the itsy bitsy big-ol'-herkin' spider: a tale of two wallets

The Week With No Kids came to an end! We drove to camp Saturday morning, excited to be reunited with our children--who are just as excited to be reunited with us, I am pleased to learn.

We loaded up the gear. D. tells me that he could not find his wallet all week long, and was unable to purchase anything from the snack shop for the whole week. I am horrified, because I know good and well where his wallet is, in the side zipper pocket of his duffle bag. Did I not tell him? Or did he not explore his belongings well enough? Maybe a combination of both. HOW TOTALLY SAD! Here it is, 108 degrees and all the kids eating snow cones except for him. *sigh*

So I pulled out his wallet for him and sent him off to the Trading Post, where he buys, not a snow cone, but a Marshmallow Gun. Hoo dawgies! It's a contraption made of pvc pipe that you can aim and shoot marshmallows from. OH the joy! Because we had no marshmallows, he ended up shooting bits of Trader Joe's Buried Treasure at me and S. on our way up to Visalia and Sequoia National Park. Lacking marshmallows, he had to get some practice in, after all. Notice, of course, that he did NOT shoot anything at his father. He values his life, that boy. And just think, if he DID have his wallet the entire week of camp, he probably wouldn't have had enough money left to buy a marshmallow gun at the end of the week! Gotta look on the bright side of things.

A and I were entertained with tales of camp, the skits ("ya gotta keep your worms warm!"), the activities, the falling out of canoes, going down the giant water slide (scorecard: D- 7 times; S - twice); hearing about a kid bitten by a rattlesnake. (Eww!)

Our ultimate destination upon leaving Camp Ironwood was this place called Three Rivers, just outside of Sequoia - where if you drive 11 miles offroad on North Fork Road, you get to this amazingly beautiful place to go swimming in the river. So we ventured there as a family, 100 degrees and bumpy, windy road (S getting nauseated)- and were rewarded at the end with a lovely, cool dip in the river. There were other families back there, as well as a man panning for gold (he found some!) - so we were in good company.
Clever me, I am not in the picture. :)Scenery. It's gorgeous back in there, more so when it seems like everything should be dry and barren, and then there's this luscious stream with green green green.


When it came time to leave, D. started to get a sore throat and not feel well. S. got car sick. We got back to Visalia and D. crawled into bed (our room air conditioning worked only sporadically so the room was swelteringly warm). We made plans with my parents for dinner; D only wanted macaroni and cheese for his sore throat. A. patted his back pocket, searching for his wallet. No wallet. With a dazed look passing between us, we knew: his wallet was back at Three Rivers, about 70 minutes away, and not a lot of sunlight left. Choices: get it now, or wait until morning. Decision: get it now.

My parents, children and I went to a Perko's restaurant, while A went back to Three Rivers. After he left, I mentally kicked myself - I should have gone with him! There's no cell phone coverage out there. So I'm sitting at Perko's, calculating just about where A is on his route, and about what time he would return. The service was abominably slow at the diner, so we had lots of time to discuss and wait. D. ordered a double burger, but when it finally arrived he just sniffed at it. Hurt too much to eat. Grandpa ordered D. and S. a banana split, and oddly enough, THAT went down just fine.

We got back to the motel, crawled onto our beds and waited. A. arrived back about the time I mentally prepared myself to expect him, all was well, he found the wallet.... AND he had brought back a present to make D. feel better!!

The gift? A tarantula in a mason jar.

I shrieked several inappropriate things and scarpered to the corner of the room, pillow clutched in front of me for protection.

"Mom, can we keep it? PLEEEEEEASE??" I am beleaguered by pleading children. I know good and well that I am the bad guy if I say no. Evil husband for putting me in such a position!

"I am NOT discussing this. DO not ask me again."

Regardless, every so often a child would come and plead with me for arachnid clemency and safe harbor. Surprisingly it was my daughter who was most distraught about my resistance--she, who screams if there is a jumping spider in her vicinity. Hypocrite.

Because I know what happens when critters are kept. Accidents. That's what. And some morning, if I give in to these pleas, I will find a hairy nasty many-legged critter larger than a mouse stumbling about loose in my home, and that is so not the way to begin a good day.

I leave it to A. to straighten things out and explain to them that in no wise will they be owning a tarantula, now or ever, as long as they are not paying the mortgage on the home. D. eventually gives in with good grace. S. is still upset with my irrationality. "Mom, it's in a GLASS JAR," explaining it to me as if I am slow.

We decide it can stay the night... in the jar... on the table on the opposite side of the room from my sleeping position. Even so, my dreams are troubled, fuzzy, and creepy.

The next morning, just past Three Rivers where it was found, we let him go. I say "we" rather loosely; I stayed in the car.

And thus endeth the arachnid adventure.

Moral of the story: don't leave your wallet behind, or you'll get more than you bargained for.