BY KIM DONER
It starts like this:
“AAAAUGH!”
The reaction is instinctive; you immediately leap backward, clawing at your face and hair, brushing yourself down with near-rabid strokes. Fear-based and disgust-laden, this dance is inspired by the fervent hope you’ve dodged a bullet with your gyrations.
And the bullet you’ve dodged?
It’s not nearly as deserving of your energy as you might think: you’ve destroyed a spider’s web. Nothing more.
Here in Oklahoma, we have just over 30 species of spiders; only two of them present a threat to humans. Neither of those two build a web you’d walk through. So, why the angst over arachnid art?
I’m glad you asked. Let me make your summer months a tad less stressful.
My interest in spiders began shortly after we quit spraying the yard with the popular poisons of today. My husband and I had done some research and were dismayed at the emerging information from such treatments. He dedicated himself to creating a backyard habitat to support wildlife sans unnatural, toxic death dealings, and our learning curve
dealt us this realization: we now supported “all” wildlife.
The butterflies are fabulous. The bird count grows every year. Possum families, and their ensuing generations, have become frequent visitors (so ticks aren’t a problem for us). We’ve even had baby turtles show up!
But the dark side can be wasps, mosquitoes, possum poop and … spiders.
A few years ago, I stopped short of accidentally wearing a web; something caught my eye at the last second, and I paused before planting my face into the delicate pattern left by this talented weaver. It was a black and yellow garden spider; if I include her leg length, she spanned just over 3 inches. Of course, I jumped back, but this time, I actually studied her a few seconds and realized something: she was studying me.
Argiope Aurantia. The orb-weaver.
Spiders are not known for their keen vision; chances are those eight eyes were simply taking in my movement alone. They are very sensitive to vibration, though, and within a few seconds, a large fly made a fatal
mistake. She clamored across the silk, walking only on the radial spokes of the structure; I’ve since found that these threads are dry while the spirals around the hub have the stickiness needed to trap her dinner.
I kind of shuddered. I certainly did not envy that fly. Her bite meant death for the bug, but how awful are spider bites for humans?
First, don’t say “poisonous.” Poison is ingested or inhaled, which doesn’t often apply to spiders (more on that in a minute). The word is “venomous,” as venom is injected through a bite or sting. However, giant tarantulas, enormous wolf spiders and the black and yellow orb-weavers all have dinky bites—nothing worse than a bee sting. Granted, it’s hardly pleasant, and there will always be someone with heightened sensitivity to such, but in general, humans are safe from the scariest looking of Oklahoma arachnids. And, when we consider the numerous and annoying insects they prevent from hassling us, the trade feels pretty fair.
What causes a spider to bite?
Well, it’s usually you. Really.
Put yourself in the place of the spider. You’re out there doing your spider-thing in the depths of a fold when, suddenly, your cover is totally blown. Hey, it’s been months since that hoodie was picked up! And since the teenager who wore it dropped a banana chunk on the front, tiny bugs have been chowing down on the remains.
And who likes tiny bugs?
Why, you do, Spider!
So, you’d set up shop. But, lo and behold, the original owner returns and slings on the hoodie.
You run as fast as you can along a
slightly rounded surface (i.e., the human arm), trying to get away from a monster as big as the Empire State Building that’s screaming and jumping all over the place. But a house-sized hand slams down directly onto your little spider body to end your life and smear you into eternity.
What choices do you have? You’re being crushed and brushed at the same time.
You’re a spider. Your only defense is to bite. But you die anyway since house-sized hands usually win against spiders.
Now, if the hoodie-owner had stayed calm, the results may have been different. Shaking or flicking the spider away, then putting a paper cup over it would work. Slide a stiff piece of paper beneath the cup, transport the
spider outside and release. Problem solved; spider is intact and free to pursue edible pests. Possible witnesses to the spiderflicking-hoodie-owner are extremely impressed with such incredible cool. Everyone wins, so why not?
Another interesting point about spider webs: we aren’t prone to walk through them during the day because, oddly, many of them are no longer there. The weavers create a silk they spin out from their abdomen, weaving the familiar pattern across branches or light fixtures or wherever a likely space exists. Much like the spray of a skunk, this process zaps them for a time, as the substance has a
lot of protein in it manufactured by the spider’s body. So, the web might become a meal the next morning before the spider recovers enough to rebuild that evening.
