Once Upon a Time

A Short Florida Story

Grandpa with his rifle on tour in Vietnam

The diamondback rattler coils, ready to spring at the threat of the massive indigo snake. They partake in a staring match, knotting, arching, and flexing; each showing the other who wields the most strength. The diamondback reveals fangs filled with deadly venom and strikes. The indigo, king of snakes, is unfazed, immune to the neurotoxin that paralyzes both man and beast. They wrestle and tangle. In his massive jaws, the indigo clamps onto the rattlesnake over and over, breaking skin and cracking bone. The rattler doesn’t stand a chance.

Like the wonderous indigo snake, my grandpa was a force to be reckoned with. For all his strength, my grandpa had a tender spot in his heart for me. When he turned up the radio to his favorite country music station, he let me step on his rattlesnake-skin cowboy boots, and danced with me to Hank William Jr.’s slow, sad songs.

In third grade, my teacher’s name was Mrs. Roach. Some students might giggle and make fun of such a pesty surname, but our class had too much respect for this teacher to mock her. She gave us M & M’s for completing any assignment. If we finished early, we could go to the game table and play to our heart’s content. Mrs. Roach shared her collection of National Geographic magazines so we could know there was more to life than our little corner of the world. She was the first teacher to recognize that I was a writer.

In the middle of class, Mrs. Roach called for me to stand and read my story. She didn’t ask any other students to do this. I shared my tale about the shimmery eight foot long indigo snake that had slithered through the grass in my backyard. The other students stared in wonder as if they could see the same scene in their minds’ eye.

This was a turning point for me in my education. I thought I was a bad kid and that I was dumb. In the previous year, my second-grade teacher marked up all my copy work assignments and made me feel like I was drowning in a sea of red ink. I was the poor kid in class who wore the same outfit nearly every day. Another girl, the perfect teacher’s pet, always picked to be first in line for lunch, scooted away from me. “Teacher,” she said, “I don’t want to stand next to her.” This not so gracious teacher responded by sending me to the end of the line.

I don’t remember ever talking in Mrs. Roach’s class, which might have been the reason why I was sent to the school psychologist. At the time, I thought the woman was a writing teacher because she kept asking me to write stories. She never told me that she was there to assess if I was in an abusive situation.

Growing up in Melbourne, Florida, on the weekends, I stayed with my grandparents. During the week, I lived with my mom and her boyfriend in “the projects,” which were government-subsidized duplexes on the other side of the railroad tracks. Some days, I imagined myself mounting my bicycle and riding far away to my grandparents’ house, because I didn’t feel safe. Life was fear, chaos, and dread. Mom did the best she could to take care of me, but her boyfriend was addicted to cocaine. When he ran out of drugs, he became a monster, lashing out with the fury of his fists and venom of his words.

After having two sons with his man, Mom wasn’t sure which day would be her last. When she saw the chance for escape, she snuck away with her four children to my grandparents’ house and stayed put.

That night, my mom, brothers, and me snuggled together on Grandma’s plaid sofa watching Wheel of Fortune. Mom covered me and my brothers with Grandma’s burgundy crocheted blanket. Grandpa rested nearby in his La-Z-Boy recliner. Grandma sat smoking a Benson and Hedges cigarette at the kitchen table with my mom’s younger brother, Donald, a teenager at the time.

Whack! Tiny shards of glass poured into the living room like a twinkling crystalline waterfall. Mom’s boyfriend appeared through the broken sliding glass door. Grandpa leapt out of his La-Z-Boy chair and tackled the intruder. He slammed his fist into the guy’s nose, splattering blood onto my little brother’s green E.T. pajamas. Uncle Donald joined in the fight, using his skills as an accomplished high school wrestler.

After Grandpa shoved the boyfriend’s face into the carpet and kept the man’s hands behind his back, Uncle Donald rushed off down the hall. Grandpa kept shouting to my uncle, “Don, get the shells.” My young brain didn’t understand why they needed seashells at a time like this.

Grandpa stored his old gun from Vietnam in a closet. He shouted for my uncle to grab his rifle and shells—which were large bullets. Uncle Donald returned to Grandpa with the loaded gun. He passed it to Grandpa and took over pinning Mom’s boyfriend to the ground.

Grandpa pointed the rifle directly at the intruder’s head. He could have pulled the trigger, but instead told him to leave and never come back. He warned him to never bother my mother or us kids ever again.

Eventually Mom was accepted into a government program that helped her find a better paying job and provided us an affordable house in neighboring Palm Bay. I probably did need therapy, but instead the school psychologist became a writing teacher for me.

In our sessions, I learned that writing stories eased my anxiety. I never did tell the counselor the true story. Once upon a time, my grandpa scared off the venomous serpent of a man who made my young life a living hell. Grandpa gave me a technicolor example of good overcoming evil and a happily ever after in the end.

Afterword

My true story of good overcoming evil reflects a greater true story, the greatest story that was ever told. But in this true story, good conquers evil for all time. Jesus the Messiah, our Savior, stomps on the head of the ancient serpent who has caused all the misery, pain, suffering, and death in the world. From the beginning of time, God pronounced the final end to all evil. From the very beginning, a curse was pronounced on the snake, who was the devil, and a prophesy was given about the Messiah:

“he will crush your head,
and you will strike his heel” (Genesis 3:15).

Though the snake would wound the Messiah, evil would ultimately be destroyed. Evil exists in the world, but not forever. Jesus, our Savior, promised to return and finish what he started. He conquered sin by dying on the cross and coming back to life. He will return as rightful King of kings and Lord of lords. Our Shepherd King, who carries a staff for saving and rod for defending, will execute vengeance on the serpent and his offspring. His love is stronger than death and more powerful than evil. All of us who trust in Him will one day see the full redemption story, our happily ever after come true.

“And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.’

And he who was seated on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new’”(Rev. 21: 1-5).

Read “The Ocean and the River,” another short Florida story, here.