The Blackish- Brownish-Widowed-Recluse

One of the coolest places at the house where I grew up was under the porch. There was a small hatch you could crawl through on the east end to get into the crawlspace below the porch. It had, like most crawlspaces, a dirt floor and was always full of spider webs and bugs.

Mom was never too keen on me going under the porch. She was somehow convinced that every spider in the entire State of Missouri was a Black Widow, Brown Recluse or, perhaps, the most feared spider of all, the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse.

Now I wouldn't say that I actually like spiders, but I'm certainly not afraid of them, either. Mom, on the other hand, was certain that every spider under the porch was going to aggressively attack me and bring about my certain, painful death.

That didn't stop me from going under the porch, of course.

Mom determined that I should not go under the porch. I determined that I just wouldn't tell her when I went under the porch. That would work fine as long as one of the tattle-tales known as Debbie, Kim or Beth didn't go running to Mom to tell on me in an attempt to win brownie points for being such a wonderful child.

I already knew that I would never win any wonderful child brownie points, so I never even bothered to try.

I somehow survived those under the porch excursions without ever being attacked by the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse.

It's funny how time and situations change one's perspective, though. I recall another episode a couple of decades later when Mom needed some phone or video cable, I don't recall which, routed through the crawlspace under their old farmhouse while we were visiting. She had no qualms then about having me face the vicious hybrid Blackish-Brownish-Widowed-Recluse while crawling around there.

I don't think it mattered so much anymore whether I was facing a certain, painful death by spider bite then since I had already completed my duty of providing her with grandchildren.