Last summer I noticed a black widow had made her web in a crevasse on my front porch. In the afternoons and toward the evenings I would sit on the steps of the porch and watch her bustling about her egg sacs. The first sac hatched without drawing attention; I held the silk satchel in my hand, having picked it up from the porch where it had fallen, and located a hole the size of a pinhead from which the spiderlings has emerged. A later sac hatched and I did take notice of the event. I was fascinated by the vibrating swarm of baby spiders, the way they hung out in a living mass, moving together. The human reactions to the presence of the widow also interested me. I was universally condemned for not killing her, and yet invariably people drew closer, wanting a better look at her, wanting to see what she was up to, interested in spite of themselves. The same people who shook their heads at me and my dangerous recklessness then proceeded to bring themselves nose to nose with my widow (whom I named Debra). I thought these things but never pointed it out to them. I liked watching how her innocent activities drew them in, people who would normally be frightened of spiders.
Once I got out my camera and a macro lens. I thought it was funny how, when I used autofocus, the lens tended toward the shadow of the spider on the wall of the house, so large and black and spidery, sinister looking, rather than the spider herself, almost as if the lens had an opinion of its own.
Things weren't going well with my job at this time. I sometimes sat on the porch and stared into space, wondering what would become of me. Me and Debra, hanging out
Later my position in my work became more precarious, and I often sat on the porch steps in the fading sun after getting home at the end of the day, and Debra was always there, out and doing stuff, and somehow her presence comforted me.
In October it got really cold. I was outside one morning, it was wet and windy and dark, and I noticed Debra was gone. Her messy little web was still there though. I grabbed a stick from the grass and began poking at it, intending to clean it from the porch. To my suprise out she rolled, Debra, curled up and dead, a shell, tumbling across the concrete of the porch. I crouched down to get a look at her, sad. She had frozen to death apparently. And yet, for spiders in the while, that is what happens--one season. That's what they get.
As I looked at Debra, she slowly came to life, uncurled herself, began trundling back across the porch and toward her web. I became excited and happy. I sent my grandfather for a mason jar. He punctured a few holes in the lid and I wove a bit of paper towel through once of the holes, moistening it with water. Into the jar I stuck sticks and dead leaves, and then Debra too--and she made herself right at home. She surprised me on Thanksgiving with an egg. And since then with lots more. I kept her on my nightstand, because nighttime is when my anxieties are worst, and the sight of her grooming herself, or cradling her egg (or cradling both her egg and her latest prey item) was nice.
Anyway, my love for Debra led me to research spiders, and logically, spiders as pets. Somehow one thing led to another. That was November. By late February I was a hard core collector, and while most of my collection consists of tarantulas, I do have Debra still, and two wild caught jumping spiders.
Once I got out my camera and a macro lens. I thought it was funny how, when I used autofocus, the lens tended toward the shadow of the spider on the wall of the house, so large and black and spidery, sinister looking, rather than the spider herself, almost as if the lens had an opinion of its own.
Things weren't going well with my job at this time. I sometimes sat on the porch and stared into space, wondering what would become of me. Me and Debra, hanging out
Later my position in my work became more precarious, and I often sat on the porch steps in the fading sun after getting home at the end of the day, and Debra was always there, out and doing stuff, and somehow her presence comforted me. In October it got really cold. I was outside one morning, it was wet and windy and dark, and I noticed Debra was gone. Her messy little web was still there though. I grabbed a stick from the grass and began poking at it, intending to clean it from the porch. To my suprise out she rolled, Debra, curled up and dead, a shell, tumbling across the concrete of the porch. I crouched down to get a look at her, sad. She had frozen to death apparently. And yet, for spiders in the while, that is what happens--one season. That's what they get.
As I looked at Debra, she slowly came to life, uncurled herself, began trundling back across the porch and toward her web. I became excited and happy. I sent my grandfather for a mason jar. He punctured a few holes in the lid and I wove a bit of paper towel through once of the holes, moistening it with water. Into the jar I stuck sticks and dead leaves, and then Debra too--and she made herself right at home. She surprised me on Thanksgiving with an egg. And since then with lots more. I kept her on my nightstand, because nighttime is when my anxieties are worst, and the sight of her grooming herself, or cradling her egg (or cradling both her egg and her latest prey item) was nice.
Anyway, my love for Debra led me to research spiders, and logically, spiders as pets. Somehow one thing led to another. That was November. By late February I was a hard core collector, and while most of my collection consists of tarantulas, I do have Debra still, and two wild caught jumping spiders.
