|
|
So You Want to Be an Old Southern Woman, Part 2 --- It has been almost six years since I saw that first Michigan snowflake hit my windshield late in August of 2002, and made the decision with which I had been toying for months: NOT ONE MORE MICHIGAN WINTER. Uh-uh. No more. Never again. --- I did it, and so far, I’m not sorry. Oh, there have been some lifestyle changes, to be sure. I have visited these differences between life for the Northern and Southern woman before, and as surely as life is a learning process, I have added to my stores of knowledge. And there will be more.
Them There Critters --- In the wilds (and cities) of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, we had our share of non-human inhabitants, of course. There were bear, deer, coyotes, wolves, beaver, squirrels, chipmunks, and so forth–what we thought of as our fellow beings. For the most part, they were beautiful and natural parts of the scenery. Oh, sure, once in a while a moose would wander into town and walk the main street as if sight-seeing. One had to be careful at dusk and dawn when driving, so as not to hit a deer who was taking a stroll on the road. More spectacularly, the occasional buck who was fully racked and deep in the throes of the doe’s mating season would decide that the headlights coming toward him were a threat to his masculine privilege, and attack. It was much more common, however, for an enterprising chipmunk to slip into one’s house and cause havoc when he ate the dog’s food and tried to make a break for it, with Fido bellowing his outrage. --- We had our insects and arachnids, of course. There were blackflies, mosquitoes, and, of course, "no-see-ums" (tiny gnats that were barely visible) in swarms. We had prison escapees who gave themselves up after trying to live off the land, deciding that incarceration was much better than serving as a human smorgasbord for these ravenous camping buddies. I remember distinctly, growing up in Michigan, the nights when I was snuggled in bed, drifting off, when I would hear that most dreaded of sounds: the high-pitched whine of a mosquito coming in for a landing. And then there would be an even more fearsome sound: silence, which meant that Ms. Skeeter had found her target, was tucking in her bib, and was ready for dinner. I would shoot straight up out of the bed to the light switch, batting around my head until I had found the offender and murdered her. All too often it was too late, and the killer itch would ruin my sleep that night. I would appear the next morning at breakfast, ready for school, with one swollen eyelid or a grotesquely deformed forehead (or, on one memorable occasion, a huge lower lip). --- Over the years, you get accustomed to these things, and it may not occur to you that there are other critters out there that may impact your life as you move to your Southern haven. ----- Spiders --- At one time I was living in South Carolina, making a 90-minute commute to work in North Carolina. My car was my castle. I had a garage, and I did make note of the small resident spiders that would creep into my chariot during the night, only to greet me by dangling off my visor while I was driving the next day. I prudently made sure that my car windows were shut tight every night when I parked the car, and that seemed to take care of this small problem. They were startling and a little creepy, but a Yankee woman can handle this. --- And then, one summer’s evening, I forgot. --- The next morning, armed with my purse, cd’s, and mug of coffee, I got into the driver’s seat. Taking my time, I settled in as the Supreme Commander of the Mazda Protégé. I selected Harry Nielsen’s tunes for the first part of my drive, pushed the button for the garage door opener, fastened my seat belt, and started the ignition. I saw that I had left the windows open again; Well, I’ll have to watch that, I guessed. I put the car into, "Reverse," and glanced in the rear view mirror to guide myself out of the garage. --- Oh, my God. --- Smack-dab in the middle of the rear passenger compartment was the biggest, most spectacular spider I’d ever seen. I swear I was looking right into its eyes as it challenged me from the middle of its giant web. --- As I’ve grown older, my movements are slower, more considered. I’m more careful of strained ligaments and broken bones, and a little arthritis affects me in the early mornings. But not on that morning. Somehow I managed to put the car back into, "Park," turn off the engine, remove my seatbelt, get out of the car and slam the doors to both the car and the garage in the span of time it takes to blink the eye. --- I leaned against the inside of the door, feeling all the effects of adrenaline that cave-women must have felt while being chased by sabre-toothed tigers. Sweat poured off my forehead and goosebumps swarmed my limbs. What in God’s name was that? --- As my heartbeat slowed, my reasoning returned. Okay, it’s a spider. Probably a big one. But you didn’t even look directly at it, Dummie. You looked at it in the rear-view mirror. It can’t be