I remember it vividly. The forecast for the day was warm and sunny, high of 84. Living in the country, we get the best of the best: freshly mowed pastures and fields, birds chirping, bees buzzing. And we get to sit out under the trees and enjoy it all with a glass of lemonade. Ah! Springtime in Texas is glorious!
Except for the spiders. Those eight-legged terrors that come out in droves to feast at night and then tuck away safely in their webs during the day. They string their snares up from the eaves of the house to the canopy of trees overarching our drive. Their webs stretch from the underhang of the chicken coop to whatever is near. Morning chicken chores in the spring become a running of the gauntlet: dodging all the spiders hanging in their webs.
And I have long, curly hair.
So just imagine my panic when spring time hits. Whether my hair is up or down, once one of those little creatures gets trapped in my web, there is no getting it out!
On this particular morning, I strolled out the front door to let the chickens out of the coop before heading to work. I didn’t even make it past the front door when I ran face-first into one of the largest Spotted Orbweavers known to North Texas. She had boldly strung her web between our two porch lights and must have been as surprised as I when my face met her web. I almost met Jesus that day! I did the Holy Roller dance that told the neighbors the Spirit had fallen, and, if any lived nearby they would have heard the screams.
Knowing that my girls needed to be let out for the day, I recovered my poise, walked off the porch and started making my way down the drive. Under the canopy. Under the villainous creatures that shall-not-be-named. And straight into two. More. webs.
“Screams” does not begin to describe the sounds that must have come out of my mouth. “Dancing” is not even what was happening as two of my neighbors stopped to stare at the crazy chicken lady doing yet another Holy Ghost dance in her yard. I’m surprised neither was taking videos to post to YouTube or Tiktok.
I counted twelve spiders that day on the short trek to the chicken coop. I did so much praying that God knows exactly where I live and the worst way to ever let my enemies torture me.
And I spent the rest of the day shaking my head and and whipping my curly locks around – much to the amusement of my colleagues. That was little Miss Muffet’s worst day.
What's up, Mother Cluckers? 