I never used to like spiders. I mean, they’re creepy, they have too many legs, some of them can bite, and every week I have to get the ladder and the long-handled duster out to deal with all the flying cobwebs festooning the ceiling.

When I was a little girl on our farm in Virginia, my mother put the fear of hellfire in me about spiders. I had nightmares of terrifying black widows lurking in the basement, marked with a red hourglass on their abdomens (if one dares to turn one upside down for a peek), salivating in anticipation of a tender youngster who dares to enter their lair, probably for the last time…ever.

Nightmares aside, as a kid back then, there was no escape from spiders. On a typical cool fall afternoon, I’d be sitting quietly on the screened porch completely focused on my coloring book, when my bratty kid brother would stealthily drop a monster “Daddy Longlegs” on the back of my neck. Harmless and barely felt, nevertheless it was enough of a youthful outrage to justify my throwing a rubber tomahawk at my bro, putting a scab on his nose that he reminds me about to this day.

Over time, my early arachnophobia gradually morphed into fascination and deep respect for these seemingly alien creatures that exist in every color of the rainbow and every size from the head of a pin to more than twelve inches of fangs, legs, and hairiness.

But I distinctly remember the day I actually fell in love with an adorable little jumping spider, who visited me in my office every afternoon for months. I was a professor of organic chemistry in a small southern town, and worked at an old wooden desk next to a west-facing window. In the afternoons, a bright shaft of Florida sunshine would laser in, highlighting the top of my desk.

My new little friend — I called him “Rackny” — came by every single day. He’d approach from my right, trot across my desk until he was centered in that afternoon beam of light, and he’d pose for me. He’d sit back on his “haunches,” wave his front legs high in the air to say “hello,” do a few turns in place, wave his legs again, and continue on his wee journey across my desktop to who-knows-where.

One day, I placed my hand on the desk directly in his path, hoping he’d crawl onto my palm. I wanted to inspect him a little more closely. He seemed to understand this and cooperated fully, doing his little dance and pirouette in the middle of my outstretched palm.

His eyes were electric neon. Mesmerizing. Looking right at me. Trusting. And WAY too many of them. I was utterly charmed.

I put my hand back down onto the desk and told him it was OK to go now. He crawled down and left without further ceremony, and came back the next day for a full repeat performance. And he did so every day thereafter, until one day he didn’t come back. And not the next day, nor the next.

I’ve since learned that the average lifespan of jumping spiders is about a year. That means that my little friend Rackny had spent most of his life entertaining me every day, building a delightful inter-species relationship, one of relatively short duration but everlasting in my heart and psyche.

I still smile when I think of little Rackny, that tiny sentient being who befriended me and permanently erased my spiderly fears and prejudices.

Adelia Ritchie grew up on a northern Virginia farm with horses, cattle, dogs, and her pet pig Porky, who ran the whole show. A long-time resident of the great Pacific Northwest, Adelia is a serial entrepreneur, scientist, educator, and artist, and currently works with educators and legislators to promote a deeper understanding of the science of climate change and its impacts on the complex ecological web of life. Adelia resides in Hansville, WA, with her garden, her dogs, and a flock of very entertaining chickens.

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