Of Spiders, and Footstools, and Letting Go of Mistakes
When something goes wrong, a good manager will sometimes say, “Going forward…” and give new guidelines. Bad managers just keep punishing the past. As managers of our lives, it is easy to fall into the latter category.
Recently, I had spiders. Not one kind of spider, but a variety of them. We haven’t a clue why they thought a house in a subdivision is a good idea. Especially since I sometimes look out at my yard that adjoins several other yards and wonder why I thought it was good idea. But they, and I, decided to live on this plot of ground. As the alpha dog, I decided I would live here and they would not. I did not come to that conclusion quickly. I know we share our planet with spiders. Scripture says they live, “even in king’s houses.” I know they sometimes kill lesser insects with annoying biting habits. So, I tried to live at peace. Oh, I killed them when they wandered into view, but I did not go to an all-out war at first.
Then, one walked across my lap. I had signed on to ZOOM bible class and I was juggling my bible, my papers, and my laptop. A spider suddenly appeared, black against my white papers! A positive to ZOOM is the mute option. I was, thankfully, using it. I do not need a story circulating of the night good sister Boone yelled and dumped the ZOOM class while doing a bad imitation of a rain dance. Still, I held my peace.
I continued to hold my peace when a spider (I know where they live and where they run to when they see me) changed his web from under the kitchen counter by the north wall to over the ant trap. Running a deli for spiders is insulting, but eat enough poisoned ants and you might go to that big spider place in the sky. I held my peace when the Master Bath spider built a dental threader into his web. (Well, sort of. My husband got another warning about dropping the little turquoise annoyances in the first place. But he isn’t a spider and this is about spiders.)
I held my peace when I swept up the dead spiders under the antique footstool. The little footstool is probably from the late 19th or early 20th century. It is adorable. A napped print fabric is nailed on both sides, the shape is curved like a sleigh, the dark stained wood sides are carved in a flower motif. But it’s a killer. No spider who crawls under it lives. This thing makes more kills than a Murdoch Mystery. I have swept multiple spiders from under it. I cannot imagine what our forefathers used on wood, but if I knew, I would get some for my baseboards.
Then, I saw a spider on my white countertop. He was running, so he probably spotted me first. In a move that makes no sense to me even now, I smashed him with my hand. Not a napkin, not a paper towel, not a utensil, but my hand. I knew then the spider situation was serious, but I held my peace.
This is quarantine. We have been in this house for months that feel like years. Doing that with spiders only adds to the unpleasantness. I was sewing face masks. Making mask after mask can lull you into a stupor. At least until a black form crawls out from a white pleat.
That was it. I went full throttle on my husband. They are going–all of them! Someone else can save the existing ecological balance! Someone else can think about spreading poison on the planet! This plot is going to be a scorched earth for spiders! I don’t want them on my counters, I don’t want them on my sewing desk; they cannot walk across my lap; they cannot live over the ant trap; they cannot live at all! Not here! I am claiming this subdivided little space for me! Even my allergic reaction to the spider poison causing us to go around throwing up windows and opening doors did not dim my resolve.
We are going forward. The spiders are not coming with us. I do not care about their bodies obviously crumpled in painful death. I do not care that one of them was still moving his legs in poisoned agony when I squished him in a napkin. Joan of Arc wanted France for Frenchmen and I want my 2,000 some square feet for me. There is a park just up the street. Flee to the park all ye spiders brave!
Now, the spiders are, for the most part, gone. Like the pretty footstool, life is more pleasant though it was poisoned. I wish all of life’s agonies were like that. I wish we always realized that forward is our only direction. Sometimes, we will see something that sends us back in time. A white glass salt shaker with a sailing ship picture does it for me. I am transported back to my grandmother’s kitchen. It is a pain, an agony that the past is gone. The joys are remembered, the pains cannot be touched again. Like all memories it is static. What we might have done to change any part of it is gone. How we want to jump in to that picture and tell our younger selves what is coming and how to live! I let the spiders build to frustration, just as my young self would let many things happen she could have changed much earlier. But I know that forward is the only path. It was for killing spiders; it is for life.