This little guy lives by the dog’s water bowl, which doesn’t bother me or the dog a bit
I faced the webs on my porch. You see, it’s fall in the desert, time to clean our yards and outside living areas. To those who’ve grown up understanding the concept of spring cleaning, note that we perform that chore in the fall. It makes sense, since we spend the summers couped up with our air conditioning – hiding from blast-furnace temperatures – and the winters basking blissfully outdoors.
I gently moved the broom across the ceiling and into the corners, careful not to harm any of the arachnids who’ve made camp by my door. I admonish the tiny ones to run, since I don’t want to injure them.
And, now, you might think me strange, because I could never hurt a spider. Why this is the case, I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it was growing up with Charlotte’s Web. Or maybe it was watching my parents deposit spiders who had found their way inside outside, instead of crushing them into little blobs of spidery goo.
I never thought this behavior odd, until faced with folks who felt differently. There was the tough US Marine who hailed from Trinidad who was my housemate for a while. I had explained about Matilida, the black widow who resided in a low corner of the kicthen who only came out at night.
“Just don’t walk barefoot by the sink after dark,” I explained.
Then, one day I heard him howling in the kitchen. “You need to come in here! Now!”
I complied and was delighted by goosmer silk threads floating in the air, each speckled with dozens of tiny golden babies holding on like wee surfers. I grabbed some newspapers and corralled the infants and released them outside.
The big brave Marine recolied.
Then there was the evening stroll in the Costa Rican rain forest. My sweetie pie and I joined a small group searching for night creatures with a woman entomologist.
“Oh! Look at what we have here!” She reached into the leaf litter and produced a large long-legged spider. Eyes wide, she grinned like a grandma with a newborn babe. “These are the ones they use in horror movies. Who would like to hold it?”
No one moved. She frowned, disappointed in our little group, so I stepped up and held out my hand. Her eyes sparkled, one of those perhaps-she’s-not-quite-sane looks that made me reconsider our decision to follow her into the jungle in the dark. She placed the beast in my palm.
“So cute. Just like a kitten,” she cooed.
OK, I admit I had a sudden urge to flee, an impulse that had nothing to do with the spider. In fact, the little guy was rather sweet. I silently said goodbye as he scampered off into the undergrowth.
Then there was the football spider.
Late in the first half of a high school game, Phil, my line judge, ran toward me, blowing his whistle, and waving his arms overhead, killing the clock.
“Tarantula!” He stared wide-eyed and pointed downfield.
My first thought was that the home team had a spider mascot, but that idea was quickly dispelled when I saw a fuzzy creature moving in a strangely robotic motion near the 20-yard-line.
It was a tarantula’s appearance at a football game that would cement my love affair with spiders.
The barrel-chested coach, who’d been on me the whole game, grinned and crossed thick arms. “What are you going to do about it?” he yelled.
As we crouched over the beast, I envisioning some hapless kid with a fist-size spider wriggling from his facemask. I bit my lip and glanced at the players who eyed me from midfield.
Phil and I stared at one another. He raised both palms up.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“What are you going to do?” he mimicked the coach.
I took a deep breath and watched the hairy beast inch forward, moving all eight legs in a silent ballet. Did I hear the coach laughing?
I shot my arm into the tarantula’s path. And, without pause, the spider crawled onto the back of my hand and up my wrist, fuzzy feet tickling my skin.
Phil stood and backed away.
“Please don’t bite me,” I silently pleaded over and over, as visions of old horror movies played in my head. While the tarantula traveled up my arm, I walked slowly toward the end of the field. When I reached the outer edge of the track, I bent over and gently dropped the creature near a patch of rocky desert. The tarantula landed upright and marched on.
I swallowed several times, then turned and ran back up field past the coach. I herded the players to the line of scrimmage and took my position behind the quarterback. I blew my whistle, putting the ball into play.
But no one moved.
Then Phil’s whistle sounded and he signaled time-out. He doubled over and I thought he might be ill, but then I saw he was laughing.
“What?” I stared as he ran toward me.
Phil leaned in, then looked around to make sure no players were nearby. “The coach said, “‘She has a pair hangin’ and they ain’t tits.’”
I eyed at the coach. He nodded toward me, deferential, all remnants of his previously condescending attitude having disappeared with the spider.
For the rest of the game, no matter the situation – whether a flag went for or against his team, whether he agreed or disagreed with a ruling – the coach only addressed me with two words.
“Yes, ma’am,” was all he said.
Perhaps now you can understand my love affair with spiders.
Mystery/Suspense
Blank Slate Press/Amphorae Publishing Group
298 Pages
Price: $16.95 Paperback, $9.99 eBook
http://www.midpointtrade.com/book_detail.php?book_id=261955
As a Vietnam veteran and former Special Forces sniper descends into the throes of mental illness, he latches onto a lonely pregnant teenager and a group of Pentecostal zealots – the Children of Light – who have been waiting over thirty years in the Arizona desert for Armageddon. When the Amtrak Sunset Limited, a passenger train en route to Los Angeles, is derailed in their midst in a deadly act of sabotage, their lives are thrown into turmoil. As the search for the saboteurs heats up, the authorities uncover more questions than answers. And then the girl vanishes. As the sniper struggles to maintain his sanity, a child is about to be born in the wilderness.
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Author Anne Montgomery 