Just A Girl and Her Snake

A Personal Essay

Let me start by saying that when a little girl grows up with six brothers, it’s hard not to become a tomboy.

I was always a bit rough-and-tumble. I wore boys’ clothes, all hand-me-downs from those who came before me. The occasional girls’ clothes I got—usually every few summers in a big black garbage bag—were brought over from my cousins, since they were the only girls around my age. Even then, they never fit right. I was a bit chonk, soft in all the wrong places; the elastic in those faded shorts biting into my belly was a reminder that I wasn’t built quite like other girls.

But I didn’t mind. My world wasn’t one of lace and ribbons—it was of mud and scraped knees, of rusted bikes and creek beds.

I was also a bit of a critter collector. Nothing serious, just a few toads here and there, and my fondness for catching bumblebees was second only to catching snakes. Of course, I found this to be a natural progression from wearing boys’ clothes and sitting through their endless chatter. What else was a girl supposed to do with a backyard full of rocks, sticks, and the occasional field mouse?

As much as I loved snakes, they occasionally bit. Toads always peed all over my shoes, and bumbles typically got angry and buzzed their indignation right in my face. None of this stopped me. If anything, it fueled me. Each sting, nip, or squeal felt like part of a secret initiation—one that said I belonged to something wilder, something that didn’t care whether I brushed my hair or crossed my legs.

I wasn’t allowed to keep them for long. Snakes were housed in old glass aquariums, their bodies a slick shimmer against the light, flicking tongues tasting the air. Toads lived temporarily in oversized boxes filled with grass and sticks. Bumblebees were caught in overturned plastic cups just long enough to make them express their displeasure before being released in a mad dash to the front door. They never once caught me back, though I imagine the whole neighborhood breathed a little easier knowing my bug hunts were only temporary.

Eventually, everyone was released back into nature, with only my mother worse for wear. She’d find the aquarium lids missing, the box overturned, or a suspicious buzzing in the kitchen. I was always saddened to lose my little friends—though “friends” might be a generous word for creatures who’d rather be anywhere else—but the hunt would resume soon enough.

I played in the dirt, climbed rocky hillsides, and dug for fossils. I picked crabapples, chased butterflies, and caught lightning bugs. I loved being outside regardless of the weather. A little rain never scared me; a thunderstorm was a free show. I went on bike rides to secret places with brown-bag lunches—usually peanut butter sandwiches smashed flat and a plastic bottle of Little Hug juice—and I’d sit by the creek like it was my own private kingdom.

I hugged trees, played in storm drains, splashed in the nearby creeks, caught crawdads, and watched minnows sparkle in the water like tiny, living jewels. I picked blackberries and ate them with cream and sugar—sometimes straight from the bowl, sometimes with the guilt of knowing I’d eaten half before dinner. I drank from the hose, peed in the woods, and lived outside like a little nomad. Every bruise, scratch, and mosquito bite was a badge of honor.

After my parents’ divorce, nature became more than just a playground—it became a refuge. Somewhere to escape from what was happening inside. The house felt heavy with silence and grown-up tension. Outside, the air was easier to breathe. The trees didn’t ask questions. The creek didn’t take sides.

It’s hard to stay angry when you’re outside, as long as your eyes are open and you really see what’s around you. There’s always something to ground you—a tree to rest beneath, a bug to examine, a leaf to press between the pages of a favorite book. I think that’s what the snake taught me, too: that the wild doesn’t judge. It doesn’t care who you are, only that you’re paying attention.

Even after all these years, I still enjoy spending time outdoors, with my hands in the dirt and the wind on my face. I do it less often now because of family responsibilities and daily life, which make it harder. My body is older and doesn’t always cooperate; my knees creak, my back protests, and I’m slower climbing the same kinds of rocky hills I once sprinted up. But when I dig in the soil of my garden and uncover a worm or a garter snake, I still get that same thrill I did as a kid—the reminder that something untamed still lives just beneath the surface.

All those brothers who guided me while I was growing up are now scattered across the U.S., and I rarely see them. We grew up without supervision or control, a small pack of half-wild kids who made our own rules. Our loyalties to each other were never strong and are now mostly gone, but I like to think that somewhere, buried under layers of adulthood and distance, they remember the same hot summers and cool creeks I do.

My garden now is wild and untamed, a refuge for snakes and toads and a feast for bumbles of all sizes. I let the grass grow long, plant milkweed for the monarchs, and build rock piles where garter snakes can hide. I love the feeling of wild places and secret spots—little corners of the world that don’t require permission to exist.

Sometimes, I still pack a brown-bag lunch, just for old time’s sake, and find a quiet patch under a tree. I’ll sit there and talk to no one in particular—to the wind, to the bumbles, maybe even to that long-ago snake that taught me the beauty of being both fearless and a little misunderstood.

Because once you’ve held something wild in your hands, even for a moment, it never really lets go of you.

Until next time, dip from your inkwell often,

Mira Wolfe Writes …