Snakes in the Grass and Other Short Stories, Including Grasshopper Creek

By Mike R. Dunbar

This collection of 9 short stories and novellas, including “Snakes in the Grass” and “Grasshopper Creek”, is written in such detail and strength the reader will become immersed in each story and stretch their imagination, running wild as they are taken on a journey from the dismal swamps of the Florida Everglades, where Skeeter Fontain transitions from a poacher of wild animals to becoming instrumental in saving them, to the mountains of Grasshopper Greek, Montana, where the love of a young couple flourishes as their common love of horses takes them in divergent paths. The reader will travel to the plains of Oklahoma during the harsh times of the ‘Dust Bowl’ and feel the heartache suffered by so many, to the heart of North Korea where, years after the Korean conflict, an army corpsman secretly returns to save a fellow soldier, and into the wilds of the Canadian wilderness trying to understand a strange bond between a man and wolf. These incredible stories are filled with intriguing and interesting characters, will reach readers of all ages, teaching important values, morals, and lessons of life all can cherish.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728371061

Mike R. Dunbar

Dr. Mike Dunbar, born and raised in Oklahoma, spent nearly twenty-five years as a wildlife veterinarian, working with a variety of free-ranging wildlife around the world, and before that as a conservation officer, wildlife biologist and researcher. Dr. Dunbar received his Master of Science degree in Wildlife Ecology from Oklahoma State University and a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine and Surgery degree from Washington State University. During his 40 year career in the wildlife profession, he published nearly 50 peer-reviewed, scientific manuscripts and has lectured around the world on topics related to wildlife captures, health, disease, and new technology in the detection of diseases in free-ranging wildlife. Dr. Dunbar has also published two novels, "The Last American Cowboy" and "When The Sea Howls". Now retired, Dr. Dunbar writes and lives with his wife, Sherry, along the wild Salmon River in east-central Idaho.

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© 2020 Mike R. Dunbar. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/25/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6956-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-7106-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views

expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the

views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

I. Snakes in the grass

II. Moxie

III. Grasshopper Creek

IV. Surviving Kindergarten

V. The Pigeon Man

VI. Welcome to Pleasantville

VII. Life is But a Dream

VIII. Escape from Black Sunday: The Life and Times of Reuben Frank

IX. 2089

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SNAKES IN THE GRASS

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(Beware of the builders, the developers, the corrupt politicians, for they are the true snakes in the grass; their pursuit is greed, the wonders of the natural world, their prey, which they kill and voraciously devour)

Skeeter Fontain was born from the earth and soul of the great, dismal, swamps of southern Florida; the only child of Pierre (Pappy), a French, Creole, and Cat, a Miccosukee Indian. They, along with Skeeter’s half- brother, JoJo, live off what the swamp begrudgingly provides. Their home is nestled on the edge of Otter Island, nearly ten miles from Everglades City, the only civilized community for miles around. Their shack is in a stand of large, bald cypress, with over-hanging, Spanish moss, that gently sway in the soft breezes, with their backyard of piney woods. During summer, it’s overrun with mosquitoes, and with alligators, snakes, bears, and panthers during all seasons. It’s a life on the edge. A place where survival is a fleeting concept, starvation and death, lurking just around the bend. Skeeter, nearly sixteen, and JoJo, nineteen, spend most of their days exploring the vast area of what’s known as the, ‘Ten Thousand Islands’, and the, ‘Everglades’. It’s a place of sawgrass marshes, cypress swamps, hardwood hammocks, and pine rock lands. It’ where impenetrable mangrove forests dominate, where gators thrive, and water moccasins (cotton mouths) slither along the surface and hide among mangrove roots and rotting trees. It’s where the Fontain clan has called home for three generations, and where Cat’s family have survived for eons.

