Snakes Alive.

While recently walking down Charleston's King Street, Estelle's ring tone beckoned a quick answer. "Brother, I'm going to Haiti." Stopped dead in my tracks somewhere between Lacoste and Louis Vuitton, I could only muster a barely audible, "What?"

For such a drawl, Estelle can rapidly deliver a deluge of information. "Brian, they gonna need good people to help with orphans and old people. Lord knows, I am both good willing and able-bodied. The Episcopalians are going and I_am_going_with_them."

Disaster calls, Estelle answers.

Estelle handles crises better than contentment. In the spring, when the sun is half lit, the air temperate, and the trees barely blossomed, Estelle's approach to daily life will be melancholy at best. Yet, if per chance, a spring flood collapses the wall of an assisted living complex washing colostomy bags, lung tanks, and octogenarians tightly gripping their walkers down stream of the French Broad River, then Estelle shines. Her commands will be forever gracious, her concern genuine, and her ability to organize and implement the actions of many will be nothing short of miraculous.

For these latter reasons alone, she has chaired the Bereavement Committee of her church for more than fifteen years. At the start of her tenure, the committee was twelve people responsible for organizing a single month of responsibilities. With the start of a new month, began the start of a person's responsibilities. Over time, and I would say intimidation, the committee became a mere six people with five of the members guiding one month and Estelle performing six months of service. "I take October through March because more people die in those months. I read that in the double A, R and P."

Fire, floods, cancer, a proverbial Sodom and Gomorrah of disease and blight serve as no impediment for Estelle's ability and desire to help. There is only one darkness that invokes her fear: snakes. Like Eve, that creature curses Estelle.

Hospice recruited Estelle with more vigor than Dean Smith recruited James Worthy and Michael Jordan. Her ability to listen to people and sympathize with their struggle became her slam dunk and she accepted a starting position with Team Hospice.

After her first home visit, she phoned. Always welcoming her Southern charms during my time in the Midwest, I inquired about her new do-gooding. "Good Lord Jesus and Baby Jesus, those_people_are_dying." Hospice was not synonymous to death in Estelle's life. "And do you know what?" In the South, that inquiry is eternally rhetorical. "Most of them have pets. They are just worried sick about who will take care of those dogs and cats when they pass onwards. I can't say that I blame them."

Even though I was twelve states removed, I could hear Estelle's mind formulating a rescue. Before I could suggest such an idea, she chimed, "I tell you what. I'll make sure that is one worry that need not be."

So it was for six months. Estelle provided a caring hand and assurance that the puppies and kittens of the soon-to-be-very-mortal would be placed in good homes. "Daddy's passing was so much easier since you found a good home for Uncle General." Estelle received such compliments with her smile, holding someone's hand, and relaying, "It's the least I could do."

Thursday morning in late March found my apartment windows covered with snow when my phone rang. "Lord, guess where I am off to, Baby Boy?" Estelle rarely says hello to family members forsaking that pleasantry for the substance found in familiarity. I was silent knowing again the code of Southern rhetoric. "David_Perry."

Growing up, I was never allowed to walk down pristine Fourth Avenue because of David Perry's ill-fitting and unkempt bungalow. An additional half mile was part of my daily bike route to school because Estelle insisted I never ride by this house. My first memory of David Perry was his stroll in front of my dad's office. He was walking with an accordion strapped to his chest and screaming to high heavens, "It was Saturday night and I killed my wife. Killed her dead." He would stop momentarily and squeeze the accordion releasing a cacophony of sounds before resuming his walk and tirade, "I killed my whole family and then shined up my broadax."

"Are you sure it's safe to go to David Perry's?" I had to ask.

"Well, I dont think Hospice would ask me to go if they thought I would be endangered and such."

"Maybe, I don't know, you should take someone with you." Although it is rarely needed, I am always protective of Estelle.

"Baby, I am taking Carol." My mom at 5'2" and 115 pounds is a giant next to Carol who is two inches less and whose only form of protection is a shell of Aquanet hair. "Barbara Gene said he had a pet. I think its name is Squeaky or something like that. I'm sure he wants her to find a good home."

"If he hasn't killed it with an ax," I sighed.

"Brian_Dean_Crisp, you watch the way you talk about the almost dead. I raised you better than that."

With the prolonged utterance of my full name, Estelle resigned to complete her Hospice duties of finding a home for Squeaky. Expecting to hear from her in a few days about the peaceful passing of another saint due to pet placement, I was shocked when my phone rang ten minutes later.

"Sweet Lord Jesus weeping on the Cross. Do you know what?" Again, I was silent. "Squeaky_IS_A_SNAKE!" Hearing the word snake, I could only recall Estelle's last encounter with the reptile. She was leaning out the third story window with a shotgun taking target at a green snake curled on the ledge of her garden's retaining wall. She's a good shot.

"Oh," was all I could muster. Unlike Estelle, I am usually of no comfort.

"And I'm not talking those little black snakes you used to dig up by the lake. Oh, no, no, no, no. This thing was biiiiiiig." Surely it was since Estelle made a one-syllable word multi-syllabic. She then commanded Carol, "Carol, what kinda snake did they say that was?" Faintly, I could hear Carol's muffled drawl. "That's right. Brian, it is a nine-foot-long Burmhanmanese or somewhere python." Estelle was never fond of geography.

"How did Mr. Perry get a Burmese Python?" I was curious.

"Well, I reckon we will never know. Lord, he's in bad shape. He didn't even comprehend we were in his house. Albeit, we didn't stay that long with the snake and all." I wondered if the snake would lead to Estelle severing her relationship with Team Hospice. "Do you know anyone who needs a big snake?" I guess not.

With usual rigor, Estelle began working on Squeaky's placement. The Humane Society was no help and if Wendy Metcalfe had not known Estelle personally, she would not have humored her call to the Salvation Army. "Well, they didn't have such a problem when I donated all those Gucci purses," Estelle would later comment.

After four phone calls to the North Carolina State Zoo, Estelle finally connected with a zoologist who could discern she was more sincere than certifiable. This can be a curse in our family. We simply experience a phenomenon and then when relating it over the phone, others seem to think we are insane. Apparently, most families never start a phone conversation with "Good morning, I have a nine-foot-long female Burmese Python named Squeaky that needs a home," or "Hi, I just got out of the hospital after being knocked unconscious by an elephant at a gypsy circus, but I am O.K."

Intoxicated with her drawl, the receptionist at the Western Reptile and Nature Center replied, "If you aren't crazy, we'd love the snake." Estelle's reply was earnest, "Ma'am, I am not crazy. I'm with Hospice."

A few days later, Estelle had organized Hospice volunteers, widowers, and a reptile specialist to converge upon Fourth Avenue. Mr. Perry's family had gathered. They were very much alive and living in Michigan, which seems to be a somewhat better alternative to his mythological ranting accompanied by the accordion. His daughter thanked Estelle, "I know my dad was a bit odd and I can't say thank you enough." Neglecting to mention her anxiety of snakes, Estelle's reply was humble, "Well we all smiled when your dad played accordion."

As the family rested in the now cleaned and spotless front room, Estelle went into David Perry's room. She took his hand in hers. She caressed it as if her touch could ease his difficulty of breathing or subdue his bitter coughs. "Mr. Perry. I wanted to let you know Squeaky has a new wonderful home. We made sure she had a habitat at the Western Reptile and Nature Center. I am sure many people will view her with wonder."

Recently, Estelle took her great nephew to the Western Reptile and Nature Center. "And this Grayson is Squeaky. She is a nine-foot-long Burmese Python." Wonder indeed.