Mingo Mornings: I don’t like spiders and snakes

HEMINGWAY — I don’t like snakes or spiders. They fascinate me, and I’m drawn to investigate one when I see it; but I’m always left a little jittery.

I’m not afraid to strike out at either one if he seems threatening; but I can live happily at the edge of the woods and never see another slithering snake or secluded spider. When I’m confronted by both at the same time, I get a bit freaked out.

I’ve had several snake experiences here, a few which included spiders. Last year, a copperhead lived under the gazebo in the woods, though I saw it only twice; and I always have to move spiders and their webs, if I’m to enjoy the swing.

On a recent visit to the gazebo to water the plants there, I ran into a large spider web and spent a few crazy moments attempting to remove it from my hair, all the time feeling certain the spider would come flying out of my hair to the floor, or worse, bite me on the neck.

She must have been laughing the whole time. Nestled on a chain link that holds up the swing, this huge spider seemed to be watching my antics with her web in my hair. I’m still searching my field guides to identify her. No luck yet. 

I have an old birdhouse with its opening enlarged by woodpeckers. No bird had used it for years, so I placed it as an ornament in a large pot of zinnias on a bench in the garden. Bluebirds decided to use it in spite of the damage, and I had watched them over time as they built the nest, laid the eggs, sat on them and started feeding five baby birds.

One day as I entered the garden, I noticed the parents on the fence making plenty of fuss and looking at the box. Inside was a garter snake, filling up the whole house with its coiled self.

After taking its picture, I took a wire stake from a nearby gladiola and fished him out. Good thing the opening had been enlarged: He left the house with five lumps in his belly. No more baby birds. No more birds in that house. Now, I lay it down and stick a plant in it. Yes, I killed that snake. I felt a little bad about that. I don’t usually bother garter or black snakes, though I don’t like the garters getting my chicken eggs.

Just yesterday, I was moving some things out of a small cypress building I call my art studio. A real artist would laugh at this place, but it houses my paints and papermaking supplies, some watercolor beach washes waiting for inspiration and a few unfinished pastels, oils and such. Beeswax and apiary supplies are stored there as well, even some black walnuts from the Upstate.

I spend plenty of time out there and can often be found working on something at the outside sink.

When I walked outside on the deck, I startled a black snake that was crossing over it to the woods nearby.

As I stepped out of its way, it decided to go into the studio. The next few minutes were somewhat anxiety-ridden. My experiences with a broom proved useful as he slid back out and made his way to the woods.

At the edge of the woods behind the studio, there is one young chinquapin tree that I have been watching for several years.

A few days ago, I observed the evening sunlight as it caught the only two nuts on the tree, and I decided to photograph them. To get close enough, I had to walk into the woods a few feet. No problem: I often do that.

As I stretched for a close-up, I felt the spider web in my hair and glanced sideways to see that a spiny, crab-like orb weaver was working nearby. I backed out of the woods, being careful not to step in the pile of branches that has grown as I’ve tossed fallen limbs picked up from the bee yard.

Less that two feet in front of me, tucked under the pile of dried branches, she lay curled and poised, her head about two feet away and facing the swamp. The grapefruit-sized lump in her body caused me to think she’s the one who’s been getting our new guineas one at a time. The 11 rattles I could count made me pause. This might be the rattlesnake that lay curled under the sink last year as I walked up to wash something now forgotten.

On that day, I had nothing heavy enough to strike her with, so I washed her into the swamp with a water hose. I began to wonder, could this be the same rattler?

After a few photographs and a few uncertain movements in the brush, I grabbed the heavy old hoe leaning against the building, kept there to dig fishing worms for my mother.

Unfortunately for me, the pile of brush interfered with my aim, and she quickly slithered away toward the swamp, her rattles sounding like a tree full of cicadas.

One of Steve’s themes as a minister is to remind his congregation with words of the Apostle Paul (I Thessalonians 5:18) to be thankful in all things. Years ago, when I first began to meditate on this message, I struggled with the idea. After facing a few crises, however, I’ve learned to ask, “What can I be thankful for in this situation?”

Finding a spot of thankfulness amidst anguishing moments has resulted in unexpected blessings. In this case, I’m thankful no snake, or spider, has struck or bitten me. I’m thankful they’re around, because their presence teaches me to watch more carefully as I walk the edge of this swamp I love to explore.