Dad's first pastorship was in Wilson, Texas, population 50. We lived in a farm just outside of town. By the back porch, in a corner, there was a burrow. One day my sister, Mitzy, and I were playing close by when she dropped her doll in it. Reaching for her doll, she suddenly screamed. That's when I heard the rattling. I rushed to her rescue with my Roy Roger's six-shooter; and with the butt of my gun, I aimed at the snake's head. It coiled and struck, but I was just out of range. We were in a death dance for a minute before mom heard the commotion and screamed for dad who was about ready for a bath. He rushed out and pushed me out of the way. He grabbed a hoe that was near by and quickly disposed of the rattlesnake. In the midst of the cacophony and my innocent "I would have vanquished the serpent" bravado, sudden realization, like cool breeze in a hot summer's day, set in, and the paroxysm of fear turned into hysterical laughter as dad stood in the hot Texas sun nude as the day he was born.