Today’s Challenge

Sometimes I give myself a writing challenge. Today’s brain-bender is to write a meaningful post in one hour, writing based on a quote that I didn’t choose. Here’s what I did. (By the way, the one hour time limit hasn’t begun yet. I’ll let you know when.)

I’m at Jason’s Deli, my favorite writing spot. I asked the cashier to choose a letter from the alphabet; she chose “M.” Great. Pretty sure she chose it because she asked my name for the order, and I said Mike. No matter. I’m going with M.

I Googled “List of American Authors” and chose the first author whose last name starts with M. The winner? Herman Melville. Oh, goody. The guy who wrote Moby-Dick, the longest whaling book in the history of the world.

Then I Googled “Famous Quotes by Melville.” You would be surprised how many quotes are listed. I asked my server to choose a number between 1 and 100. She chose 8, mostly because she has an 8-year old daughter. Fair enough. (Clock still not started.)

So here’s the winner: “I do not think I have any uncharitable prejudice against the rattlesnake, still, I should not like to be one.”
― Herman Melville

Start the timer–One hour!

Off the top of my head, this quote befuddles me. Seems like a simplistic no-brainer. Let’s see, do I want to crawl around dirt and shrubs, attack small rodents, live in a hole in the ground, and finally flail helplessly when a hawk clutches me in his talons and soars to my destiny as a bird’s supper? Um, no.

I’ve not read a ton of Melville, and I’m not sure of the context here. I used to teach Moby-Dick in AP Lit. The general consensus among those who read all 532 pages (and not many did) was that they were glad they read it. More importantly, they vowed never to read it again. The book begins with one of the most famous quotes in American literature: “Call me Ishmael.” If my server had chosen 1 as her number, I could wow you with my interpretation. Biblical allusion, philosophy, and plot foreshadowing all rolled into one.

But Nooooo, she picked 8. And there’s not a rattlesnake anywhere in Moby-Dick. The crew spends 532 pages hunting the great White Whale. And you know what? At the end, their boat, The Peqoud, sinks and everyone but Ishmael dies. Now, maybe I just ruined the story for you. But be serious, were you really going to read it? Doubtful. It’s hard enough to sit through the movie, though the older one with Gregory Peck ain’t bad.

Speaking of the Pequod, do you know there’s a Chicago chain of pizza places called Pequod’s? True story. They’re not as famous as Lou’s or Giordano’s or Gino’s, but they’re pretty good and definitely better than what they call “pizza” in Texas. Lots of great things about Texas, but not the ‘za.

Speaking of products spawned from Moby-Dick, I’ll wager you don’t know Starbucks draws its name from the Melville novel. Starbuck is the first mate under Captain Ahab. He’s a upright, moral character, like a strong cup of coffee. Legend has it that the guys who brainstormed the name for their new coffee joint considered “Pequod’s.” Then someone mentioned how nobody would ever say, “I could really go for a cup of Pequod.” Next time you visit, you can enthrall your barista with the story. I bet you get a free pump of espresso.

I digress. Back to rattlesnakes. At my dad’s mountain cabin out by Bootjack, I was always on the lookout for rattlers. When I was eight, I saw one outside the back door. Around three feet long, it was just chillin’ under a black walnut tree. I told my dad, and he grabbed a shovel and crept slowly toward it. The snake still didn’t move. My padre raised the shovel and severed the head with a single blow. It wasn’t exactly Hercules besting the Hydra. But I got the rattle off the tail, and I was the star of Show and Tell for my second grade class.

One more snake story, also at the Cabin. At my dad’s birthday party, somewhere around 60 or so, I was wandering around the acres. Call me a bored teenager at a prolonged beer-fest. Meandering just past the outhouse, a two-seater with enough stench to curl your nosehairs, I saw two rattlers mating. Their bodies intertwined, and they rose vertically from the ground. At that moment they posed no threat to anyone as they were, let’s say, quite occupied.

Still, the pair were dangerous serpents, at least they would be some day, as would their progeny. Excited, I ran to my dad. He grabbed his camera and his shotgun. Surrounded by his cadre of guests, he first aimed his camera at the distracted pair of snakes. After he snapped several pictures, he hoisted the shotgun to his shoulder. A hush of anticipation fell over the throng.

My two lingering impressions of that moment. The concussion from the shotgun was really, really loud. I’ve heard guns before and this was deafening. The other impression was the sight of exploding rattlesnakes. The bits and pieces flew everywhere, leaving a small stain on the ground. The crowd hooted and hollered like a Super Bowl team celebrating in the locker room. Oh yeah, the pictures didn’t turn out because my dad forget to take off the lens cover.

My only other rattlesnake experience is from the zoo. Rubes (my nickname for Ruby) loves, loves, loves going to the Dallas Zoo. The Serpent House (or whatever they call the place with all the snakes and lizards) is chock full of varicolored creatures in small glass cases. You can get right up next to a Western Diamondback or a Timber or a Sidewinder, whatever you like. If they get agitated, you can even hear the quivering rattle through the glass. Even behind a protective shield, they terrify me. Not Rubes. She just points and tells me, “It’s just a snake, Pagwa.” I smile and dry my sweaty palms against my jeans.

I think it odd that Melville even wrote about snakes, or even thought about them. The guy was all into ships and whales, harpoons and blubber, not slithery, crawling creatures. There’s a single chapter in Moby-Dick entitled “Cetology.” You likely have no idea what that means. Why would you? Webster defines it as “the branch of zoology dealing with whales and dolphins.” I can hear the yawns from here.

But our friend Herman, he spends fifteen pages detailing all the reasons a sea creature is or isn’t a whale. No wonder the novel wasn’t a big seller when it came out.

The clock says fifty-nine minutes, so here’s the grand finish: I’m going with Melville, Master of the Obvious, on this one. I, too, have no desire to be a rattlesnake.

What, you wanted profound philosophical insights? Go read Moby-Dick.