The Crablike Spiny Orb Weaver

To clear any immediate confusion, yes I grew up in Wisconsin and encountered The Mosquito. Yes I saw bugs; yes they stung and bit me, but never once in my childhood memory did I encounter a human who studied or admired insects.

In my twenties, a black beetle, as big as a quarter, high-stepped across the kitchen. Holding back an illogical yet genuine urge to vomit, I threw a stainless steel bowl over it. My pulse raced, sweat poured. I’m sure my pupils were teeny dots. The bowl remained for weeks, maybe months.

Anytime I encountered a spider, bee, a beetle, a cockroach—even a photo—I’d react: retching, shaking: one part hatred, two parts disgust, ten parts panic. Even though I knew they were zillions of times smaller and weaker than me, I had a full-fledged phobia.

Let us inspect my upbringing. When any form of fly, spider, mosquito, or beetle appeared in our house, an alarmed yelling for my father would occur, Ted! Come quick! He would rush to the rescue with his it’s-only-a-bug grumble and whack it with a broom. There would be a sense of palpable relief as if we barely escaped the unthinkable. Dad, our hero: we survived thanks to his quick-acting military training.

At no time did anyone say: check out the colors on that moth, watch the antennae of that grasshopper, oh look—here is a ladybug. I was indoctrinated into a belief system where any form of bug was malicious and revolting. We rarely ate outside: bees. No picnics: ants.

In young adulthood though I met people who had tarantulas as pets, who admired dragonflies up close, who held scorpions: all people who didn’t flutter dramatically when a yellow-jacket swooped their chicken sandwich.

Even though I loved to hike, camp, be outside, there was the occasional terrifying encounter with an inchworm. If a shadow of a moth rested on the tent, I’d hold my bladder until morning. A silverfish could keep me out of the shower for days. I knew my reaction—one of intense physical revulsion—was embarrassing, irrational, and absolutely not normal.

This humiliation, this private phobia, was a hindrance. Ashamed, I would never have written about my own unthinkable taboo.

I did not want to show my terror to my son, lest he inherit the beast. I assumed the only possibility of relief and one not too unpleasant was to be hypnotized. To my dismay, I read that exposure; little by little, was the best way to overcome unreasonable fear. Although this sounded awful, about as much fun as swallowing a fork, I was determined.

I bought the National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Insects & Spiders. At first, I could only hold the book as far as my arms could reach. I’d flip it open for a millisecond, getting the briefest glimpse. I would do this daily; in a few weeks I could pause at a picture to the count of three or four. Later, I could stop to read names: Vinegar Fly, Fungus Gnat. One night I turned page after page, reading. Next mission: examine in the wild.

When our son was about four, we began a joint exploration of these creatures. Our journey may have commenced with the arrival of a praying mantis our son called Lamb’s Quarter who lived in the rosebush outside the bathroom window and eerily turned his head toward us when we showered.

We pored over insect books—me occasionally deep breathing—to identify caterpillars and find their favored food and flower. We read how the lovely Black Swallowtail will only lay eggs on specific few plants, including parsley, which we quickly planted. We toured a butterfly garden; we perused the creek for the Caddisfly and the Water Boatman.

This spring we devoted most of the front yard to a butterfly/bee/hummingbird preserve. To heck with lawn. Our six year-old son designed a rock garden, we brought in dirt and planted every plant known to attract. I’ve been stung twice by the many heavyweight bumblebees that love the entryway. Butterflies hover around the door. We identify every one. Cabbage Whites love our flowers. We’d love to see a Rosy Maple Moth or a Spring Azure, but we keep our eye out for the destructive Grape Leaf Skeletonizer. Friends bring moths for us to classify in our many guides. Specimen jars line the kitchen counter filled with colorful bodies like the Harris’ Checkerspot.

In the past few years I’ve written about insects several times. I would never ever have guessed I’d be glancing out the window to admire a nectaring skipper, while the book next to me is open to the Giant Ichneumon (a creepy fellow anyone would admit) all the while I’m doing what I love: puzzling words together on a page. I’m intensely pleased with my progress.

And, by the way, check out the Crablike Spiny Orb Weaver, he’ a tough little cool-looking guy.

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