The Fontains’ migrated from New Orleans during the civil war. Great granddaddy Fontain sympathized with slaves and blacks. That didn’t sit well with the confederates. He said he’d rather be eaten by a swamp gator, than be hung by rebels for his lack of loyalty to the confederacy. So, the clan moved to Florida and made their homes in the southern swamps. They did whatever was necessary to survive; which was living off the land. But as wildlife became less plentiful and law enforcement more prevalent, most moved to small villages on the edge of the swamps and attempted to make an ‘honest’ living. All that is, except Pappy Fontain.

Pappy, a short, stubby, nearly bald man, sometimes gruff, but was always focused when it came to providing for his family. His blue eyes are penetrating, his thick, bushy eyebrows flagrantly in motion when he’s talking in his Creole accent, the deep, creases below his lower lip, constantly stained with the brown of leaking tobacco juices. Pappy received no formal education, but managed to learn, at least, to write his name.

Cat is his second wife; he lost his first in an agonizing attempt to give birth to JoJo, with no medical help, which was nearly ten miles distant. JoJo is considered, ‘slow’, a nice word for a horrible affliction; some speculating on a lack of oxygen to his brain when he was born from the womb of his dead mother. Now, chubby and round-faced, he walks with a distinct limp; a result of a nasty bite on his foot from a large diamondback rattlesnake while he was playing in his backyard as a child.

How, or why, Pappy linked up with Cat is a subject for speculation. Marriage between the two seemed a distant fact. But, marry, they did. Cat, a slender, dark-skinned, willowy, attractive woman, with long black hair, and eyes as black as coal, keeps the family cemented and somehow keeps the peace between Pappy and the boys. She grew up, with her extended family, near the small outpost of Ochopee, in the swamps of the Big Cypress, just north of highway forty-one, known as the ‘Tamiami Trail’. She received an equivalent, high school diploma, a result of the Baptist church in Naples over-seeing her, and other Miccosukee children’s, education. She developed a love for reading, which she instilled in Skeeter. After teaching him to read and write, she encouraged him to read books, especially about the things he loved: the swamps, its’ plants, animals, and about nature and how it all works. She would often borrow books from local churches and libraries in Naples, sent for books from universities, and saved enough money to buy books on the subjects. She did this over the strong objections of her husband. They would have loud, heated arguments over the subject, often sending nearby, perched, wood storks and white ibis’s to flight, squawking at their displeasure. She always won the arguments; every time. It became a joke to Skeeter and JoJo, unable to understand why their Pappy would attempt such futile conversations. They often sat on the dock, down by the water, listening, knowing how it all would end. They all knew, including Pappy, how it would end. They wondered why their father was so persistent. They both concluded that he must do it, just to be persistent.

On one hot, muggy, day in mid-June, Pappy asked Skeeter what he had planned for the next week. Not much, Pappy. What’s up?

Skeet, would you take the boat, along with Jigger, and see if you can come up with some skins and hides. And, maybe a little meat wouldn’t hurt. Our buyer will be here in a couple weeks and last time he wanted us to have a big package for him, Pappy said, staring into Skeeter’s eyes. Maybe, you and JoJo could trap a bear or you and Jigger could tree a panther on ‘Snake Island’. Or, even shoot some meat, like ducks or deer. How ‘bout it?

Skeeter was more than willing to go. Jigger, Skeeter’s Black and Tan, hunting dog, waged his tail, as if knowing the conversation included him. He and the old dog had spent many days and nights together in the swamps; they enjoyed each other’s company. Anyway, Skeeter was feeling confined, just sitting around, or fishing, all day, so was eager to go. But, when Pappy suggested JoJo’s help, Cat interrupted saying she and JoJo were planning on going into Everglades City for some things. Anyway, she said, Skeeter will be fine. He’s done it alone, many times, anyway, he has Jigger to keep him company. Actually, Cat didn’t want JoJo to ever go on a hunting trip. She knew how he felt about killing animals. He loved the animals of the swamps and would never harm one, and would be upset being with anyone who killed anything.