that terrible, I lectured myself. Take a real look at it and see what you’re up against. --- Steeling myself, I crept back to the car and pulled open the driver’s side rear door. The spider spun to look at me. It was worse than I thought. --- Its body was the size of a half-dollar, for those of you who remember them, and the extended legs made a package roughly the size of my palm. It was black, with yellow stripes, and looked fresh, as if it had just stepped out of a salon–for spiders. Its abdomen looked like it sported a six-pack (or maybe it was an eight-pack; I didn’t really count). Worse, the entire back seat of the car was one giant web. This spider had put in quite a bit of work. The message was clear: either I owned the car, or the spider did. --- I daringly opened the driver’s door and snatched out my open purse by one strap, keeping The Beast, as I had now come to think of the spider, in the center of my vision at all times. I sat on the steps leading into the house in an ill-conceived hope that the spider would simply trot out of the car. No dice. --- What was I going to do? First, I called the office to let them know I’d be delayed. That done, I considered my options, and there weren’t many. I lived alone with my dog, who was busy taking a morning snooze. Who could I call? The police? The fire department? Animal Control? A SWAT team? I imagined myself trying to hit it with a flyswatter, and saw myself, with little difficulty, missing and merely enraging The Beast. Nope, not many options, at all. --- I turned to my computer, and Googled in, "Spiders of South Carolina." I couldn’t find it, although there was plenty of information on the Black Widow (which isn’t always black, I found–no relief there), and the Brown Recluse, both of which are very bad for humans. There were definitely no instructions on how to wrestle a 100-lb. arachnid into submission and force her (okay, perhaps I was exaggerating to myself a little on the weight, but I was starting to be sure it was a female) out of my car. --- Desperate times call for desperate measures. I had paid for that car, and despite its dents, whines, and clunks, it was mine. I prepared for battle. --- I seized an empty 3-lb. coffee can, two garbage bags, and duct tape. I managed to mold the openings of the garbage bags with duct tape so that I could insert my hands and arms, took the lid off the coffee can, and marched myself back to the garage to face my opponent. She looked as fresh and ready-to-go as ever, but I didn’t let myself think. I pulled on my makeshift gloves. With one forceful, upward movement I captured her inside the can and held it against the roof of the car. I could hear her frantic scrabbling inside the can, but ruthlessly I slid the plastic lid over the top. --- That done, the next job was to clean out the back of the car, which was actually quite efficiently completed by sweeping my plastic-clad arms and hands over the entire area and then peeling the bags off with the outside in, as a surgeon would strip off surgical gloves. One strong tie and both bags were bundled with all the spider web inside. --- It was not even 9:00 a.m. and I felt as if I had put in six hours of overtime already. I still had to get to work. I considered The Beast in the Folger’s Can sitting on the garage steps beside me. She still sounded pretty lively in there. I was positive that I had found a new species, or one that was native to the Amazon Jungle, and I was determined to find out what had tried to get the better of me. I took the can to work. --- Now, I wouldn’t recommend placing a coffee can containing a giant spider on the back seat of your vehicle and driving an hour and a half in high traffic. It was one of those decisions I made that I’ll never be quite sure about. Instead of listening to Nielsen, I listened to the spider trying to escape. That was exceptionally creepy; every time it would rest, I could imagine it crawling up the back of my seat and over my shoulder. And turning up the volume on my cd player to mask the anxiety-causing ruckus was not an option. --- At work, I searched out Carolina natives to look at The Beast in the Coffee Can, and finally, the Maintenance Manager consented to examine her. By that time, quite a crowd was following us as we led the way to the parking lot. In a spot well away from my car, I dramatically opened the lid and dumped her out onto the pavement. There was a general tittering from the crowd, and when he gained control of his mirth, the Maintenance Manager told me that I had a common garden spider. "What you gonna do with it?" --- A common garden spider? For whom, the Jolly Green Giant? --- I let her go, amidst the applause of those gathered. But when I walked away, she started to follow me. I changed directions, and so did she. Finally, I managed an all-out run around the side of the building. I don’t know what happened to her, but I can tell you two things: those Southerners got quite a laugh off me that day, but even if I did let The Beast go, I figured it was a long walk back to South Carolina.
|
