My tendency is to want to start by saying that it started out as a normal evening in our household, almost mundane by anyone else's measure, while in fact it was anything but typical.

I should preface the rest of the story by telling you that most of the factual information I will give you is actually relevant to the story, though at the time it may seem more or less extraneous.

All four kids are at camp this week, up in the hills not too far from Pilot Mountain, just north of Winston-Salem. Keep that in mind, because it means that some things that might have been observed by any of the kids might also have gone unnoticed at home this week.

I arrived home from work at about 5:30, a little earlier than usual. I had been feeling queasy most of the day, with a slight headache too, so I stepped into the house from the garage with something less than the usual chipper greeting with which I greet my wife.

Originally we were planning on grilling a couple rib eye steaks on the grill; my wife had retrieved them from the freezer the day before, and they had thawed nicely. We briefly discussed foregoing the steaks and saving them for another night, since my stomach was of a rather uncertain status.

I ended up insisting that we go ahead and eat the steaks; the thought of the succulent beef (raised in a chemical free environment, more or less, by the friend of a friend) whetted my appetite, and I figured that was a good sign to proceed.

I fired up the grill while my wife cut the extra fat off the steaks; she deposited the fat into the garbage and remarked that we should take the garbage out tonight so that it doesn't smell in the morning.

After dinner, she and I walked out to the new chicken coop, currently under construction, and we worked on it for perhaps two hours. The eleven baby chickens (I use that term loosely, because at two months they act more like teen-age kids than babies) currently are housed in the garage in the "chicken tractor" / pen that we made for our other chickens three years ago. Every time we walk past the chicks, we stop and talk to them, sometimes picking them up as they continue to get used to us.

Anyway, we worked on the coop, and when we reached a stopping point, we went to the garden and orchard to pick blueberries and cherries. When dusk settled in and it became too dark to discern a good cherry from a bad one, we gathered our things and headed into the house.

My wife worked on vacuum sealing all the blueberries she had picked two days ago, and again she asked me to take out the garbage. I gathered the bag, tied it, and carried it out across our driveway to the garbage bin.

As I was walking through the garage to go back into the house, my wife came out to the garage.

It was then that I saw a black rat snake, perhaps five or six feet long, stealthily making its way along the inside edge of the chicken tractor.

Now, I should point out that my wife is rather fond of snakes; in fact, in high school and college she had pet boa constrictors (until one escaped from its cage in the dorm room and her roommate went into hysterics). She (my wife) is used to handling snakes and is quite comfortable doing so.

I don't mind snakes from a distance. Black rat snakes especially are generally quite beneficial.

We have had black rat snakes get into the chicken coop of our older chickens and eat the eggs. Therefore, when I pointed the snake out to my wife, I was curious but not overly concerned, because I was assuming the snake was looking for eggs, and these young hens are not laying eggs yet.

My wife acted quickly, though. She said, "We've got to find the head."

At that moment, the snake lunged faster than I could have ever imagined a snake could strike, and it wrapped itself around one of the chickens, forming a tight ball.

Reaching in quickly and shouting, "No no no," at the snake, my wife grabbed and pulled out the snake - chicken ball. Working swiftly and deftly, and starting at the snake's tail, she unrolled the snake until she got to the head; the snake had the chicken's foot in its mouth, and when my wife clenched her first just behind the snake's head, the snake let go.

There she was, holding the snake. I almost said, "Stand there a moment while I get the camera," but thought better of it.

I did grab the butterfly net. My wife deposited the snake into the netting, and I carried it over a half mile to the other edge of our neighborhood, letting the snake go deep in the woods.

The whole adventure was a whirlwind. I'm glad I took the garbage out; I'm glad I saw the snake; and I'm especially glad that I've got a brave wife who will pick up a snake just as easily as you or I might shag a fly ball deep in center field on a sultry summer's night.

It had never occurred to me that a snake would go after a chicken! This was another life lesson learned by raising these fascinating birds.