JoJo would spend hours exploring Otter Island, in search of animals to hold, pet, or just watch as they went about their business. He would sometimes gently capture animals to bring home to care for, which included baby raccoons, possums, small birds, an occasional deer fawn, and even an apparent, orphaned bear cub, which, specifically, Pappy strongly objected. However, the situation was resolved early the next morning, when mother bear came looking for her lost daughter. After much noise, bawling, and shouting, the mother bear left, huffing, with a howling cub scampering close behind. Pappy was so humiliated by the experience, he had the family vow to forever keep it a secret, and to never talk about it, even among themselves.

JoJo would sit for hours talking to his captive animals, providing them morsels of food, telling them his most coveted secrets. JoJo took his meals along with his family at the dinner table, until when he was nearly fourteen, then suddenly realized he had been eating the flesh of the wild animals he loved. He vowed to never do that again, even if it meant starvation. He would not even sit at the table if the family was eating meat. Cat had to have a small table made so JoJo could sit alone to eat, facing away from everyone, so as not to watch meat being eaten. Cat had to expand her vegetable garden to accommodate her beloved stepson. She knew that Pappy was keenly aware of the situation, and would, sometimes, try to make a point of JoJo not helping in the family’s struggle to survive, as he did by suggesting, that day, that JoJo go along with Skeeter to hunt on Snake Island. It was a constant battle.

Early the next morning, as the misty-white, blanket of fog began lifting off the water, Skeeter loaded up his boat, along with Jigger, and headed for Snake Island, where he and Pappy did most of their illegal hunting. Skeeter loved meandering among the islands and ‘glades’ in his eighteen- foot, flat-bottomed, square-ended, ‘river boat’, pushed along by a three horsepower, Evinrude kicker. This time he had a good reason to go; make some money for the family and doing what he loved, being out in the swamps and among the animals he loved. He had a difficult time understanding his love of the animals, while also killing them. That dichotomy grew stronger each passing year. But for now, he had little choice but help provide for his family.

Skeeter, sitting in his slow moving, sputtering boat, with trailing blue smoke, was a sight to behold: tall, skinny, his light, blond hair waving in the breeze, and his long, beaked nose, pointing the way. Jigger was in the bow, where he always sat, big ears flapping in the wind, constantly sniffing the air. Also in the boat were the tools of his trade: canvas tarps to cover his bounty from prying eyes, sacks of salt for curing hides, and preventing spoilage, a ‘long-tom’, ten-gauge, shotgun for harvesting waterfowl, a single-shot, twenty-two rifle for dispatching small animals, and an assortment of traps and snares for trapping bear, panthers, and raccoons, as well as food and supplies for himself for, at least, a week.

On this trip, he was enjoying life to the fullest, gliding along among the Ten Thousand Islands, headed for the ‘hunt shack’, as Pappy called it. It had been built by Pappy and the boys as a place where Pappy and Skeeter could shelter while hunting and trapping for an extended time. Being nearly twenty miles from home, and in a secluded area, it was deemed safe from outside intruders, especially the game wardens. As Skeeter putted along the water, the blue skies overhead, and the sound of water lapping against the boat, mesmerized him. He passed by the tiny islands, made up of mud and sand and over-run by forests of thick mangroves. The islands, composed of sunken sand dunes, were formed as the result of winds and hurricanes which piled up over the millennia, now covered by forests of red mangrove. He watched as wood storks, great and snowy egrets, white ibises, rosette spoonbills, and anhingas took flight at his approach, and thousands of crawling crabs, scattering across the island’s mud flats, seeking shelter among the roots of mangrove trees.

After a few hours, Skeeter took a left turn into a wide, shallow lagoon, bounded on either side by Florida boxwood, live oaks, with dangling strangler figs, gumbo trees, and moonvines. And further up the lagoon, cabbage palms, and satinwoods, supporting Resurrection ferns. After about three miles, the lagoon began to narrow to only a few feet on either side of the boat, until, at last, it opened into the cypress-lined, ‘Hermit Pond’, nearly twenty acres in size. The pond was named after a man who had inhabited Snake Island for over thirty years and was found dead, floating in the pond, untouched by gators or any other animal. Some thought the man may have had some special kindship with the animals of the area, some secret pact, that prevented them from consuming his body. He’s buried nearby.

