Spider photo: Women Daily Magazine  –  Egg photo: Apartment Therapy

My Real Memoir: Attack of the Giant Spider and Other Tales From My Childhood

I Grew Up in an Era When…

Kids were expected to stub their toes, fall out of trees, fly off their skateboards, and acquire an impressive array of stitches. It was how one prepared for adulthood (assuming one made it to adulthood). So, as wonderful as my babysitter Frieda’s magical garden was, it definitely wasn’t up to punctilious parenting standards. As the quasi-famous Attack of the Giant Spider and Other Tales From My Childhood attest.

The B-SEE (Biggest Spider Ever Encountered) was a garden spider, actually, whose size probably only exceeded that of a skyscraper in my four-year-old mind. I was hacking my way through Frieda’s Field, a jungle of near-Amazonian proportions, when I–literally—ran into her. As I parted her taller-than-me cluster of weeds, the B-SEE trampolined from her web…

Onto my nose!

Our ten collective eyes stared at one another in shock. And then she lifted a leg, and began walking up my nose. That was it. I ran screaming to the kitchen door. Within seconds, Frieda-the-Fearless had smacked the B-SEE from my muzzle and off into the ozone. How she faced such a monster bare-handed I’ll never know!

Some Dangers Were of the Sensory Variety

It seemed only fair I should occasionally bring home an offering from the hunt. So I was delighted when I stumbled upon the LEEF (Largest Egg Ever Found)! No, Frieda didn’t have any ostriches, but she did have chickens. And geese. And there it was in Frieda’s Field, a massive goose-produced beauty just waiting to be eaten! I was so excited, I ran to the house with it.

Bad idea.

I dropped the egg. Which would have been bad enough if it had been edible. But it wasn’t. It was green–like Dr. Seuss Green–and smelled the way I imagine Hell smells. Until then, I’d never experienced evil in its purest form. Every pore of my body begged to die.

Other Dangers Were of the Painful Variety

Frieda and Alfred’s 1920s hacienda had a heating system made up of, well, basically giant toasters behind metal grills. When they were on, the grills instantly heated the whole house–they were roughly the temperature of the Sun. But they were set in the walls and easy enough to avoid. All except one. It was on the floor of a long hallway that was clearly made for sprinting.

Barefooted.

So naturally I stepped on it. Result? All the bottom of my foot needed was a scoop of butter and a splash of maple syrup. It was a perfect waffle. And it hurt like that rotten egg had smelled. But the pain eventually went away, and so did the beautiful waffle tattoo.

I was getting older and getting bored-er. The magic of playing alone was wearing thin. I needed a friend.

A human friend.

To read My Real Memoir from the start, click here. To read the next episode, click here.