While most people have furry friends, Lemire, 50, a breeder and hobbyist, tends to about 150 snakes and on this particular Monday, a handful of them are getting a soak in the yard outside his apartment.

Slipping a yellow-headed Woma python into a tray of water, Lemire speaks to the snake, a species native to the desert tundra in Australia and worth more than $1,200.

"There you go buddy, have a little chill out," he says as a photographer takes pictures. "He's quite the ham, this one."

That is, until it strikes.

The python, a little more than 5 feet long and not venomous, snapped its mouth onto his index finger. A stream of blood trails down, but to Lemire, a snake owner for more than 30 years, it's just one more instance to add to the "thousands of times" he's already been bitten.
He presses down on his finger to make sure there are no teeth left inside and talks to the snake.

"Why did you do that?" he asks, "I don't even smell like a rat, silly."

"More people get attacked by dogs than they do by snakes," said Lemire, a tall, burly man with a flat top haircut.

According to the Department of Health, about 17,000 people with non-fatal dog bites were admitted to hospitals in 2007. The department doesn't track snake bites, but "The Florida Handbook" reports that there are 300 to 400 venomous snakebites annually and few are fatal.

To Lemire, snakes are just as much a pet as cats and dogs and he's serious about protecting them and educating people, he said.

Two bumper stickers on his car state his commitment: "I brake for snakes."

See, Lemire's the type of guy that will pull over and help native snakes cross a road, unlike some people he's seen that try to run them down.

Last year, he watched a motorist on Maytown Road swerve across two lanes to smash a 6-foot yellow rat snake. Lemire picked it up, bleeding from the mouth and took it home to give it antibiotics. A week later, he fed it "a big fat rat" and turned it loose in a rural area. 

A BAD RAP

Unfortunately many people continue to have a "not in my backyard" or NIMBY attitude with snakes, said Steve Johnson, a UF assistant professor of urban wildlife ecology. But as Florida development encroaches into new areas, snakes are losing habitat and encounters become more likely.

"They just have misperceptions about snakes in general," said Johnson, who said people continue to see them as slimy and aggressive, which is not true. "Snakes play an important role in Florida's native ecology. They have an important link in food webs."

Florida is home to about 44 species of native snakes. In this part of central Florida, Johnson said there are four venomous species, including the coral, pygmy rattlesnake, cottonmouth and eastern diamondback.

Like many animals, Johnson pointed out that snakes do try to return to their habitat after relocation, although he said Lemire is "doing a great service." "He's doing people a favor and he's also doing snakes a favor."

If Lemire finds an exotic snake, he'll pick it up and take it home. He also extends his public snake service to anyone who needs to find a pet snake a new home. Local pet stores even turn to him when folks call for help identifying or getting a snake out of a house or garage.

A DEATH THAT CHANGED HIS LIFE

Lemire wasn't always into reptiles, though. Back in the third grade, he was terrified of them.

"My darling brother, in all his infinite wisdom let word get around that I was deathly afraid of snakes," he recalled.

A group of boys caught a 4-foot black racer and cornered him in the bathroom.

"The only way I could see out was through them, so I grabbed a hold of the snake and used it like a whip and beat my way out of there," he said.

The ordeal changed his life. 

"That snake died because of my ignorance and from that day forward every book I could find about snakes--I checked out and read cover to cover," he said.

Now he shares a non-venomous snake-breeding business with a partner in Edgewater, who declined to be interviewed.

They keep the snakes in a typical car garage--complete with a family storage fridge, a washer and dryer, except in some areas, the secured cages are stacked almost to the ceiling.

One of them includes a female Colombian boa that a friend found extremely emaciated and with parasites in an abandoned apartment.

In a year with Lemire, the snake gained twice its weight and now weighs 23 pounds.

Taking them in is just the start, though. Lemire envisions opening a snake rescue organization someday.

"Nobody thinks about the snakes and they're abused as much as any other animal," he said."Somebody's got to stand up for them."

Michael Nelson scans the expanse of river and shoals, looking for desperate waves from children and a nod from parents.

There's a little boy standing in the water, flailing both arms wildly. His dad is yelling something Nelson can't quite hear yet as he steers the red, white and blue, star-speckled boat toward the sandbar.

And then it's loud and clear. "Aarrrrrrr!" roars the dad, fist in the air.

Nelson, who wears a green pirate hat, knows the deal.

"Arrrrrrg! Coming in!" he bellows. "We're here to rob and pillage!"

Except Nelson isn't really the one doing the pillaging. Once he bumps his pirate-flag flapping Ice Cream Boat on the sandbar, children, parents and dogs surround him.

Canines hop aboard for free treats and stay a while, longing for more, as youngsters stare and marvel at their summer luck: a photo menu of ice cream on a stick on a 90-some- thing-degree Sunday in the middle of nowhere.

