Look who I found lurking in the sink when we arrived at the cabin this week …..
We have lots of iddy-biddy spiders in the cabin. I mostly don’t see them or pay them much mind, just clean up their webs. After all, there are all those old stories about house spiders bringing GOOD LUCK.
Back in the 1500′s they would say, “When a man fyndeth a spyder upon his gowne it is a synge to be that daye ryght happye.”
Remember the passage in Mark Twain’s book when Huck said, “ Pretty soon a spider went crawling up my shoulder, and I flipped it off and it lit in the candle; and before I could budge it was all shriveled up. I didn’t need anybody to tell me that was an awful bad sign and would fetch me some bad luck, so I was scared and most shook the clothes off of me.” Then he blamed all his troubles on the spider bringing him bad luck.
I hear there is an Appalachian superstition that you should never kill a spider in the house. I think maybe the ever-resourceful Appalachian housewife found keeping the cob webs cleaned up in a log cabin, just as impossible as I do, so like Huck they found blaming it on spider luck to be a plausible rationalization. It worked for them …. it works for me. But I draw the line at GIANT spiders in the house.
So he only stayed in the plastic-tub jail until I could identify him, then I set him free, outside, of course.
I tried my hand at knitting this week. All I know how to do is the “knit and pearl” stitch that Mema taught me long ago. Enough rows of that, and add a little fringe on the ends, and voilà …. I had a scarf to send to my daughter in Denver.
I am sure that these old logs have seen knitting in the past. Of course those knitters would have tended and shorn their own sheep, washed and carded the wool, spun and then died their own yarn.
I don’t think I will be graduating into knitting sweaters anytime soon (that’s for sure!), but clicking away at an easy pace is a nice way to spend a lazy winter day inside a cozy warm cabin.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know of the little dramas that here played out in days gone by? Would they whisper of a young couple sitting on the porch in the evening twilight, listening to the chirp of the cicada, seeing the twinkling lightning bugs on the edge of the garden, and making their plans to be married? Would they recount the story of a young mother giving birth to her first child in a quilt-covered bed, midwife in attendance, while the anxious father paced the front porch? Would they ring with the delightful squeals of children as a grandfather entertained them with stories as they sat by a cozy fire on a winter’s night? Would they echo fiddle music, and lullabies?
Undoubtedly there was laughter; there were tears; happy moments as well as heartbreaking calamities; moments of great historical significance as well as mere everyday events. What were the sights and sounds? What grew in the garden? What dinners did they eat? Were there celebrations, struggles, close calls, special visitors? Did a loved one march bravely off to war? What were the dreams they dreamed, and the prayers they prayed?
Time moves forward and we cannot look back, but only imagine what was not recorded.
Fast forward to 2009 . . . .
There is a story to be told. Let it not be said that the 21st century inhabitants left it untold. Those that went before us left their legacy in their own way, we will leave ours.