Motorbikes and Snakeskins

I do not believe the events of our lives are random and meaningless. I believe that every day we are presented with lessons, and if we’ll just pay attention, we are made greater by them.

Our home was purchased from my husband Kelly’s mother, who had it built in 1984 on land deeded to her by her late father. It lies between the home where Kelly’s grandparents used to live and the lot where he grew up, in a mobile home which no longer stands. There is family history here.

When we moved here in 1989 our back yard looked out on a large pasture where Kelly remembers tending cows and shooting doves as he grew up. This bucolic environment was part of the reason owning our own home was such a joy. We were both “rural” kids, and after living in apartments for several years, the “wide open spaces” were just what we craved.

A few years later, Kelly’s grandfather sold the large tract of land behind us to a developer, who planned to build houses on the acreage. A few years after that, the developer resold the property to a man who was known for setting up low-end trailer parks. To make a long story short, we now have about 75 mobile homes, in various states of disrepair, crammed together behind us. There is no manager’s office, no homeowner’s association, no rhyme or reason to what goes on in this neighborhood.

Most, but not all, of the residents of this community are Hispanic. The sounds of Latin music and Reggaeton howl from passing cars at all hours of the day and night. Conversations in English are a rarity. Loud motorcycles, squealing car tires and noisy go-carts are constantly drowning out the sound of our television. There is illicit gang activity which brings the Sheriff’s Department around frequently. There have been robberies and even one confirmed murder in the neighborhood over the last few years.

For Kelly, understandably, all of this is alien and threatening. Paranoid by nature anyway, he prepares for an “inevitable” home invasion by cleaning his guns, sharpening his knives and keeping the pit bull riled up. And while I recognize the possibility of such an event, I try to keep a positive outlook where people are concerned and look for the good in everyone. That’s why the events of this week have been such an affirmation for me, and such a needed reassurance for Kelly.

While watching television a few nights ago, I heard a small motorbike break down in front of the house. There was the distinctive sound of a chain leaving the sprocket and metal parts rolling down the driveway in the darkness. Other than being immediately thankful for the silence, I gave it no thought.

As I watered my flowerbeds the next morning I spotted something foreign in the grass, and, upon closer inspection, I realized it must be one of the missing motorbike parts. I pointed it out to Kelly and left it on my patio table outside.

Later that day, a young man knocked on our front door. He was the owner of the now defunct motorbike and he was wondering if it was okay to look around our front yard for any missing parts. After showing him the pieces I’d already found, Kelly gave permission, and even offered to help him search.

As they walked up and down the shoulder of the road, the young man opened up and shared information about himself. His name was Israel. He was only 25 years old, but had a birthday coming up the next day. He was married and had two children, lived in a crowded mobile home with several friends and family members, and did tattoo work to supplement his income as a masonry worker. His father had taught him to be respectful of his elders and to work hard at whatever job he had.

His thoughts about humankind were mature for one so young, and he seemed very balanced about his place in the world. He wanted to keep his kids safe and didn’t want the chaos of the neighborhood to affect them. His wish was to one day be able to move to a better place where he, his wife and children could have their own home. Living with several other adults and their kids was more than he could tolerate sometimes, which was why he had bought the little motorbike in the first place. It was something to escape on, if only for a little while.

Israel explained to Kelly that he came to the door out of respect, understanding that we had been in the neighborhood longer than anyone else, and didn’t want to upset us by foraging around in our yard without explanation.

Kelly, in turn, shared stories about growing up here and how the nearby woods and swamps had been places where he camped, hunted and fished. He told about family gatherings and how the neighborhood had once been a very different place for kids to play. The young man listened to these stories with interest and respect, interjecting his own stories about hunting and fishing.

At some point, the conversation turned to native Florida animal species, such as alligators and rattlesnakes. Israel began to talk about rattlesnakes and how their rattles accumulate with age. Much to his amazement, Kelly then went inside and brought out a snakeskin he’d preserved many years ago, unrolling it to display 16 rattles and a button. The young man expressed his thoughts about how unique it would be to have such rattles gold-plated and wear them on a neck chain, since he had never seen this done before.

By the time they finished their lengthy conversation, Kelly had presented Israel with another snakeskin, smaller and incomplete, but with five rattles still attached. Take it as a gift, he told the young man.

Israel’s gratitude and surprise were immediately evident. Thanking Kelly over and over again, he offered to work in our yard or do some free tattoo work as repayment for the snakeskin. He promised to help keep an eye on our property for us whenever we’re not home, and gave Kelly an invitation to visit in his humble home.

When he shook hands and walked away, Kelly shared the whole story with me. There was respect and admiration in his voice as he talked about his conversation with Israel. Although they came from different generations and different nationalities, he felt a kinship with this young man.

I certainly don’t love the changes in our neighborhood--no one could. But sometimes an encounter like this one can make a place seem less alien to us, less threatening. It can make us see how we as people are alike instead of how we are different.

And that’s a good lesson.