It began with a tickle, then shucking my shirt on Main Street in Gravette, and then ... Let me tell you the whole story. It won't take long but it involved tackling a job that should have been undertaken many days, weeks, months ago. Let's just say it was a job that had been put off far too long.
Opening paragraph: It began while I was enjoying a cup of coffee at Austin Drug, when I sensed something was crawling, tickling my back. I did the usual wiggle and squirm, trying to reach that tickling spot. No good. The crawling sense continued. Ignore it? No way, Jose!
I retired to the back of my car parked out front and proceeded to strip off the shirt. All I found was a tiny spider. Don't ask me what kind it was. It was tiny. And it needed to be eliminated. Mission accomplished.
Paragraph two: It was later when I began to wonder about that itty-bitty arachnid, especially after someone asked me, "Did you keep it (the spider)?"
Of course the answer was "no," but the wondering began to overtake sensibilities. What if it was a tiny Brown Recluse, a spider notorious for mean bites? Second thoughts can be very disconcerting. I began imagining a huge sore, pain, lengthy treatments. Anyone who has suffered such a bite could relate to all the complications.
Paragraph three: The thinking process continued. Surely a tiny spider doesn't have the "bite" of one of those big quarter-size adults. But I've heard the babies are born with venom in their mouths. The back began to itch in several places. False alarm. I lucked out. There was no evidence of a bite. Everything turned out okay. End of story? Not.
Paragraphs four, five, six and ad nauseam follow: It was then the decision was made to dismantle the closet, give it a needed cleaning, a bug and spider spray job and, more important, sort through "clutter" to get rid of those things that, over time, had drifted to the back corners behind the hanger rods. It sounded like a simple job to me. Maybe it would take a half-hour or so, trying on a couple pairs of trousers which I had "outgrown," holding up a shirt or two that I hadn't seen for a couple of years. Earlier in the year, I had dug out an old pair of scuffed shoes that I planned to wear while working in the garden. Somehow they had drifted back into the darkness.
It would be a simple job, maybe an hour, and then I could get back to working the daily crossword puzzle. Yep, a piece of cake! It turned out to be devil's food!
I was still working several hours later, make it about six o'clock that evening and time for dinner -- we call it supper in our house. After a quick hand wash, I drifted into the other room, sat down on the stool at the counter top and was greeted with, "Well, how is it going?"
As I thought about the piles of clothing and shoes and other "stuff," my answer was non-descriptive. "I'm getting there." Visions of those piles of "stuff" danced through my head. But I was "getting there." The closet was bare, swept and vacuumed, and the fog from a spray can had filled the closet just about the time the supper call came.
The break came at the right time. I enjoyed the grub, enjoyed the pleasant conversation and then I particularly enjoyed leaning back in the recliner to contemplate the coming evening. Another half-hour and the job would be done, I thought, as I watched the political drivel that ended the evening news.
It was then I got the message -- no words, just a glance as she passed by the recliner. No words, it just "the look." You know what I mean.
I retreated to the piles of "stuff" and shook my head. I'll make it short. A couple of hours later, after attempting to try on trousers, culling some collar-frayed shirts, deciding I needed to wear shoes that had been resting on a closet shelf ... and ... stuffing a bunch of other stuff back into the closet -- I can go through it later, fat chance -- I leaned back against the door frame of the closet, shut the door and turned off the light. Mission accomplished. Paragraphs four, five, six and ??? were all behind me.
Epilogue: Everything is back to normal, whatever normal is. There was no spider bite. The closet got a cleaning. And, just to set the record straight, I didn't see a single spider as I worked through the clutter. I'm thankful for that poor little spider, wherever he came from, which spurred me to do something I should have done weeks earlier. I'm also thankful (I hope) that no one saw my semi-striptease on Main Street.
Now if I can just get inspired to sort through a mess of "stuff" that has accumulated in various drawers and other places. No spiders, please. A look will do just fine to get me started.
Dodie Evans is a former long-time editor of the Gravette News Herald. Opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 09/23/2015