figured how to work mine loose. It was about 12” by 8”.

I had to do this when my sister was out because I had been given strict orders from my mother not to trespass. But she never mentioned anything about not looking. I was now entering desperate territory, possessed with seeing that diary.

I had to say great things in mine. I needed examples! Besides, I might pick up some great advice. I thought this would be a snap. Was I wrong! My sister didn’t follow any kind of schedule for writing. I would make noise at my desk in my room so she would think I was doing homework or writing. I was craning my neck on the floor for days at odd hours. For a little kid, I was showing great perseverance, but so far receiving nothing but a stiff neck for it. Then finally jackpot! She was fishing for something and came up with a key. My heart raced with excitement. Then she came up with “the book”. It was her famed diary! I couldn’t believe it! Pay dirt at last!

She began writing with a fury, locked it then put it away.

So that was where she hid it….

That sister of mine was very wily indeed. Where you ask? Now I do have some family ethics. Besides, it was a great hiding spot and I might ruin it for someone else with the same idea. Now that the finding of the diary and key was finally solved, getting into her room was another matter. Remember the locked door?

Not long after the mystery was solved, I was running up the stairs after school to put my books in my room. I had to pass my sister’s door at the top of the stairs and then walk down the hall to my room. I had made a game of it. Every time I passed her door, I would jiggle it to keep her on her toes. It became a habit and, as usual, I did it again, but this time it was unlocked! Miracles do happen!

Should I, or shouldn’t I? My sister wasn’t home yet and my mother was baking…

Hmm…. My eyes glazed over with lust for that book. I rationalized: What’s a young sister for?  I had inherited the name pest anyway. I had to make it quick. But then I panicked. Should I put on gloves? Fingerprints! I didn’t trust my sister. She probably dusted her room for them everyday.

Looking back at this story now, I was probably reading way too many mysteries…

I was pressed for time and couldn’t wait any longer. I scrambled for the key, grabbed the book then put the key in, unlocked it and slowly opened it.  What a moment! Weeks of spying, plotting and planning and now the reward!

I paused, wondering if there was some kind of ritual as a sister I should be following?

I turned to the first page and there it was! I had to be quick about this and began reading, skipped some pages then read then skipped then read. The whole thing took maybe five minutes. It was mostly conversations about what she did everyday and what she’d like to do. Oh, there was some boy stuff in there, but it was mostly what she talked about that happened everyday.

…That was it?

This was no big deal and no mystery after all. You merely talked to the diary: like it was a friend. Even I could do that. And what was so great about that was your diary never got tired of listening.

And that’s how I hope my readers feel about my Samantha Jamison Mystery Series. I hope they never get tired of looking over my shoulder and listening like a friend to how I unravel those mysteries with my guaranteed surprise endings.

Chase your dreams, everyday is a blessing!

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Father, A Portrait

peggyFather. A word so easily said and yet, “Can one really fathom the meaning of such a powerful word?” To each one there is a different meaning, I guess. To me? It’s something that goes very deep, embedded in the depth’s of my heart, and the very root of my being.

When he died, I lost a father, mentor, best friend and confidant that was irreplacable.

I shall only try to paint you a part of this canvas, for that’s all I can do. It’s the part that belongs to me, the part that is still with me everyday. I don’t claim to know the whole person, for that’s impossible, but only my corner. I step back from my canvas and see more and more, for as I grow older, its meaning and depth increases in value. Worthless to many, I guess, priceless to me as one of his children.

His wisdom and gentle ways spread their seeds and were sown. I was so young to see him almost leave, (he had a heart attack when I was 5, but he made it through). So, to this day, I am still understanding the depths of that moment, like it was yesterday. Everyday since then was a gift that held meaning that I’ll never forget and paid close attention to. His understanding patience was constantly tested by my siblings and me. Yet he always seemed to have the time to answer any question no matter how unimportant, to him perhaps, but very important to the one asking. I guess it was his being there that counted so much to us. How many times I knocked those papers from his hands, breathless with something more important, or so he made me feel at the time.

What a test of patience I was, but never managed to ruffle those feathers of his. They were kept in control. He had such a strength and feeling for nature, a love of poetry, deep sense of awareness for people. He was a quiet man, deep in thought and was there for me when I needed him.

