Black widow. Brown recluse. I am willing to bet those four words cause a number of you to cringe. (For some people in my family, the word "spider" alone would do it.)
But hobo? Who would be frightened by the word hobo? It conjures up cheerful meals of canned beans and a chicken on a coat hanger all warmed by a camp fire next to the railroad track where a free man can catch the next freight to the end of the rainbow. Thus is the American romantic tale associated with hobo.
How did it happen to be the name of the star of my latest little venture into Mother Nature's teeming maw?
So, here I am trying to get the house cleaned up to get it on the market. Due to a couple years of neglect, my roses have been surrounded by ferns. Nothing to do, but trim them down and dig them up. As weeds go, ferns are some of the worst.
And what do I wear on my feet for this digging task? Sandals. Hacking away, doing my best impression of Henry Morton Stanley, I brace my feet deep in the fern to get some leverage. All goes well until I feel some tickling between the toes on my foot -- not the burning athlete's foot tickling, but the warning signs of some sentient being desperately trying to escape. The feeling that is usually followed either by the expressions: uh-oh or ouch. Words with an overuse of vowels usually denote some danger is afoot.
And it was afoot. Or on my foot. My left foot -- to be precise. I looked down and immediately recognized what I had managed to trap: a hobo spider.
Before I could get my sandal off and free the spider, I felt a bit of a bite, and she was off on her way to freedom.
Now, I have experienced hobo bites in the past. Fortunately, this time, I got away with what appears to be a warning bite. There is only a little swelling, and no indication yet of any necrosis. The hobo, like all venomous creatures, does not release venom unless it must. As is the story of my life, she did not see me as a significant threat.
And, no, this is not an excuse to avoid additional work on the house. Unless someone is handing out dispensations today.
But hobo? Who would be frightened by the word hobo? It conjures up cheerful meals of canned beans and a chicken on a coat hanger all warmed by a camp fire next to the railroad track where a free man can catch the next freight to the end of the rainbow. Thus is the American romantic tale associated with hobo.
How did it happen to be the name of the star of my latest little venture into Mother Nature's teeming maw?
So, here I am trying to get the house cleaned up to get it on the market. Due to a couple years of neglect, my roses have been surrounded by ferns. Nothing to do, but trim them down and dig them up. As weeds go, ferns are some of the worst.
And what do I wear on my feet for this digging task? Sandals. Hacking away, doing my best impression of Henry Morton Stanley, I brace my feet deep in the fern to get some leverage. All goes well until I feel some tickling between the toes on my foot -- not the burning athlete's foot tickling, but the warning signs of some sentient being desperately trying to escape. The feeling that is usually followed either by the expressions: uh-oh or ouch. Words with an overuse of vowels usually denote some danger is afoot.
And it was afoot. Or on my foot. My left foot -- to be precise. I looked down and immediately recognized what I had managed to trap: a hobo spider.
Before I could get my sandal off and free the spider, I felt a bit of a bite, and she was off on her way to freedom.
Now, I have experienced hobo bites in the past. Fortunately, this time, I got away with what appears to be a warning bite. There is only a little swelling, and no indication yet of any necrosis. The hobo, like all venomous creatures, does not release venom unless it must. As is the story of my life, she did not see me as a significant threat.
And, no, this is not an excuse to avoid additional work on the house. Unless someone is handing out dispensations today.
