My mother was born in Tennessee in 1925, three months after her father died of a heart attack. Though there were six older siblings, it was her numerous male cousins who took pity on the fatherless child and adopted her into their fold. They taught her that in order to win, she had to be willing to “kick, scream, fight, cuss, be mean as a grizzly bear.” She learned to play Queen of the Mountain, and to her cousins’ dismay, she frequently won.

Her closest brother, Pascal, loved her brave antics. He had a bit of the scamp in him himself. Their mother, my grandmother—a hardworking seamstress—struggled to make ends meet, so the older children went to work and the two youngest, Pascal and Frollie (my mother’s nickname) helped with household chores. My mother learned to sweep and clean. Pascal’s job, though, became the Snake Watcher.

My grandmother was horrified of snakes. Wherever she went, she carried a hoe with finely sharpened blade meant for one thing: slicing the head off a snake. As a boy of eight, Paschal scoured the woods for any varmint that might slither into their cabin. An ace at throwing stones, he killed many a foe with a single, well-aimed blow. My mother, as horrified of snakes as her mother, wailed and high-tailed it home whenever Paschal would yell, “Found one!” As a cunning little mountain chap, Paschal frequently yelled it anytime he wanted to be alone, as he did on a particular day when his desire to be King of the Mountain put a devilish twinkle in his eye. He had, indeed, found one, whacked it with a stone, and stood back to admire the kill. Barefoot and shirtless, he picked up the dead four-footer, draped it across his shoulders, and headed home.

The closer he got, the prouder he grew. He wanted to show off his skill and bravery. So, he devised a plan. An unfortunate decision.

As his mother stood cooking at the wood stove, her back to the door, Paschal sneaked into the kitchen, the snake still around his shoulders, and like a young Tarzan yelled, “Found one!”

My grandmother gasped and whirled around to see her boy wrapped in the clutches of a deadly serpent. A blood-curdling scream was the last thing Paschal heard before his mother grabbed the hoe and cold-cocked him with the blunt end. He sprawled on the floor with the snake trapped underneath him. With my mother clinging to her skirt tail and wailing, my grandmother dragged him out of the cabin. Then she went back in and with her fine hoe, hacked off the serpent’s head. Young Frollie toddled in behind her and beat the doubly-dead snake senseless with a small stick.

Paschal slowly regained consciousness, his eyes opening to a terrible sight. His mother stood over him, her face filled with fury, her hoe held tightly in one hand, a switch in the other. And as if that weren’t bad enough, his baby sister squatted beside him and smiled, not a sweet smile but something more sinister: her Queen of the Mountain, I’m-the-winner smile. Eventually, he summoned the courage to get up. My grandmother switched his spindly legs ‘til she drew blood while the young Tarzan danced back into the kitchen to clean up the spoils of his war.

Paschal eventually recovered from the humiliation and played King of the Mountain with as much zeal as ever, claiming many a trophy, though well out of his mother’s eyesight.

And my mother still plays Queen of the Mountain, even though the “mountain” is a skilled nursing facility. She uses the skills her cousins taught her, and most of the time, she wins. There are days, though, when she doesn’t, and on those days, with a touch of God’s Grace, the grizzly bear inside her slinks away and magically turns into a docile kitten. At least for a little while.