Before this episode, the only thing a snake ever taught me was how to use a swattin' stick. But my grandpappy always said "Showin' is better'n tellin'". I don't think I ever fully realized how much truth was in that statement until I encountered that mess of snakes. "Tellin'" won't make the pulse do double-time, or make the heart throb like a drum. And "tellin'" doesn't have enough glue on it to stick to the memory very long. But when I ran into that batch of snakes, I got enough "showin'" to stick with me the rest of my life.

    The mountains don't seem quite so huge now, and the ragged valley cut by the winding Guyandotte seems to narrow a bit each time I return, but the lessons I learned there will never diminish. Some of them came easily and some required a bit more than subtlety, but I've discovered that those most worthwhile remain prominent in the galleries of my mind while others tend to fade with the thickening fog of time. The latter, for the most part, fall into the category of educational encounters with the erudite "hick'ry withe". But the former are those received at the hands of a much more austere teacher, known as experience.

    Every few miles along the banks of the Guyan there's a small town or settlement, and the people who live there are among the world's elite. When dealing with people, however, one will always encounter conflicting opinions and beliefs, some religious, some political and some just plain superstitious. Those concerning religion are usually the most diverse.
    One group evolving from certain biblical interpretations, although shunned by many, is prevalent and thriving in hill country. Its members are referred to as "snakehandlers", and the term means exactly what it infers. It is said that these people believe they must prove their faith by handling poisonous serpents in the presence of the congregation. Not being acquainted with the entirety of their beliefs, I am in no position to expound upon the subject. Therefore, I have no intention of expressing opinions connected to it. My sole purpose is the relation of one amusing incident from my youth, and on that note I shall continue with my story (in hillbilly fashion, of course).

    One July weekend, when th' season fer brush-arbor meetin's wuz gittin' inta full swing, a group of snakehandlers set up a tent down in th' middle of Bartley. Now ever'body knows that it's characteristic of small town livin' that news spreads like a case o' th' sniffles, so it wasn't long b'fore it reached Little Egyp' bottom.
    As I recall, th' three of us wuz skinny-dippin' in th' swimmin' hole down at Steamboat Rock when "Country" Johnson ambled by an' told us 'bout th' snakehandler's tent. Right off th' bat we contracted a simultaneous attack of curiosity pains. We spent th' rest of the afternoon banterin' 'bout which one had guts uhnuff t' go t' th' meetin' an' find out first-hand egg-zac'ly what them people really did when they got t'gether. Th' discussion led to a buncha dares an' double-dares, who's chicken an' who ain't chicken, an' a final exchange of "I'll-back-ya-outs". By th' time we headed fer home we'd goaded each other inta goin' in t'gether.

    We met at th' Millcreek bridge that evenin' an' started th' hike t' Bartley. Th' thought of the upcomin� adventure had grabbed us all by th' gizzards an' wuz instigatin' remarks like: "Beanpole'll be th' first one t' run", or "I'll set closer t' th' front than you".     Naturally, each one of us was more dauntless than the other. That is, till it got t' th' part about which one of us would actually git up there an' pick up one-a them snakes. We were brave, but not that brave. Beanpole even offered Willy Gene a dollar bill if he'd do it, an' Will flatly refused. That should give ya some inklin' of just how repulsive th' thought of touchin' a snake with anythang short of a six-foot swattin' stick is to a natchral-bornt hillbilly.
    Y'see, Willy Gene wuz one-a them fellers that just could not take a dare. He wuz th' one who turned ol' man White's outhouse over last Halloween, an' he wuz th' one who swiped three jugs of Jim Miller's home-brew while it wuz still workin' an' got us all s' sick we had t' stay in bed fer three days takin' medicine fer a case o' th' runs. He wuz also th' dare-devil who climbed t' th' top of th' Marianna tunnel an' tried t' drop a rock down th' smokestack of a passin' freight train, an' the arsonist who set th' woods on fire in plain sight of th' whole town of Bartley an' got us fined thirty dollars uhpiece by th' county sheriff. Well sir, when he turned down that dollar dare, I began t' have second thoughts 'bout even goin' t' that meetin'. However, by that time, we had arrived at our destination, an' it wuz too late fer second thoughts.

    With its luminous interior glowin' in th' twilight, an' scores of ropes reachin' out to a circle of hammer-flared wooden pegs, th' big tent gave the appearance of a gigantic centipede that'd swallered a whole bevy of lightnin' bugs an' wuz sufferin' from a brilliant belly-ache. A huge, yellow canvas flap folded back in th' front t' create an openin' large uhnuff fer a congregation t' pass through four abreast. Passage of this portal yielded access to a wide aisle paralleled on either side by rows of slab benches mixed with various types of foldin' chairs, none of which presented the appearance of bein' a pillar of strength. Th' floor consisted of a three-inch layer of sawdust, an' I r'member lookin' 'round t' see if they had anymore flaps open (in case I wanted t' make a rapid exit) an' wonderin' if I could git a good runnin' start in that soggy stuff. I guess Willy Gene an' Beanpole had th' same idea, 'cause we ended up settin' on the extreme right side of th' very front row about six feet away from the only other flap in th' tent which wuz open an' readily accessible.
    Th' platform wuz a hillbilly masterpiece of slabwork held t'gether by a buncha second-hand nails, an' stood 'bout two feet above th' sawdust floor. Th' whole thang covered an area 'bout twenty feet wide an' twelve feet deep, an' wuz situated just forward of th' tent's shadowy backside. It supported (somewhat precariously) all th' paraphernalia one would expect t' find at a reg'lar church meetin'. There wuz a speaker's stand fer a hard-workin' preacher t' lean on, an old piano fulla scuffs an' scratches from some hard handlin', an' a semi-circle of wooden foldin' chairs fer th' musicians t' fidget on durin' th' sermon.
    We didn't do much talkin' as we waited fer th' meetin' t' start, but we were doin' a lotta elbowin' an' snickerin' till Beanpole called our attention to somethin' on th' rostrum that we hoped wuzn't what we knowed it wuz. It wuz a couple of pieces that seemed t' be peculiarly out of place. Beanpole's 'possum-eyes wuz locked onto 'em, an' he wuz noddin' his head t'wards 'em an pokin' us in th' ribs with both elbows.

