Springer's Journey

There are moments in childhood that become family legends.

This is one of mine.

Picture Oregon in September.

Golden fields stretching into the distance.

Waist-high grass.

Morning sunshine.

And those great big yellow orb-weaver spiders that seem to believe every trail belongs exclusively to them.

I was about ten years old.

My dad was a logger.

He had been hired to survey a piece of property before logging could begin, and my brothers were busy putting up hay.

Dad looked at me.
“Come on, Kid.”

I thought I had won the lottery.

Then he handed me an orange-tipped survey stick.

“You walk first.”
…
I would like to pause here and point out that my father knew exactly what lived in those September fields.

I, unfortunately, was about to receive an advanced education.

The first web stretched across the trail.

Then another.

Then another.

The spiders attached themselves to my survey stick.

Their webs wrapped around my face.

One landed on my shirt.

Another found my hair.

That was the precise moment all remaining dignity left my body.

I began waving that orange stick like a medieval sword while screaming at a volume usually reserved for aircraft emergencies.

My long hair was flying in every direction.

The spiders, I am certain, were just as surprised as I was

.
Dad, who had wisely remained behind me, eventually caught up.

Heavy…
Heavy…
Sigh.

I refused to look up because I already knew he was laughing.

He calmly inspected me and said,
“No spiders on you, Kid.”

Then, after another thoughtful pause, he added,
“I have a feeling they’ve moved away from this spot forever.”

To this day, I believe he was right.

I doubt an orb-weaver has willingly built a web there since.

Although…
Over the years my imagination has improved.

Now, whenever I tell this story, I realize what I was actually missing.

That survey stick should have been a Star Wars lightsaber.

Can you imagine it?

A ten-year-old girl in an orange shirt…

Charging through a September field…

Spider webs exploding in every direction…

Swinging an imaginary lightsaber while screaming loud enough to alert neighboring counties.

Somewhere, I like to think the spiders held an emergency meeting afterward.

“Order! Order!”
“The orange-shirted child has returned!”
“Evacuate the trail!”
“The Jedi has no mercy!”

To this day, I suspect young spiders gather around their grandparents every September to hear the cautionary tale.

“Long ago, children…”

“There came a little girl…

“She wore orange…”

“She carried a glowing sword…”

“And from that day forward…”
“We all agreed to build our webs somewhere else.”

Dad never made fun of me.

He never told me to “get over it.”

He simply made sure there were no spiders on me…
And then quietly got us back to work.

Looking back now, I think that’s one of the greatest gifts a parent can give.

Sometimes we don’t need someone to tell us we’re being silly.

Sometimes we just need someone to smile, brush the webs away, and remind us…

“It’s okay, Kid.”

The survey can wait a minute.

Polished with help from ChatGPT, who has completed a thorough investigation and can now confirm that the Oregon Orb-Weaver Association still observes a solemn moment of silence every September in memory of the Great Spider Relocation Program of 1971. Their official recommendation remains unchanged: “If you see an orange-shirted little girl carrying what appears to be a lightsaber… relocate immediately.” ️⚔️