welcome mat

I have just shown a spider the door. Given it 'the bums rush.' What a great expression. Not a very compassionate one but there you have it.
Against the stark white of dropped ceiling was a thug of a spider.
The biting kind.
I've been unpacking.
Lots of boxes and paper and clumping about.
It has caused a disturbance in the smaller kingdom I suppose.
Maybe the spider decided the neighborhood was going down hill.
Out he swaggered.
I grabbed the nearest thing to hand.
An antique canning jar and piece of paper.
I had to stretch and reach.
The spider did his own stretching and reaching.
Now he was on the jar lip.
Now he was on the outside of the jar.
Now he was on the paper.
Now our eyes were on lock and hold.
Now I was sprinting for the door.
Oh oh.
Both hands were full.
Empty jar in one hand and desperate spider gaining its bearings on the other.
He's outside now.
I dusted him off onto the welcome mat.

bulging eyes

I suddenly screamed.
Last week as my grandson and I were loping along at the edge of a a field, my voice became the sound of angst.
Those wavering notes seemed to echo all around me.
My grandson looked as startled as you might expect.
When he dashed back and asked me why I'd screamed, I told him it seemed like the right thing to do when you have a big spider hanging from your hair.
Such a big spider too, with striped legs and bulging eyes.
Bulging eyes staring into bulging eyes.

maybe later

There's a spider in my house.
It is hanging out, or more accurately, hanging under a shelf.
When I sounded the alarm, my mother wisely pointed out that at least I know where it is. (as opposed to the other spiders that may be lurking in the shadows I suppose) Such are the comforting words of the practically minded.  It is the sort of comfort my mother has been doling out all of my life. Sometimes it actually helps. 
My garden is the right place for this spontaneous spider but when I peered at him I got the impression that he was happy where he was.
Body language says so much.
Sometimes it says Tarantula, but fortunately, this time it just says Maybe Later.

hunters

We went for an early morning stroll, disappearing into the mist, our vision opening up before us as we walked. The trees were festively strung with spider webs. the sidewalks adorned with leaf confetti. A maple tree, swathed in color and the glistening strands of a large web drew us for a closer look.
"The spider is hiding there." My husband pointed to a folded leaf edge. His finger grazed the web. Instantly, a pompous, paunchy spider rushed out and inspected the spot for damage and retreated just as quickly to its hunters blind.
Quick as a wink.
He looked well fed.
Don't be fooled by the ornaments of Autumn.
The trees are full of hunters.

next time

My grandchildren and I surprised a spider.
He had been enjoying his dinner when we arrived without knocking.
Grabbing a fly wrapped  like a tortilla, he shoved it under his arm and hastened out his back door.
We'll call ahead next time.

suddenly silenced

My mothers has always thought "green." Unfortunately, fruit flies think green as well, and they had gained a toe hold in the ecology of her kitchen. She appealed for help, and I consulted the source of all information, the Internet. There we found not only information on fruit fly traps, but also several methods of catch and release. Catch and release!? For a fruit fly??!!!
I've practiced catch and release while fishing. We use the term as a euphemism for fish that shake the hook free when they spot our boat.
Mind you, I once caught and released a mouse, and I have to admit, spiders and bumble bees have been spared, and lived to see another day.
My husband once made the mistake of stepping on an ant while my grandson was with him. I rushed out to sobs. "It was my favorite ant," the little boy offered by way of explanation.
There's a scene in Star Wars. A planet has been obliterated, and a Jedi, sensing tragedy says ominously, "It's like a great many voices cried out in terror before being suddenly silenced..." This is how I sometimes view the insect world. I wish fruit flies no ill, I just wish they weren't in my mother's kitchen.

daddy long legs welcome here

With horror in her voice, a friend confided that just as she had reached for her towel to wrap around her freshly washed hair, her eyes had focused on a very large spider clinging to it. By shaking the towel like a matador, gravity eventually came to her rescue. There was still a tremor as she spoke.
The northern towns of my childhood had delicate Daddy Long Legs that gracefully wandered up our sleeves and dangled from silky strands, although I do remember being a little nervous of the song, "Eensy Teensy Spider," as a child, especially the part about the drain spout. My sister and I shared the bathtub, and I always let her sit in the deep end under the spout. She thought me altruistic but I was being proactive. Better safe than sorry.
Time passed. The gentle days of childhood collided with harsher realities, as they inevitably do. Spiders were included. Gone were the airy fairy fellows. In their place, the coastal killers.
My daughter once threw down her sandal in an act of self defense and the dispatched spider's legs protruded on both sides of it like whiskers.
I've never been the sort to scream or burst into tears over insects but I remember catching a movement out of the corner of my eye as I lounged on the sofa reading in the autumn twilight. A large, bony spider had dashed out of the shadows and had paused just as I lurched into a sitting position. Quickly snatching a magazine and rolling it in one smooth movement I reached an arm out to "aaaaaaaaarrrrrggghhhhhaaaaaa," I croaked in horror. Anticipating my move, it had pivoted and lunged karate-like towards me. I found myself backing up, up, up into a standing position on the couch, treed so to speak by a spider. It eventually tired of its sport as bullies do and swaggered off. I gathered up the shreds of my self-respect and retired, shaken and humbled.
There is a saying, that "a healthy house is a house with spiders" and I suppose there's something to that. The smaller, frailer members of the planet have always been barometers of a sort. If there has to be a canary down the well, I hope it's one of the big, bony thugs. Daddy Long Legs are welcome in my house.