Ruby, a gray dog that looks like a short Weimaraner, hangs out on deck, while her human crosses slowly through the water.

"I think my dog wants to live with you," says Beth Siyufy as she buys an ice cream sandwich.

Siyufy gives Ruby ice cream "every single night," she says. "But we're going to just share ours now because it will melt too fast."

Most "creamies"-- Nelson's word for his customers -- often describe the boat as "awesome" and he knows it isn't such a bad setup. He chugs the 1989 pontoon through the Intracoastal Waterway for about five hours on Saturdays and Sundays, stopping at the beach at Smyrna Dunes Park, Disappearing Island (of New Smyrna Beach and Ponce Inlet), the surrounding sandbars or just pulling up alongside boats. (See video of the Ice Cream Boat man at work at the end of the story) 

"It's a helluva way to make a living," he said, steering toward the next child waving a fistful of dollars.

Treats for $2 and $3 are stored in freezers, powered by a battery, and tunes stream from speakers above his steering post.

Here's a few of the Ice Cream Boat Man's customers

He never imagined he'd be driving the Ice Cream Boat, he said, but recalled a ceramic statue he made in 1974 of an old sea captain, hands in pocket, with a beard. On it, he scratched "Mikey" and realized in a bizarre way that it was an image of himself.

"How did I know 35 years ago that I was going to end up like this?" he said. "That's me, the beard, the captain's hat, sitting there looking over the ocean. It's like it was almost supposed to happen."

Before his Popsicle-pushing days, though, the Port Orange resident was involved in printing a Biker's Pocket Guide for motorcycle events and was a mail machine mechanic. He found his dream job in 2006 while he was browsing ads in the Pennysaver. A guy was selling an ice cream truck and boat.

"My name was all over it. I had to have it. I just knew that was it," said Nelson, almost out of breath from the thought of that day.

A former partner piloted the boat, while Nelson drove the truck that he said almost killed him. Six months into driving the truck all week long, he said he became ill and slept anywhere from 18 to 23 hours a day.

Nelson went to doctors to try to figure out what was happening, until one morning he awoke from a telltale dream on Christmas Eve 2006. In it, he realized his truck had an exhaust leak and was poisoning him with carbon monoxide, he said.

"I ran out, jumped under the truck and sure enough there was all these holes in the exhaust pipe and found rusty floorboards and that's how the carbon monoxide got in," he said.

After that episode, Nelson got in the boat for his first season on the water. It usually begins around April 15 and runs through the end of September.

Since then, he's catered to millionaires on yachts and average Joes on skiffs.

And it's not as easy as people would think, he said. "You gotta know the ocean and the tides and how your boat works and make sure you don't hit anybody."

Nelson knows he's a bit of a rarity, which helps draw in new customers.

Even Johnny Eskew sees the charm in it, and he's an offshore fisherman.

"I wish I was doing it," he said as he bought ice cream for the whole family and dog. "I'm jealous."

Maneuvering past anchors, Nelson later heads toward a group of about six little squirts waving like maniacs in hopes of being recognized.

He takes orders for SpongeBob and Powerpuff Girl ice cream for a few minutes and departs methodically for the next round until a young girl shouts his way.

"Thank you, ice cream man! I love you!"

Nelson waves back and shows a soft side for a moment.

"Yeah," he says. "I love you, too."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is a video of life at Disappearing Island, but you can also catch a couple of glimpses of the Ice Cream Boat Man at work.

Number 27: A 43-foot, hand-carved Native American piece is a museum landmark in Desert Hot Springs, Calif.

Number 57: An 18-foot monument makes its home off a road in Astoria, Ore.

Prefer something closer to home? Wolf's 10th statue is in Punta Gorda, where an Indian brave and maiden emerge from a dead tree stump measuring more than 20 feet high.

There are 73 statues that honor indigenous people. Even at 61, he continues to plan for more.

Considering himself a tool, just like his hammer and chisel, Toth doesn't like to talk about himself. He lets the statues speak for themselves.

"I am just a person trying to honor maligned people," said Toth, who talks slowly, almost laboriously as he describes his purpose, with eyes closed behind tinted spectacles.

Back at home in Edgewater, where a sampling of small statues and carvings beckon visitors to his U.S. 1 gallery, the father of two teenage daughters works on some of his "insignificant little pieces."

A chaotic, open-air, personal museum is dotted with wizards, fish, dolphins, dragons, and historical pieces made from the same wood as his massive statues. Sales of these items supplement his "real work," which is found everywhere else but here.

Toth's mission to honor Native Americans and oppressed people began in 1971, taking him beyond the U.S. to Canada, and most recently to his native country, Hungary, where he carved a Whispering Giant along the Danube River last summer.