Skirting the edge of the pond for another hundred yards, Skeeter watched as gators slid from the muddy banks into the freshwater pond, and as several rafts of ducks paddled their way to the opposite shoreline. He watched as great blue herons took flight and snowy egrets stood up on their high perches to better see what was happening, far below. Finally, Skeeter beached the boat onto a muddy shore. Jigger was the first out of the boat, leaping into the muddy water. There, he pulled the boat up into the reeds and brush, where he securely tied it and walked to the ‘hunt shack’, about three hundred yards further into the trees; a stand of large water oaks.

He made several trips unloading the boat and carrying it all to the shack, Jigger following close behind, on each trip. Before going into the darkness of the abode, he ordered Jigger to stay, and carefully shined his flashlight to check for snakes that liked to hide in the damp darkness. ‘The island isn’t named, "Snake Island’, for nothing’, he told himself. After assuring himself the place was devoid of diamondbacks and moccasins, he slowly entered and soon had a couple coal oil lamps burning to light up the place. It had a dirt floor and the walls were of oak limbs and cabbage tree fronds. At first, the place smelled musty, but as the lamps burned, the smell changed to burnt oil; more pleasant than damp, musty, earth and rotting vegetation. It had a tin roof, brought from other ‘hunt shacks’ they had built in past years. Windows were made by cutting out a square from the walls and attaching a small canvas over it. The whole structure was covered by Spanish moss to help conceal it. There were three army cots up against each wall. A small, rusty-brown, barrel, with a bent-up stovepipe, served for cooking and heating coffee. Skeeter kept the wood smoke to a minimum so to not alert anyone who might be lurking.

It was dusk when Skeeter finished his supper and walked down to the pond. The ducks had again clustered at the near shore, and a couple gators were stretched out, close by, on the mud bank where Skeeter had landed his boat. The wood storks and egrets were now resting in their high perches on the far side, awaiting darkness. Croaking of frogs, clicking of katydids, and the barking of various animals gave the approaching night a sense of peacefulness. Skeeter loved the night sounds of the swamp. It made everything seem so alive, so vibrant, so full of life.

After Skeeter finished a meager breakfast and his fifth cup of coffee, he walked down to the pond, sipping on his last cup, with Jigger at his side. The splashing of water signaled the gators had suddenly slid off the muddy bank into the dark water of Hermit Pond. The water was barely visible due to a heavy blanket of fog. It would be impossible to hunt ducks under these circumstances. So, he and Jigger began exploring Snake Island for signs of animals; tracks, scat, markings, scent, and tree rubs, while carrying a few traps, snares, and lunch in his knapsack. Jigger followed behind, silent, as taught, and continuously sniffing. And, both Skeeter and Jigger, both always searching for poisonous snakes that may be hiding in the grass.

As they walked along, Skeeter would kneel down to observe plants and flowers, pulling out his book on plant identification, and looking up the name of the plant, its’ natural history and its’ importance to the ecosystem of the everglades. He also had several books on ecology, biodiversity, and plant and animal relationships, stored away from the teeth of small animals, back at the shack. It was all new, exciting, and fascinating to learn of such things.

By the time Skeeter had set a few large, traps for bears, baited with the rotting flesh of fish, and smaller traps for raccoons, he returned to Hermit’s Pond. By now, the fog had lifted and he decided to set a couple snares for gators. The snares were made of heavy, steel cable and placed in depressions near the muddy banks where females slid up to their nests; large mounds of sticks and mud, under which they had previously laid their eggs. As he paddled the boat along the shore, ducks paddled ahead of him, just out of the range of his shotgun.

After setting two snares for gators, Skeeter gathered a large number of reeds and brush, piling it on and around the boat, for a makeshift duck blind. Jigger lay, curiously watching, as his master worked, carefully finishing the masterpiece. When completed, he and Jigger climbed aboard and sat, awaiting