He calmed stormy waters with his presence and gentle reserve. What memories I have and cherish in my mind and retrieve from time to time: one of the many moments that each stroke of this brush represents. He was always looking off to the distance, thinking, and asking so little of life, but I feel he received so much in return: love, admiration and respect. He left an indelable mark on me that was so complex.

I’m still unwinding the many lines of which I seem to understand more and more as I grow as a person. Like a tangled fishing line, it must be done with steady, patient hands. Every time one is set free, there is a new understanding and meaning that I’ve never seen before. LIfe was precious to this man, not to be dealt with lightly, but gingerly, not to be lost through open hands, but strained finely for close inspection for each minute grain. Each more valuable than the next. He treasured every moment of his life: good or bad with lessons to be learned from them, passing them on to his children.

He also passed this on to his grandchildren and I saw me all over again in their eager eyes. Grandpa knew. Still, he patiently answered, understood, listened and advised. Like a sponge, they absorbed him through their every pore: them wanting, him giving freely.

I remember him nurturing and tending his irises, grapevines, and fruit trees when he wasn’t working. My father always had a book in his hand, whether it was historical, biographical, or a scientific journal while I sat in his lap pretending I was reading it too. He would often read three books, alternating from one to the other. Love for the written word was passed from father, to daughter, to my three children.

Such a quiet man. Ah, but underneath was an earthshattering greatness. I know. I’ve felt the vibrations. I am one of the lucky few…

Chase your dreams, and remember everyday is a blessing!

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Mother, A Portrait

peggyMother. A word so easily taken for granted because mothers are always there to support, comfort and encourage. In a mother’s eyes, nothing is insurmountable. I now brush what I’ve seen, felt and experienced, framing it in love, compassion and faith, while others will fill their own with other shades and hues.

I step back from the canvas for perspective and close my eyes and my skin feels a warm caress of a priceless treasure. She has scooped me up and sat me next to her on the stool in front of the piano, my legs dangling, not quite able to touch the floor. She starts to play and we sing an oldie: “Daddy’s Little Girl” then she turns to me and smiles and starts to play and sing, “Peg Of My Heart.”

I now take a deep breath and swallow the lump in my throat and continue the strokes of my portrait of recollections. I am running in from school, breathless and excited. Wonderful aromas envelope me in a blanket of security and contentment, as I grab for the cookies hot from the oven. She hugs me and asks, “And how was your day.” It made me feel so important.

Her patience, I tested more than once, always tugging for her attention. “Mom guess what?” She had a way of doing ten things at once and carrying on simultaneous conversations with two individuals. I know, I’ve done it myself. I had a great teacher.

My canvas takes shape now and feels fluid as I continue to paint. I am newly married and my parents are visiting us. My husband and I have an argument and I am very upset and walk out. He comes and gets me and brings me back. My mother, who never interfered in our marriage, spoke up and defended my husband. Shocked, I said, “How can you take his side? I am your daughter!” She gave me a level gaze and said, “I know, but he is right. Now, kiss and make up.” I remember bursting out laughing. “I think you love him more than you love me!”

I lovingly fill in, for this portrait is important to me. I must get it just right. My first-born son arrives and my mother flies in, taking over the house like it was her own. My husband ate like a king. He came up to me one day and said, “What a woman! She never stops to rest! She is now up in the attic cleaning that out too!” One evening, my father calls up from their home far away, sheepishly asking her, “Honey, I have run out of your dinners in the freezer. When are you coming home?” Then he finally admits, he really called because he just plain missed her and she was on the next plane home in a heartbeat. She was always there for my other two sons too, demonstrating patience, tolerance and armfuls of love and kisses with lessons in compassion for others.

Her advice, sound and sought after, was given willingly and lovingly. Growing up, our house was always full of aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. My mother always had room at the table for one more. She reacted positively, always looking beyond a person’s imperfections and flaws, seeing only the goodness in them. She was unselfish and loving to a fault.

Well, I am finally finished. A tear slips and dampens my canvas and I still see…

            Her wiping of noses and rubbing of toeses

            Her kissing scraped knees and her violets and roses

            Her laughing and crying at jokes and sorrows

            Her hugging and talking of yesterdays and tomorrows

            I am trying to attain her strength and grace

            And aim to reach it at length, but must face

            The fact that sadly occurs to me each day

            I can’t. (She’s no longer here)

            “Hi Mom. It’s me. I just called to say……”

Peggy/Mother first & foremost, then Author Extraordanaire…chuckle.