Spider silk has long been the subject of both myth and reality. Native American tribes used tales of the Animal People to guide their children and develop critical thinking skills; a favorite that has long circulated throughout —most particularly the Cherokee—is of Grandmother Spider Stealing Fire. It begins with the Animal People living in the dark until Raven announces the existence of fire. Several animals attempt to sneak to the human camp to steal some for everyone, but every attempt is a failure: Possum’s bushy tail burns off when he tries to carry fire back in it; Buzzard’s head plumage is destroyed when he tries to carry fire on top; Fox’s mouth is blackened; Snake’s body is seared, and all of these damages are permanent to the animal.
But tiny Grandmother Spider, despite the others’ lack of belief in her abilities, bravely journeys to the campsite. She makes a bowl from the nearby clay, pops a tiny spark of fire into it, then weaves around and around the vessel until it becomes a custom-made backpack. She is able to safely carry fire back to the Animal People.
The Cherokee people celebrated overcoming struggles with cleverness and skill through this story, but they aren’t the only populations who found spiders more admirable than threatening. Arachne was a skilled weaver in ancient Greece who angered Athena with her conceit; the term “arachnoid” is derived from this legend; Anansi was an African trickster, known for his abilities to talk his way out of anything through his knowledge of stories, through his “spin” on things.
And, of course, here in modern-day culture, we have Stan Lee to thank for Spiderman. Here’s something pretty freaky: if the strands Peter Parker shot from his wrists were truly spider threads, he really would have had the ability to perform the rescues he did. Spider silk has been studied and mimicked for some time, with millions going into developing synthetic material based on its properties.
Raising spiders to make the silk seldom works though; they tend to eat each other faster than they weave. That’s probably a big reason it required 70 people to work nearly four years with 1.2 million Golden Orb spiders from Madagascar to gather enough silk thread to make the world’s rarest textile piece ever: a priceless 11-by-4-foot length of gold fabric.
But what about the ones who aren’t so “webby”? You know, like the two species in Oklahoma who are not so nice? And just what was meant about ingesting or inhaling spiders a moment ago?
The two thugs that have destroyed friendly neighborhood spider reputations for us are the brown recluse, or fiddleback, and the black widow. While neither of these animals awakens with a plan of attack, both of them are recognized for delivering painful, enduring bites. Do know, though, that annually, horses kill over three times as many, bee stings kill over six times as many, and good old primates (aka humans) kill more than 2,500 times as many people in the U.S. as spiders. Your odds are still pretty good if bitten by any one of those tiny monsters.
As to eating spiders, well … we do.
Using the black and yellow garden spider pictured on page 41 as an example, one might say spider reproduction is somewhat gruesome. The hopeful suitor plucks at the strands in a lady spider’s web to get her attention. If he’s adept and fortunate (and keeps his safety line handy, in case he’s not), he is able to use his “pedipalps” for sperm transfer.
Then, he dies.
And he often gets eaten.
Next, the mother-to-be creates a sheet of silk and lays her eggs (nearly a thousand or so), then adds another layer, and another, using her legs to round the bedding into an egg shape with a neck and opening at the top. She can make up to four of these sacs, which are suspended from her web and fiercely protected there. But summer fades into fall, and the mother spider weakens. By the first hard frost, the vigilant parent dies; the babies are born within the sacs, and when spring arrives, they venture forth. Spiderlings are so tiny, they appear to be a bit of dust; they send out a strand, and it’s caught by the gentlest of breezes to carry them to their new homes.
With luck, these homes are nearby gardens, where the entire cycle happens again.
Without luck, they can land on the hamburger your teenager is wolfing down fresh off the grill. Or in Grandpa’s mouth while mid-snore during a nap. Or in that third glass of wine you’re enjoying from the lounge chair. Or …
I think you get my drift.
But fear not! The flash of protein you ingest will not harm you. As both are arthropods, think of the serving of spider as cousin to crab salad, simply a very small serving. Leisurely finish your glass of wine. Shrug as you gently disengage from that spider web as you wend your way inside. Wave at the little creature scuttling into a crack in the tile.
Then, sit down, flip on the computer and see what else is there for you—on the Web you know best. ■
