A Lesson on Water Moccasins: Coping With Grief
The sorrow over my father’s death still lingers, a deep ache in my heart that rises with reminders. Today is one of those days, the anniversary of his passing. Grief doesn’t move in a straight line or follow a timeline. It shows up quietly, returning in moments like this, when memories and meaning come together. Learning how to live with grief takes time and lots of patience.
His life is woven into my own: a story of laughter and grit, stitched together with moments that still stay with me. Today, those memories stir up a lifetime of feelings, and I want to remember him with my whole being.
The Grief Process: Remembering Loved Ones
Ours was not a TV-perfect family. Our relationship was full of conflict, stubbornness, and love, with bursts of laughter along the way. I refuse to cover up my father’s life with perfect memories that were never our reality.
When we’re grieving, it’s natural to remember our loved ones as flawless. But when we only remember the good parts and skip over the ugly ones, we turn a real person into a cartoon of who they were. And when we pass that story down to future generations, we set an impossible standard for relationships. Real relationships are a messy mix of laughter, arguing, growth, and imperfection.
Coping with Grief
My father was born out of the depths of the marsh, where mosquitoes hum and an alligator’s silent glide is the only warning that it’s there. In the marsh, mud mixes with tangled roots, making a stubborn mess where survival is everything. That was his essence.
I, his daughter, am made of those same elements, but I am the still water at dawn: smooth and flat, shimmering as the birds dip down to grab a bite, sending ripples through the reflection of the clouds above. My life is the calm surface and the wild ripples. I still navigate those murky waters. Those ripples stir up memories that run deep.
My father was a mystery, with so much knowledge inside him. At different times he was known as the crab whisperer, the marsh whisperer, the Cajun Sage, or my personal favorite, the camp B****. His knowledge had no end. His sharp eyes could easily name every bird and duck in the sky and every plant on the bank. He knew the best fishing spots and the secrets of the best bait, and he could even talk about how people were affecting the land. He saw the connection between nature and man around the same time the science of erosion was starting to understand it. Out in the quiet of the camp, he grew a way of seeing that was all his own.
That same sharp eye now lives in me and shows up in my profession as I watch and make sense of human behavior. My insights don’t just come from what I notice. They’re also backed by scientific evidence that lines up with what I see.
Remember the Cherished Moments & Share with Loved Ones
I return to the bits of memory where my father now lives. It is the only place I can visit him now. Today I am taken back to the sunny Boston Canal, “Bow Ston.” On those magical weekends at camp, we’d load up the boat with the essentials and head toward our own private slice of heaven. The camp was a true gem, tucked into nature, with cozy mattresses thrown across wooden planks. Space was never an issue. There was room for everyone.
In that special place, my father’s soul could rest. There, he was easy to approach, calm, and at peace. The camp was his kingdom, where being father and daughter came easier. He was not only my protector but also my teacher, and I treasure every moment we spent together there.
Embrace Your Grief and Find Your Voice
Outside the camp, we kids gave in to the heavy summer heat and jumped into the cool water. We gathered on our homemade raft, floating on the current, tied by a rope to the pier. In those moments, happiness was as simple as being in the water.
The water was so dark and murky you couldn’t see beneath it. It took a little fearlessness to dip even a toe in, so excitement filled the air. This trip, instead of the usual calm, we were greeted by something unexpected: a snake, slithering across the murky canal. With urgency in their voices, the adults quickly pulled us out of the water. The snake had broken the peace of the marsh.
Nature is often predictable. A creature does the same things over and over (so do humans). But when the unexpected shows up, it wakes up our instincts and sets off alarms inside us.
In moments like this, my father, Bozie, rose to the occasion. Being the protector came as naturally to him as his own skin. He was like a fortress, and when he firmly called for everyone to fall back, adults and kids huddled together, scared and fascinated at the same time. Fear and fascination go hand in hand. Together, they make you feel very alive.
My father seemed to grow bigger in the face of danger. He thrived in the marsh’s uncertainty, and his confidence out there never wavered. In the middle of all the alarm, my father went after the dangerous snake while we all shouted in fear. There was a moment, a glint in his eye, that told me he was enjoying our reaction. His laughter echoed. With a shovel in hand, he chased the snake. It was a chilling thing to watch.
He was not a violent man. He was a man of mysteries. His interest in the meeting of man and wildlife came from endless curiosity, not a desire to destroy. His hunger to know things was as much a part of him as his boldness, and both now live in me.
He drove the shovel into the snake’s neck in one swift motion, pinning its head to the blade. Even in its last moments, the snake’s body twisted like it was still full of life. The women screamed with every wiggle. My father, both hero and sage, held up the dead water moccasin and turned it into a lesson about the raw power of nature and how serious its dangers can be.
When he pried open the snake’s mouth to show the fangs, everyone went quiet. There was Bozie, stepping easily into the role of teacher, holding our attention and keeping us careful as he showed us nature’s dangers. His wisdom poured out like the venom he squeezed onto the wooden pier: strong, real, and easy to underestimate. A reminder of the delicate balance we all live in.
He commanded attention. With every story, every lesson, and every act, he left a mark on our memories, one where respect for both sides of the wild would stay with us forever.
With a mix of awe and caution, he invited all the kids and adults to come see the water moccasin’s venom. As we gathered around, he taught us what could happen with a snake bite. He made sure we understood that even a small amount of venom could hurt you, whether the snake was alive or dead.
My father was a mix of roles: protector, teacher, and even a little bit wild. He had a way about him that made him seem untouchable and vulnerable at the same time.
When he showed us the venom on the pier, we huddled together like a team waiting for the next play. It was quiet, and you could feel the anticipation. As we stood close together, he suddenly lunged the snake’s head toward some of us, laughing at our startled screams. It was a masterful way of using curiosity, fear, and humor to drive his point home.
Bozie’s presence pulled every eye toward him, not just because of his size, but because of the electric energy that came off of him. He could switch from serious to laughing in an instant, keeping us on our toes. Like the ever-changing marsh, he was unpredictable, deeply connected to the wild. But his unpredictability will have to wait for another blog post.
He showed us the delicate dance between danger and protection, and he left a lasting mark on how we pay attention to nature and the present moment. Maybe, in that mix of opposites, he taught me how to handle life’s unexpected twists and turns. Those instincts, that lightning-fast thinking, and that endless curiosity are treasures that still guide me.
Remember to give yourself permission to grieve, no matter how much time has passed. Grief is a stubborn companion that needs a voice.
Support for Grief at KDH Counseling
Grief can be heavy and hard to carry alone. At KDH Counseling, we offer therapy, medication management, and psychological evaluations to support you as you process loss and move forward.
We provide services in Lafayette, Louisiana, with in-person and telehealth options. You can learn more or schedule a consultation to get started.