Chase your dreams, everyday is a blessing.

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Heartless And Heartfelt

peggyWhen those two words come into play in the same story, and they have countless times over and over, as an author, I am intrigued by the individuals, whether real or imagined, who get caught up in it. I also know that it is simply a matter of degree, how far or how little they play out. In The Puzzle, Without Any Warning and 86 Avenue du Goulet, A Lethal Time, Mouth Of The Rat and Death Knell In The Alps, human interaction is a constant. And so this timeless subject brings to mind a true story I’d like to share with you about how someone felt after a heartless and heartfelt scene played out in the Frankfurt train station of all places.


What was her story?  Who was she waiting for? Why was she anxious?

As he approached the busy platform, but too far away to do anything, he watched helplessly as a young woman stood amid an enormous amount of luggage, eyes darting about, turning every few seconds, and then checking her watch nervously. That was when he saw another scene playing out to his shock that involved her. Some delinquents were slowly encompassing this young, unsuspecting woman in an arc and closing in on her very slowly, while they looked around to see if anyone was watching them and what they were about to do. The man held his breath as he picked up his pace. He had to do something before it was too late. He started calling and waving to her while he made sure his children were still safely by his side.

She whipped around at her name, and an enormous smile appeared on her face as her husband and three young boys came running up to her. The little boys wrapped their arms around their mother’s legs as their father hugged his wife and whispered something into her ear. She immediately glanced around them nervously. He had relayed what was about to happen. He squeezed her hand, reassuring her they were safe and together. He kept hugging her, and then reluctantly let her go. Smiling so as not to alarm their children at the near catastrophe, they grabbed their luggage as their train gave the signal for departure and hustled onto the train.

The young men were nowhere to be seen, having quickly dispersed and melted into the crowd. It was obvious that this was a loving family by the way they interacted with each other with truly heartfelt emotions. On the other hand, the young male youths were about to commit a heartless act. Were they going to accost her physically, or were they more interested in her luggage and what it might contain?

Heartfelt and heartless are two different words yet they coalesced perfectly into this simple, but true story. To this very day, I always look around me acutely aware of the potential for falling victim to that same situation as I remember that story. It also prompts a smile to recall the love and relief in my husband’s concerned eyes at how close we came to the unknown and the love of our boys for their mother as they clung to my legs at having been separated from me for a mere several minutes on that Frankfurt train platform. I am truly blessed.

Chase your dreams and remember, everyday is a blessing.

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Ah, Paris… We’re sleeping where?

peggyAt first, I was leery, but traveling through Europe by car had been fun.

My husband said, “We don’t need hotel reservations. We’ll be just fine.”

So far, it had worked, just fine. We had been traveling (in a small rental car) from Luxembourg, Belgium, making pit stops (we had 3 small children with us) so you get the picture. Trust me, we were all tired and slightly claustrophobic after three weeks, but were happy. We arrived in Paris (our last major stop) at noon that day to find a hotel quickly so we could sightsee the rest of the day. Easier said than done.

We went from hotel to hotel: no rooms. We started at the lower priced. Slowly, it went higher and higher. By 6PM, my husband would’ve settled for anything with a bed. No go. By 11PM, we were all dizzy, tired and getting slightly grouchy and about to give up when my husband came running back to our car saying he found a room. Cheering with what little energy we had left, we all dragged our luggage into the four-story quaint hotel. Since it was the rule of the hotel, my husband had to pay in advance. And since it was located in the center of Paris and located in a nice area, it was perfect. It was their last room available. Just one snag: the elevator was broken.

So my three sons and I carried up the lighter luggage. My husband would bring up the heaviest after he paid for our room. The stairs were narrow and winding. We were on the fourth floor. I think this was when I started to have some reservations of my own about this hotel, but I was exhausted and so were the kids. Out of breath, the four of us finally dropped our luggage just inside the door to our room.

As we ventured further in, my son said, “Mom, what are those things on the walls?”

I walked closer. Creatures, bugs …whatever! Ugh!

