How I Wrote My New Book, "Garden Disruptors," 22

It was still dark. In my rearview mirror, an orange streak of sunrise shone over I-20 and pine trees. Driving west before 6 a.m. is lonely. But the old excitement of possibility, of road trips with Daddy, bubbles up. Early morning driving feels like freedom. 

If only there were a loyal dog beside me. But my companions are only black coffee, an audiobook about Churchill, and a jumble of plants and tools packed tightly behind the pickup seat. 

“Prrrrrrt. Brrrrl. Prrrrrt,” The first time I heard it, I wondered if it was real. Maybe an audiobook glitch, I told myself. All the new radio technology is sensitive to cell towers. Winne Churchill kept right on talking. But I did a quick mental review of the truck contents. Behind the seat, there’s a blue milk crate of drills, spray paint, and wrenches beside crowded pots of tongue ferns and Purple Flame iris and a crate of bulbs. All the things that didn’t sell at the plant sale. My tools and I are used to riding Dominican mini-bus-style, a speeding jungle on I-20. 

“Prrrrrrt. Brrrrl. Prrrrt.” From the back floorboard. Louder. Not Churchill. I turn off the radio but all’s quiet. Wheels thump on concrete. Relax, I tell myself. But a minute later, the rattle goes off again. Electricity crackles up my back, arms, and fingers. I angle my head toward the back to understand this situation.

Baby snakes move in the fall. They love a black plastic nursery pot; it’s warm. Ridiculous, I tell myself. I’ve done plant sales for years and never had a hitchhiker. Just drive. I turn up the volume. As Winnie says, “Never give in, never give in, never; never; never; never.”

“Prrrrrrt. Brrrrl. Prrrrt.” 

You know they change the frequency of the rattle to make you think they are closer than they are. So, I reason he could be on the far side of the back cab. The far side. I do not want to stop. We can ride together in peace. It’ll be just like that movie with the Indian boy and the tiger stranded together in a canoe, lost at sea.

We are 24 miles from home. It’s going to be fine. Anyway, it’s probably just a cicada. Poor young thing hatched out in the truck last night, and it’s buzzing to fly away.

In the dark of the floorboard, something brushed my leg.

Thank goodness for cruise control. I jerked my leg into the seat and turned on a light to see a long, tickly iris leaf. My whole body relaxes.

“Prrrrrrt. Brrrrl. Prrrrt.”  Surely it’s a cicada. Or, it could be a baby possum—nothing to worry about. Possums act mean, but all that hissing, all that teeth gnashing are bluster. He’ll stay hunkered down back there.

Churchill is back. He’s dictating war orders from his bathtub, having breakfast champagne. Calm and controlled, facing the challenge without flinching. 

I’m not that man. But I still don’t want to pull over. I’ll call my friend Bill. He lives in the country; he’ll know what to do.

Bill says,“You know they found out that if you blindfold a rattlesnake, it can still detect prey through heat receptors.” 

“Not helping, Bill.”

He keeps on, “And do you know they call those receptors wasabi glands? Do they even have rattlesnakes in Japan?”

I sighed, “At least tell me some calming trivia, Bill.” 

“My garden looks great. The ageratum is leaning into the fire spike and the coleus. You should come take a picture of it.” 

Garden talk gets me the rest of the way home, “See?" Bill says, "Master of your fate.” Bill is the kind of well-read country guy who can quote Churchill.  

“Prrrrrrt. Brrrrl. Prrrrt.” At least it’s daylight when I pull into the pasture. I stand by the back cab door, ready to set this monster free.  He’ll slither away with respect for my sticking with him. Or, like that tiger in the canoe, he’ll evaporate, and I’ll realize he was nothing more my own anxiety, my book worries, my fears, manifest in a dark journey into myself.

I open the door and jump back. No movement. I poke a shovel in. From the blue milk crate, a battery-powered drill slides out. It must have been pressed against the door at an odd angle. It’s too-sensitive trigger activates when it hits the ground, 

“Prrrrrrt. Brrrrl. Prrrrt.”