Love and Spiders

I was delighted with J. P. Devine’s “Eeeeek!” (Op-Ed, Aug. 12). It reminded me of a time when I was a daughter, age 11. We were pioneering in southern Idaho in the 1920s.

I screamed for Dad to come and kill a rattlesnake I nearly had stepped on. He came, of course, and slew the serpent that crossed my path.

I’d already made my peace with spiders. Even today, about 65 years later, I chase spiders outside whenever there is a choice but sometimes take a swipe at a resister with a rolled-up Times, a fly swatter or a broom.

But I never had anyone but Dad (and once my brother) to rescue me from rattlers. In my teens, I finally killed three myself. Once one struck at my horse as we galloped by. It missed, but I caught a glimpse of it standing three or four feet tall on its tail before it dropped back into its coil. I didn’t go after that one.

Another time, while helping clear land, I pulled a big slab of lava off a rattler and ran. Dad got that one. It was five feet long and had 13 rattles. After it was dead, Dad cut off its head, and with sticks, he pried the jaws open, and showed us how the fangs worked.

It didn’t reassure me a bit.

SYBLE LAGERQUIST

Los Angeles