Spiders and Snakes and Writing Residencies in the Woods
In 2016 and 2017, I was lucky enough to receive writing residencies, to a wonderful place in the Appalachian Mountains. I won’t say exactly which place it was, just in case they don’t appreciate the story I have to tell. I don’t think they’ll mind, and all of it is true, but still. A little bit of mystery never hurt.
In 2016, I stayed in a bright new modern cabin called Daisy (not its real name). It was wooden and wonderful: open, bright, clean. There was a screened in porch and an extra bed in an upstairs annex, the mattress of which I dragged downstairs and onto the porch, so I could sleep outside.
In the morning I sat with my tea on the porch, writing some thoughts and planning my time. I’d received the residency to work on a memoir about my daughter, who had died nine years previously, at the age of eight. To my left, in the corner of the cabin, I noticed a big, thick web. In the center of the web was a hole and as I peered into it, rows of eyes peered back. I jumped back and moved my chair far away from that corner (and never slept out there again!) I named the giant funnel spider Murgatroyd, and I would speak to her every day to try to calm myself. The problem is, she was lulled into thinking I cared for her, and she would come out and sit on top of her web while I spoke to her, and she was easily the size of my fist, and not all legs, either, so she scared the shit out of me. She was MUCH too big to kill, and anyway if I got too close to her (which I did once when videoing her) she reared up into an attack position, legs swinging menacingly at me. I had no doubt she would win the fight. No doubt. I couldn’t call maintenance because if they released her into the wild she could easily come back and then she’d have to remake her web and she’d be roaming around for a while and she might be mad. Also, perhaps if she was gone another spider — and the new one might be even bigger or possibly meaner than Murgatroyd — may move in to fill the void. So I spent the week obsessing about her and writing about her and that’s how that went.
I came back the next year, purportedly to finish the memoir I’d worked so diligently on the first year. This time they put me in the older, more rustic Bear’s Den cabin. This cabin was built of stone and wooden beams. This time my cabin mate was a snake. A black snake with a red ring around its neck, which in many ways was worse than having a spider because the spider for the most part, would stay in her web (I assume) but that snake could be literally anywhere. It could climb the wall behind my bed while I slept so — you guessed it — I did not sleep. Not one wink. I saw the snake wriggle away into a hole in the fireplace, and maintenance came and plugged up that hole, but is that the only way it could get in? Who knows.
I made the mistake of reading the guest book in the cabin, the one that previous guests write in, and there were tales of all sorts of critters in the cabin. The snake, yes, apparently it was a commonly seen resident who’d recently had babies, so who knows how many more slitherers I might find. But in the book, someone had sketched a rat running across the wooden beam that ran near the ceiling of the cabin. I looked up and could see that rat clear as day. Or night. From then on my eyes constantly darted up to the beam. The guy from the maintenance crew laughed at how cityish I was being. “You’re in a cabin in the woods!” Yes, well, I was unaware I would be sharing it with snakes. And possibly rats. “They’re country rats, not city rats!” Yeah, well. “Besides,” he continued, “that rat hasn’t been here in how long?” I flipped the pages of the book. The picture of the rat running across the beam was dated less than a month ago. “See?” he said. Yup, I see.
The lights stayed on and my eyes remained open the entire week. The man in Daisy — a photographer — was supposed to have been in Bear’s Den, but the owner of the retreat center insisted he be put in one the nicer, more modern, cabins, since he was an invited guest. But when I told the photographer about the snake he was jealous. “A ring necked snake? You saw a ring necked snake! They’re so secretive, it’s rare to see them. What luck you got that cabin!”
Luck. Sure.
This second year my residency was two weeks, and on Saturday I was told I would be alone on the mountain that night. The programs were switching, the new people not arriving until Sunday. The entire staff had the night off. Plus, a hurricane was blowing in, so “hang tight, you might lose power, but you’ll be fine. I’ll stop in tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”
The wind started picking up just after noon Saturday and I thought, “No. I”m not going to risk losing power in the middle of the night, and be stuck in a pitch dark cabin with a rat and who knows how many snakes.” so I hightailed it down the mountain, and spent the night in Winston-Salem with my parents. We watched Midnight in Paris, by Woody Allen, which I was resistant to watch, because Woody Allen, but it was fantastic.
Early the next morning I made my way back to the mountain. Trees were down from the storm, but I wound my way back up. The stress instantly returned as I stepped in the cabin. My eyes automatically scanned the beam for rats, and the floors and walls for snakes. I jumped when the phone rang.
“How’d you do last night?” the maintenance guy asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“Did you lose power?”
“No,” I said, having no idea.
“That was lucky, I spent the morning clearing downed trees. Listen, we’re going to switch you to Daisy for your second week. But you have to be out of Bear’s Den by noon, and you have to promise not to mention anything to the guy we’re putting in Bear’s Den. Deal?”
“Yeah,” I said, “Deal.”
I gathered all my stuff, said goodbye to the scary critter filled cabin (though I saw no rats and no snakes after that first day, except for every second of every day in my imagination) and drove down the road, to my old friend, Daisy.
So new! So clean! So open!
I went to the porch and immediately scanned the corner: Murgatroyd’s web was gone. I let out a sigh of relief and began unpacking, making myself at home. That afternoon I sipped tea on the porch, talking to myself out loud about all the things I would accomplish that week, when a ghostly pale, old, giant spider made her way up weakly through the cracks of the floor of the wooden porch. As big as my fist — and not all legs either — she swayed back and forth, unsteady on her eight old legs. Could it be? Recognizing me after all this time, awaiting my return? But my nerves were shot and I’d had it. Without thinking I grabbed a broom and slid it across the porch at the spider, hitting her square on. She was so wispy and weak, she flew apart in all directions, as if I’d bowled a strike. Tears fell down my cheeks. Murgatroyd? Could it have been? She was so happy to see me and I ruthlessly killed her! Or did I? Was that really a rickety old spider, or just a ghostly hallucination?
“I’m sorry Murgatroyd,” I sobbed, “I’m so so sorry.” Shaking, I picked up the broom and replaced it to the corner of the porch. I went inside, dumped out my tea, and flopped face down onto my bed, crying. It had been a hard week.
