I really should be afraid of snakes. I was bitten by one as a kid. The damned thing chomped down so hard—and surprised me so much—that my shriek sounded like air barely escaping a balloon: "Eeeeeeeee!!"
I was on a school field trip when it happened. One of the girls on the nature hike recoiled in disgust when she spotted the serpent crossing the path. Her reaction scared every kid in my fifth grade class.
Without hesitation, I dashed to the front of the group and snatched it up. It was as large as a garter snake could get. I'd handled smaller snakes before in my adventures through the alleys and fields of my hometown. (I'd probably also eaten Sugar Babies afterwards without washing my hands. These were The Unsupervised Years and I was an idiot.)
I felt like a big man for approximately five seconds. My classmates watched in awe at how easily I'd tamed the wild reptile. I was Steve Irwin before anyone heard of him. Then the snake latched onto my finger and didn't let go. I made the noise described above and tried to fling it away. Its jaws refused to loosen. The next noise I made while windmilling my arm was, "Guh-guh-guh-guh-guh!"
So yeah. When I found a garter snake in my basement window well as an adult, I put on a glove and gently picked it up. Not afraid; respectful. As I relocated the snake to the park at the end of my block, I thought about how stupid I looked when I was ten.
But not as stupid as the boy who I threw the snake at that day. I'll never forget the look on that kid's face when it finally let go and sailed into him. Good lord how he jumped. I'm betting he's the one who developed the lifelong fear.