Intruder

Since we arrived in California one year ago, I’ve noticed three traits about California living: a proliferation of shopping carts parked in places far from where they belong (more on that another time); an absence of mosquitoes; and more spiders in one year than I’d confronted in the decade I lived in Texas. This summer exposed us to dozens and dozens — nay, twice that at least. As a child I had a phobia regarding spiders. As much as my mother reassured me of their helpfulness, I was hysterically afraid of their numerous, spindly, creepy legs, as well as their sticky webs and quick movements. The sight of spiders petrified me, especially large-bodied ones. The summer I was 12, I felt something lightly tickling my arm as I lay in bed, drifting off to sleep. I switched the light on and saw the source: a not-too-large spider on the wall. I leaped out of bed, shaking and blanketed in goosebumps. I whimpered. I couldn’t get it; in those days, I was too scared to capture them in tissue and kill them, much less try to set them free. So I slept on the living room sofa instead, as well as for a few nights following (I crept downstairs after my parents retired for the day). Eventually I moved out on my own and realized my only rescuer would be myself. So I learned to grit my teeth and eliminate spiders when they showed themselves. I was still unnerved by them, but capable of coping. In my late twenties I began volunteering at a nature center and would take long hikes. As I came across tree stumps, underbrush, or nooks and crannies, I would note the spiders I saw. I disciplined myself to observe them, to watch their movement. I decided that I could be at peace with spiders, to a point, as long as they were outside. I read about them. I tried to appreciate them from a distance. During my years in Austin, the only major spider I encountered was the (I believe) black widow which had made a home in a lush plant hanging on my balcony. It startled the wits out of me when I watered the plant and saw it scurry. My solution was to wrap the entire plant in a cruddy old blanket and carry it all to the dumpster. Subsequent years brought greater acceptance. If the spiders were very small — under the size of a pencil eraser — I felt amiable toward them, and would try to capture and release them outside. I continue to do so.

Captive

But I draw the line, people, at a certain size. (Last summer I glimpsed my first tarantula with a kind of awed horror. I was visiting my sister and her husband in Arizona; they live on relatively unpopulated land. It was in a hole outside, a decent ten or so feet away from me. It still looked enormous from that distance.) Sometimes I’ve prevailed upon my husband to handle them — one night we had three medium-sized spiders in our bedroom, and he sicced the vacuum cleaner on them. Another night, as I turned down the bed, one scrambled across the comforter. I emitted only a minor yip of surprise and then gave it the facial tissue-to-toilet treatment. If I see them in the house at a distance and they aren’t too large, I leave them alone. A tiny spider lives by the edge of our kitchen sink without harassment. About a week ago, I spotted a hefty one crawling across the the kitchen ceiling. My husband wouldn’t do spider duty; he said he’d given up, since there are so many. Eyeing it with a shiver, I decided to let it alone and hope it disappeared. It did. But the next night as I lounged on the sofa with my laptop, a small dark movement in the corner of my eye alerted me; I jumped up and saw that damn spider running this way and that on the sofa. Grimly I grabbed a tissue and killed it with vengeance. My feeling is: You stay on the wall, out of sight, far away, and I’ll leave you be. But you crawl near me or over me or across my path, and you’re toast. (Yes, I realize I’m vastly larger, and that spidey is more afraid of me than I of it. This is why I get to call the shots.) The photos in this post are of the spider I encountered Friday night — the biggest so far. It was on the bathroom wall. My husband agreed it was indeed too large to ignore. Imagine trying to sleep knowing that prowled your boudoir walls. While he went to get the means of handling it, I snapped the photo. Then, when I had the mason jar and a greeting card, I captured it. It moved lightning-fast and made noise as it scuttled in the jar. I was fascinated in a slightly shuddering way. I was willing to take it downstairs and release it outside, but my husband wanted to flush it. I paused, deciding whether I would let compassion rule. It didn’t, unfortunately for the spider. It met its watery demise. And yes, I know that spiders do far more good than harm. I know this was a funnel-weaver that was not poisonous to humans and supposedly wouldn’t bite. I know that I ought not kill hapless, non-aggressive beings. Regretfully, this logic does not override my limbic response. This may explain why I would not make a very good Buddhist!