Friday was a beautiful day, and I made the two and a half hour drive to the old home place in Young County for some spring cleaning. We're going to re-purpose one of Granddad's old deserted sheds, and it was a mess. After removing all the junk, I started the scooping/sweeping/ cleaning phase of the operation. All that remained on the floor was an ancient, gold spray-painted three unit shelf. As I was sweeping around it, I noticed an old ski rope curled underneath the bottom shelf-maybe two inches off the ground. "Strange" thought I-"I don't remember putting a ski rope there". Out of monkey curiosity, I poked the rope with the end of my broom-and it began to move. Again, I thinks:"Must be one of our friendly rat snakes". The head emerged, revealing a broad, plated, triangular shape that looked oddly like a diamondback rattlesnake. "Shit" says I, and I jumped away. I had the presence of mind to pull the shelving unit over with me as I moved. My dynamite crate full of antique glass telephone line conductors went crashing to the floor, shattering this way and that, and I gave not a fuck. I learned years ago not to enter that barn without a farm implement nearby, and my trusty hoe was leaning near the door. The snake was trying to exit from under the shelf, and looked enormous, I beat the shit out of it with my hoe, smashing the head and eventually breaking the handle. Then, I fetched a nearby shovel, carried the still writhing snake out in to the grass, and finished the job. The crotalid, dead but still writhing, measured sixty three inches, and appeared to be in a family way. I love snakes as much as the next guy, but that snake, in that barn, less than sixty yards away from the yard where my dogs and grandkids play-is going to die every time. I'm getting a little sick of rattlesnakes.