Dad's first pastorship was in Wilson, Texas, population 50. We lived on a farm just outside of town. By the back porch, in a corner, there was a burrow. One day my sister and I were playing close by when she dropped her doll in the hole. Reaching for her toy, 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 nearby and quickly disposed of the rattlesnake. Amid the cacophony and my innocent "I would have vanquished the serpent" bravado, sudden realization, like a fresh 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.
