RIVER CITY JOURNAL: FINALLY, A MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO GARDEN MAYHEM

Some savvy merchandiser in Brooklyn, N.Y., of all places, has found a niche that appeals to snake haters like me.

WARNING: THIS COLUMN DESCRIBES DANGEROUS AND STUPID SITUATIONS.

Among the favorite stories my sons like to tell about me are those that include snakes -- I quiver at the very mention of the word -- and the way I behave when the Devil's own brood are anywhere near. Snakes, that is, not my sons.

When we lived in Maryville, Mo., in the northwest corner of the state, our lawn included an extra lot between our house and the neighbor's. The entire yard was a product of the region's soil, which pretends to be dirt about two weeks out of every year but passes as gumbo or hardpan the rest of the time.

In spite of the clay, the yard -- like most in Maryville -- was full of small holes about as big around as my little finger. It didn't take many springtime lawn mowings to discover that the holes were made by garter snakes. One time a couple of neighborhood children started rounding up all the snakes they could find and soon had a 55-gallon trash barrel seething with the wiggling creatures. They made me look. I couldn't sleep for a week.

When it comes to mowing a lawn, I am nothing if not precise. All the cutting rows are even and straight. If I cut up and down one week, I always cut back and forth the next. This produces a basketweave pattern in which mowers like myself take great pride.

However, it was always easy to see where I spotted a garter snake sticking its nose out of the ground, because the regimented cutting rows would be suddenly interrupted by a wild path to nowhere.

It has been said, by folks far wiser than this gray-haired weekend gardener, that a garter snake never hurt anyone. I beg to differ. A garter snake is a snake, and when it suddenly appears inches away from your foot -- obviously intent on climbing up your leg -- I don't care if its striped or diamond-backed. I'll aim the deadly mower blades straight for the throat.

There were so many snakes and snake holes at one time that I decided to take drastic steps.

I REALLY MEAN IT. THIS IS DANGEROUS AND STUPID. DO NOT TRY THIS UNLESS YOU ARE AN EXPERT.

In a moment of blind fury, having just had the you-know-what scared out of me by an adventurous garter snake, I took the can with gasoline for the mower and began pouring some down each snake hole, thinking the fuel would flush out the rascals and send them rushing to the neighbor's yard. But they didn't budge.

So I went inside and got some old-fashioned kitchen matches -- you know, the ones on sticks that you take on camping trips. I began striking the matches and dropping them down the holes.

Little explosions gave me some satisfaction that more than one garter snake was having the you-know-what scared out of it. I stopped lighting matches when I saw both sons racing all over the yard picking up snakes by the fistful to save them from this crazed father.

OK. I know you shouldn't try to blow up snakes with gasoline. Heck, I probably violated a thick section of EPA regulations, not to mention setting a terrible example of reckless action in the face of a non-threatening situation.

But I can't begin to tell you how good it made me feel. Those feelings were rekindled this week when the mail brought me a copy of "Whatever Works," a magazine subtitled "Guaranteed Pest Control for Home and Garden." Apparently this is a publication for folks who don't have what it takes to be mercenaries or arms dealers but will take on defenseless reptiles at the drop of a hat. Talk about marketing acumen.

On Page 25 is a description of what looks like, based on the fine color photograph, sticks of dynamite for gardeners.

"Smoke bomb saves your yard from gophers, moles, rats and ground squirrels," says the squib off to the side. And garter snakes, I would add.

It's nice to know someone out in the world of merchandising shares my phobia of snakes.

I know I'm not alone. When I got my first newspaper job at The Kansas City Star, I soon learned from a copy editor that I couldn't use the word "snake" in any of my stories. It seems a former editor had such an aversion to snakes that he required the word "serpent" be used instead. The edict still holds, I'm told.

Once, when the boys were young, they spotted an ad in the newspaper about a herpetology club meeting at Northwest Missouri State University. The public was invited. Would I take them? Well, I said, won't there be snakes there? Oh, sure, they said, but they'll be in cages. You'll be safe.

So we went. At precisely 7 o'clock, the head herpetologist closed all the doors in the classroom full of containers with live snakes in them. Then he opened all the snake containers and let them loose on the floor.

WARNING: UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE MAULED BY A GOOD-SIZED FELLOW WHO CAN'T LOOK AT PICTURES OF SNAKES, MUCH LESS REAL SNAKES, TRY LOCKING HIM IN A ROOM FULL OF VICIOUS GARTER SNAKES AND BLACK SNAKES.

I survived. Barely.

I can only say that St. Patrick's Day is my favorite holiday of the year. Not because of the green beer. I think anyone who can take credit for no snakes in Ireland is indeed a saint.

Bless you, Patrick. Now, about all those garter snakes in Missouri ... .

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.