“Don’t move!” I ordered, as I walked over and peeked into the bathroom. There were bugs crawling all over the place: walls, tub, etc. I whipped around in time to catch my other son about to throw himself onto the bed. I yelled, “No!” He stepped back as I gingerly pulled the sheets back. …Bed bugs! “Out! Out!” I ordered, as I ushered the boys out of the room with their bags. “Now!”

Halfway down the stairs, we met my husband, (sweating profusely) lugging those heavier pieces up. I gave him the death glare. “Don’t even bother! We are not staying here. We are leaving. Now!”

His head whipped around, as I kept moving downward. “But I already paid….”

“Then get a refund! The room is infested with bugs crawling everywhere!”

“Are you sure?” he asked, glancing back hopefully toward what (was) our room.

I gave him the death glare again.

“How am I going to explain this to the manager? He doesn’t speak any English.”

My husband followed us, marching down to speak with the manager. What transpired was a lot of screaming in rapid English then French, while my husband shook his head no. (I must explain we didn’t know French back then. We hadn’t purchased our home in the south of France for several years yet.) But we were extremely fluent in English. So everything was lost in translation and the shaking of heads, as my husband went through the motions of moving his fingers like legs walking all over, trying to explain the bugs on the walls, tub, beds, etc. I stood there with our three sons while  my husband imitated his best French, saying, “infeeestaaasseeoon!”

Finally, the shocked manager got the message then began swearing passionately, like my husband had just insulted his mother. I covered my smallest’s ears as I marched them back outside to our parked car. After several minutes ticked by, my husband joined us, slamming the door closed. He then turned to me with a smile, holding up his refund.

I frowned after checking my watch. “Now, where? It’s after midnight.”

Exhausted, we circled Paris again, my husband stopped again, we waited again.

“That’s the last straw,” said my husband getting back into the car at the last stop.

“So, where to now?” I asked.

“I’m pulling into the first open parking space I can find, that’s what,” he announced.

And he did: directly under the Eiffel Tower. (This was pre 9/11) Then he turned the car lights off, saying, “Everyone get comfortable and get some sleep.”

I turned to him. “We’re sleeping in this economy car …here with three children?”

“How was I supposed to know there are three major conventions going on in Paris?”

After some moaning and groaning, everyone settled in. I was almost asleep when a small voice said from the backseat, “I have to go…real bad.”

My husband eyed me then we both looked over to that tower and back to each other.

“There are more shadows over there. Besides, he’s only 3 ½ yrs. old…”

Afterward, we settled down once again and covered ourselves with our jackets. We did see the gendarme go by a few times, but they never stopped, just smiled at us and kept going. I guess we weren’t the only one’s without a hotel room because no one bothered us all night.

Lesson learned: we never traveled again without reservations well in advance.

Now during the holidays when the whole family gathers around the table and old family stories are retold, the boys always ask, “Did you make hotel reservations, Dad?”

Now, he laughs, “Very funny…”

Did I ever tell you about the time I had to use a hotel toothbrush for the bottom of my children’s sneakers one trip? You see, they had this petting zoo… 

…And people ask where I get my inspiration and imagination from for my mysteries.


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Gaining Perspective

peggyAccording to the dictionary, perspective is the ability to perceive things in their actual comparative importance. And by looking at the past, you are thus able to gain perspective on the present. But what is the point of gaining an accurate point of view if you don’t have the ability to see it for what it is? If you get lost in the details, you then lose the sense of the larger whole. You are ignoring the obvious. You miss the key point. You have tunnel vision. Continue reading

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I Remember

peggy I remember when I was a little girl sitting on the piano bench next to my mother, my legs swinging freely because they were too short to reach the floor, enthralled, watching her hands float over the ivory keys, hearing her soprano voice singing along, and being transported to another place by the sheer pleasure of it.

I remember my father nurturing and tending his irises, grapevines, and fruit trees when he wasn’t working. I always preferred playing hide and seek with my friends in my yard because I would always sneak behind the grape trellis and pluck away at the grapes as fast as I could, hoping no one would find me. Afterward, I would sit in the crook of a fruit tree, my legs dangling, biting into a pear or peach, and then wipe my sticky hands on the grass and running to my next adventure.

I remember my mother cutting a small bouquet from her numerous rose bushes still wet from the morning dew and wrapping them with wax paper for me to take to my teacher.

