I got in my car and started the engine.  That’s when I spotted him on the windshield.  Apparently, he noticed me at the exact same time because he quickly scurried out of sight.

Where did he go?  And how do I know that he’s a “he”?

Suddenly, he crawled back into view and settled on the dashboard.  Two tiny white dots, pretending to be eyes, stared back at me.  A slight shiver went through me as I noticed his furry, fuzzy body set atop eight hairy little legs.  (I dislike spiders.  I know they serve a purpose, a useful one, in nature.  However, the inside of my car is not nature.)

He scurried out of site again, finding a hiding spot at the edge of the windshield.  I didn’t have time to hunt him down.  I needed to leave.  I put the car in drive and said a silent prayer that my uninvited passenger would stay put, hidden out of site.  I turned the radio up, pulled out of the driveway, and drove away.  I watched the road.  I watched the scenery.  I watched the corner of the windshield where I last saw Mr. Spider.

Pay attention to the road.  Death by distraction is not a headline anyone wants to see or be defined by.

As I focused on the road, I spotted a trailer ahead of me hauling a huge stack of square bales.  Between us was another truck.  The hay truck was traveling about 45 miles per hour, and the smaller truck was bobbing and weaving, try desperately to pass.

Tiny pieces of hay flew off the trailer and floated past me like pale insects looking for a place to land.  Insects.

Where is that darned spider?

My eyes quickly scanned the dashboard.  The windshield.  No spider.  Good.

A large chunk of hay broke off the top bale, struck my windshield and was quickly blown off.  The scent of freshly baled hay reminded me of when my husband and I were first married.  I would help him in the hay field.  I got the easy job of driving the truck while my husband stood on back and stacked the square bales.  My biggest fear was that I’d let off the clutch wrong, causing the ton truck to lurch forward suddenly, and my husband would tumble off.

A blue bird swooped directly in front of my car.  Bright blue, like the clear blue sky, like my husband’s eyes.  The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.  At times, when we’re talking, I can look directly into those baby blues and completely lose my train of thought.  And when he wears his blue denim ball cap, his eyes absolutely sparkle.


I suddenly glanced down at the steering wheel.  Mr. Spider was sitting directly in the middle of the emblem, one foot away from me.  I don’t remember if I swerved or not.  (I’m guessing “not” since the car wasn’t damaged.)  I looked for a spider-squishing weapon but found nothing.  In desperation, I swatted at him with my bare hand.  He jumped out of reach, toward the driver’s side window and hid between the air conditioner vents.  I quickly shut the vent, hoping that he’d meet his demise as a tiny spatter of spider goo.  I drove on, content with the age-old phrase, “out of sight out of mind”.

I arrived at my destination, pulled into the driveway and put the car into park.  As I turned off the engine, I reached for the air vent and a napkin simultaneously.  Anticipating the need to wipe remnants of Mr. Spider from the black plastic, I flipped open the vent.  No spider.

Gasp!  That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.  Does that hold true for spiders?  Do spiders hold grudges?  Was he intelligent enough to understand that I was trying to squish him?

Maybe his terror mimicked mine, and he was simply hiding from me.  Shaking.  Scared.  Hoping I’d go away.  Yeah, let’s go with that one.  For now…