I was about four years old, maybe five, and my cousin Bob was a month older. We both lived at the old mine, him in the cookhouse and me in the white house partway down the hill. One summer day I was "helping" my mother do the laundry in the wringer washer with the gas motor in our porch. She did the laundry and I kept the wolves away with my cap gun. The washer had a flexible metal hose to take the exhaust outside, but no muffler,so it was pretty noisy.
Over the noise of the motor I heard a scream, such a scream as would be made by a child being carried off by an eagle, or maybe a wolf. I rushed out the door as fast as I could and was just in time to see my cousin racing (flying?) up the steps of his house. Little Ellen, a smaller neighbour girl, was standing there looking innocent, she was very good at that.
The wolf theory vanished with the vision of Ellen's placidity and the arrival of every mother in camp prepared to do battle with the forces of hell should it be neccessary. It was a very loud scream, echoes of it may be bouncing around to this day. All were there with the exception of Bob and my aunt, who arrived shortly.
The explanation was soon forthcoming. Bob had been coming down to my house, dressed in his cowboy outfit, to play with me. He saw Ellen standing there holding what was obviously his mothers belt, yellow and black striped and eminently recognizable. Realizing that Ellen was obviously not responsible enough to have charge of such an item, being both younger and a girl, he prepared to take action. "That's my mom's belt." he said, reaching for it. Then it twisted in her hands, of it's own volition, and he was gone.
His reasoned and logical explanation to his mother in the house, after the hysteria had abated, is as follows. "Ellen had a th'-th'-th'- thing. And it moved!"
The garter snake, proximate cause of all the excitement, had realized it was no longer neccessary, and departed to where snakes go when they're not here.
Bob later went on to become a professor of Family Medicine.

The Rexboro Social Club would hold bingo games regularly at the hall in order to raise money for the community. Bingo meant excitement, thrills and free lunch for us kids. It meant a lot of hard work to raise a little money for our parents. There were a lot of games and a lot of small prizes, some bought but mostly donated by the people of the community. Cakes were a big prize item, decorated especially for the occasion.
One lucky Bingo night my sister won a chicken, a live chicken. Well, we were mine kids, not farm kids, and we didn't know what the hell to do with the old hen after we got her home. Under normal circumstances, I suppose, she would have gone to the block and been in the pot PDQ. But this was a "prize" chicken, she had to be displayed and commented upon, my sister required her hour of glory, and so did the chicken. Which was all well and fine, but somehow or other (and I'm still not sure how) I got designated to be "keeper of the chicken". There was an old coal box, with a lid, behind the house, and into this went the chicken. Water and food were provided, and I bided the time until the shine wore off and the chicken could take its rightful place in the oven. This seemed to take months,but was probably only a few weeks, and all the time the old hen, (no Little Mary Sunshine at the beginning), was getting crankier and meaner. She had to stay in the coal box beecause the local dogs and feral cats (number unknown but sizeable) would have made short work of a wandering chicken. An elegant solution to my mind, but not to be. I would go down to the storage yard and find a boxcar that had been used for grain and sweep this up for the chicken, and when I opened the lid to deliver it and her water, she would try to peck me. She had a mean eye, especially designed to cow humans peering through the cracks at her.
After forever had passed and I was wondering if I was going to survive the "chicken wars", I came home from school one day and she was gone. My Grandpa Campbell had done the deed and the old girl was on the stove in the stewpot, being declared too old for anything else. I am, and was, a chicken stew fan, but that time it just didn't taste right.
I guess it was then I learned that you shouldn't develope too deep a relationship, pro or anti, with something you intend to eat.