I remember in the summer sitting on the back porch step with a freshly-plucked ripe tomato from my father’s garden, sprinkling salt on top, and taking that first bite as the juices squirted all over me and giggling from the wonderful taste.

I remember my mother never wrote down recipes, not even her favorites. So when I was older, I had her sit down and list the ingredients and instructions, which I promptly filed away, only to laugh years later when I was newly married and finally read them. It was trial and error on my husband’s palate, experimenting with her ‘touch of this and handful of that, with a pinch on top’ until I got it just right.

I remember reclining on the grass under the massive oak trees in our backyard daydreaming and reading my favorite book of the moment, being carried to another world, totally captivated, and thankful the library kept me well supplied.

I remember my father always had a book in his hand, too, whether it was historical, biographical, or a scientific journal while I sat in his lap pretending I was reading it, too. He would often read three books, alternating from one to the other. Love for the written word was passed from father, to daughter, to my three children.

I remember racing my bicycle down the hill of our street throwing my hands up in the air and feeling the wind rake it’s fingers through my hair, tossing it in all different directions. It was exciting to feel free and race against the wind. To this day, the small scars on my knees are a constant reminder of those thrill-seeking rides that occasionally ended with me spread-eagled on a neighbor’s lawn, laughing.

I remember the joy, the heartache, the laughter, the pain, and the numerous celebrations of the births and deaths of the lives of those I’ve loved and lost.

I remember the birth of my three sons like it was yesterday.

I remember reaching the goals I set for myself, and those I never met.

I try to remember to stay humble and gracious to those who believe in me.

It is important for me to remember, to look back, to remind myself never to forget what molded me into exactly who I am today so I will always try to keep my adventurous spirit, my fearlessness, and my love of life.

And most of all, I try to remember what is important and what is not.

Chase your dreams and remember everyday is a blessing.

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The Snake

peggyMy three young boys were playing by our small waterfall moving large rocks at our log home in Highlands, NC (the setting for my first mystery, Volume 1, The Puzzle). They were hard at work hauling and dragging rocks to build a dam. My oldest son said his younger brother suddenly yelled out, “There’s a gigantic snake!” After getting a good look at it, our oldest son ran as fast as he could to go for help. I was in the kitchen baking cookies. He already knew how I felt about snakes and went straight for his father. My husband took the news in stride. He knew kid’s imaginations. They always exaggerated the size of things. He took his time strolling down that dirt road on our property wondering what kind of garden snake they managed to uncover.

He approached smiling, but then did a double take, stopping dead in his tracks. That snake was well over twelve feet long. My husband stepped back a pace and told our oldest son to quickly go back to the house and tell his mother to get his shotgun and cartridges from our locked gun case so he could bring them back to him. Our son ran back, hollering about what was going on. I handed over his father’s unloaded shotgun and he quickly flew through the door. I stared out the window, but they were too far away for me to see clearly. There was no way I was walking out there. I hate snakes.

I was told later on that our son gave the gun to my husband, who loaded the shotgun. He then waited so see what the snake would do, as he was undecided about shooting it. It wasn’t acting hostile. The snake then started to slowly slither toward the woods, but then it stopped. It turned around and rose straight up in the air about four feet, like someone was playing a flute then latched onto a branch with its head. It stopped and just stared at my husband at eye level, showing no fear whatsoever. The three boys and my husband could not believe what they were witnessing. My husband considered his dilemma. His young boys played in that spot everyday, and since the snake wasn’t slithering off like it should and wasn’t talking, the snake had to go. My husband didn’t want to take chances. He raised his shotgun and eliminated the potential future threat.

My husband then picked up a large branch, draped the snake over it and asked our son to go back to the house to show his mother the snake so I could see sheer the size of it, otherwise, I wouldn’t believe it. Well, I have to tell you it the wrong thing for him to do. I watched our son drag it back all excited. I had a fit. That snake was not entering our house. I beat our son to the door, took one look at how long that thing was, snatched that branch from my son’s hand and ran to the edge of our drive and heaved-ho. That snake went sailing over the cliff, branch and all.

Moral of the story: Be cautious in the forest and pay attention where you walk or place your hands. ….Oh, and anything that remotely threatens the safety of my children better make sure they know how to fly first: dead or alive.

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