When we lived in our old house (a small limestone with screened porch, for future reference) and the kids were little, we saw snakes all the time.

I was afraid to let them play outside because of the snakes. I was RIGHT THERE almost every second, with my baseball bat and my rake.

Snakes. Plural. We seldom saw just one snake, singular. They came in hordes.

Sometimes, when we mowed, the blades threw them to the side by the dozens. Turtles, too. But this post is about the snakes.

I’ve already blogged about the big one that got into the house that time. I think its Mafia-based family came to avenge it a dozen times a week.

Until, of course, we found their den and let Mr. Clean do the talking. Honk if you want details.

That little house is next door to the house we built and live in now; my sweet MIL owns it and has renters, who will be moving out within the year in case anyone needs a little limestone house with a screened porch to rent. But ever since we moved here, there have been no snakes. Not one single snake. The renters haven’t seen any over there, either.

My kids think that once word got out to the snake community that a crazy lady who hung out with Mr. Clean, owned a lot of matches, and wasn’t afraid to use either of them, lived here, they all slithered as far away as they could, and made themselves a huge underground den in someone else’s front yard.

I hope that other momy knows how to utilize Mr. Clean to the utmost. He’s a handy guy to keep around, if you have linoleum floors and snakes in your front yard.