"I've worked for people that have faced injustice and it was always my dream to utilize my God-given talent to specifically help the American Indians, who I feel have been victims of injustice,' said Toth. "But my work goes way beyond the Native Americans; it's centrally for humanity."

He considers the atrocities American Indians have faced, such as the Trail of Tears -- the more than 1,000-mile journey that about 100,000 were forced to make in the 1830s when they were removed from their ancestral homelands in the Deep South and resettled on reservation land in Oklahoma.

While it may sound odd that a man with no American Indian relatives has dedicated his art to them, Toth, who is from the Magyar tribe of Hungary, is also no stranger to injustice and the loss of a homeland.

Born behind the Iron Curtain, he was one of 11 children raised in a dirt-floor peasant home. His father, who taught him about wood carving, farmed a family property until the communists stole it. By 1956, the Toths and 200,000 other Hungarians fled the country following the violent anti-communist uprising against Russian Soviet military forces.

Traveling by bus and train, they later crossed an icy swamp on foot into Yugoslavia, where they stayed in refugee camps. They relocated to Akron, Ohio, in 1958 when he was 11.

Toth's passion and plan for the Whispering Giants were inspired by John F. Kennedy's famous quote: "Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country."

Using a modified van, nicknamed the Ghost Ship, Toth traveled the country, partnering with cities, parks departments, chamber of commerce groups and private individuals to make arrangements to erect the giant sculptures -- with some logs weighing as much as 40,000 pounds. He accepted no government grants or compensation, but was occasionally assisted with living expenses and supported himself by selling smaller carvings.

"I don't take any money for them," he said. "I donate them to America."

Using a hammer and chisel of varying sizes, Toth chipped into massive logs and stumps to bring the local Indian lore and legends alive. The statues, often confused with totem poles of the Pacific Northwest, are not meant to replicate Indian culture.

"I study each of the giant logs until I can visualize the Indian within and then, what I try to do is intertwine the spirit of the tree with the spirit of the Indian," he said.

They are meant to be an interpretation and blend of all the Indian culture in the state, Toth said.

By 1988 he carved a Polynesian sculpture in Hawaii, completing his goal of a statue in every state after 17 years. His work is far from over.

Last year, he carved his first statue in Europe, of St. Stephan, who introduced Christianity to Hungary's Magyar people and became its first king. He keeps a "mini statue" made from the same wood at his studio for those who can't travel to see it.

Toth continues maintenance on the statues, most recently touching up the Indian head at Cabot's Pueblo Museum in Desert Hot Springs, which he carved from a sequoia log in 1977.

Visitors would offer to play chess with him at a picnic table nearby, but the artist would not rest, said Barbara Maron, vice president of the museum's board of directors.

"Peter would be up on the scaffolding with a pair of binoculars and he would call down his moves," she said. "He didn't come down off the scaffolding. I see it as a metaphor for his life."

The month-long restoration attracted more than 1,000 visitors -- a record for the museum. Many had seen him carve the statue 32 years ago.

The project also reunited old friends. Fellow Hungarian Zoltan Cser, 49, who learned about wood sculpting from Toth when he was 17, joined Toth to revive the statue they both worked on in 1977.

"It was one of the greatest summers I've ever had," said Cser, who calls himself Toth's protege. "I was telling my wife and my kids, I got to relive that summer again." Hundreds attended the re-dedication ceremony, where Richard Milanovich, chairman of the Agua Caliente tribe, spoke about the statue.

"He said Peter's gift is his understanding of his fellow man, and his empathy," said museum historian Maron.

Toth, who urged local officials to dedicate a day to honor local Indians, rather than himself, said the statue has a potential of lasting 1,000 years in desert weather.

Accomplishing heavy duty maintenance now is important while his health is good.

"I have to do all the heavy work now because I make my rounds once every 30 years," he said. "By the time I come back again they may have to put a wheelchair ramp up there because I'll be pushing 90."

And statuesque plans to honor more indigenous people continue. He hopes to stage an expedition someday into the Amazon to create a statue for South American Indians.

The hands beating on the skin of the drum propel Yvette Harley on a journey that electrifies her body into dance. 

Click here to watch the
video interview with Harley

"The beats and the drums--they just connect with your spirit," she said. "It just takes you to so many places. It's like you take a spiritual trip while you're dancing." Harley, 45, has never been to Africa, and yet in her own way, she's already reached and absorbed the continent's culture. Africa is in her living room art and décor. It's also in her business plan to open an ethnic dance studio and store. "It's about me, my heritage," she said.

Children in Southeast Volusia, where she teaches, often call her "the Africa lady" but the mother of five, with long, thin dreadlocks, grew up in Harlem, New York, where there are African dance classes on nearly every street corner, she said.

To prevent Harley from getting caught up in the violence and drugs in Harlem, her mother kept her busy six days a week in a variety of classes, such as ballet, jazz, tap, folk dancing and even some piano.