    In th' dim light of the overhead incandescents we could just make out th' scene on th' backside o' th' stage. A dangerously short distance from our carefully selected vantage point were the ominous forms of four bushel baskets. They loomed b'fore us like tombstones at midnight an' threw the off-switch on our snickerin' engines. There were two tall ones an' two short ones, an' if th' sight alone wuzn't uhnuff t' sober our adventure-tipsy minds, there wuz that occasional whirrin' sound comin' from th' short ones, an' ever' once-in-a-while a portentous bump would set a tall one t' wobblin' 'round. There seemed t' be some intangible connection with th' bumps in th' baskets an' th' seats of our britches, 'cause ever' time th' former would occur, th' latter would leave th' chair. We looked like a buncha perchers settlin' in on uh frozen outhouse slab th' way we wuz bouncin' up'n down.
    Somehow, we managed t' remain in our peculiar positions till th' meetin' got started, an' if it hadn't been fer th' presence of them bushel baskets, would have thoroughly enjoyed th' perceedin's. Th' whole thang started with some good ol' spiritual singin' an' gizzard'-jigglin' strang music, after which, th' preacher expounded fer thirty-five er forty minutes on a few biblical principles that we had already been taught an' (fer th' most part) had th' good sense t' live by. Ever'thang wuz hunky-dunky till right near th' end of th' message when th' musicians c'mmenced t' pickin' agin. That's when a couple of fellers come up on th' stage an' started draggin' them baskets t'ward th' edge of th' platform d'rectly in front of us.
    As that whirrin' an' bumpin' drew nearer t' our seats, ever' muscle we had (an' a few we didn't know about) developed such an extreme case o' th' tauts that th' chair backs began t' pop. Well sir, them musicians got t' pickin' hot'n heavy, an' people c'mmenced t' gatherin' 'round th' stage till they wuz uhbout four deep an' crowdin' th' front of our seats. Then some of 'em got t' shoutin' an' dancin' an' kinda gittin' in th' spirit of thangs. All th' time, me'n Will an' Beanpole were tryin' t' locate them baskets, which were now totally obscured by th' crowd. That's when somebody's hand went up in th' air with a nasty lookin' copperhead tryin' t' squirm out of it, an' all six of our feet left th' floor an' lit on th' chairs.
    I guess we musta made a purty spectacle, squattin' on them seats an' scannin' th' floor fer stray snakes, but with sawdust flyin' all over th' place an' enthusiastic snakehandlers bumpin' into us from all sides, we weren't worried uhbout appearances. Our big concern wuz th' fact that our escape route wuz completely cut off by some extremely enthus-iastic people wieldin' a buncha very large, very angry-lookin' reptiles, an' we had t' git outta there!

    Right uhbout then, th' feathers hit th' fan! Beanpole, frantically seeking escape, had d'cided t' gain a better view, an' stood up on his chair in an attempt t' locate a hole through that seethin' mass o' people. When he did, somebody with a handful of rattlesnake bumped 'im in th' leg, an' he toppled into th' crowd, clawin' wildly fer anythang he could find t' break 'is fall. I wish he'da just fell an' had it done with, 'cause halfway down, one of them skinny fingers hooked th' top edge of a basket that still held uhbout ten squirmin' snakes, an flipped it into th' middle of the aisle, spreadin' its contents all over that sawdust floor!
    We suddenly discovered that we were not the only kibitzers at th' meetin' when half th' congregation shot t' their feet screamin' an' headed off in ever' d'rection like ripples from a rock-plop in a hole of still water. Th' last time I saw Willy Gene he wuz climbin' over some lady's fancy feathered hat while she wuz still wearin' it. I didn't wait t' see if he made it. I just shut both eyes an' took off in th' gen'ral d'rection of th' side o' that tent. After I passed b'tween two supportin' ropes, I gave my feet explicit orders t' deliver me in Little Egyp' bottom.
    Th' next day, when th' three of us congregated at th' feed store, we learned that, due to th' fervent intensity of th' terror-prompted exodus from that snake-laden tent, nobody'd been able t' figger out where all th' ruckus had started. An' b'cause there hadn't been one case of snakebite or other related injury, no investigation wuz bein' pursued. So, except fer a small gouge in Will's belly where he'd been stuck by a very large hat pin, we escaped any consequences.
    Now, I can't speak fer Will er Beanpole, but that little incident always stands out in my mind when I find myself poised on th' precipice of plungin' my nose inta someplace where it don't b'long. If I'm invited somewhere, I go...cautiously. But if I'm not invited, an' I find myself tusslin' with twinges of curiosity, I recall my one an' only visit to a snakehandler's meetin', an' I'm quite content t' let curiosity take care of th' proverbial cat an' leave me t' my whittlin'.