The Continuing Adventures of Christopher J.: Part 4

Here we have the continuing story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons...

For those who don't know, Christopher J. is a lovely little spider I met some time ago. Full of the wanderlust, he began the adventure of a lifetime in the forsythia bush in my front yard. I didn't expect to ever see him again, but he came back, with a very big story to tell. I thought you might like to hear it, too...

If you haven't read the first few installments of the story, you can find them here:

First Installment

Second Installment

Third Installment

If you remember correctly, at the end of the last installment, Christopher J. was just about to share how his new friend, Julius P. Crickman, saved his life... for the first time...

“My goodness! What on earth happened?”

Christopher J. stood up, balancing carefully on five legs. He took off his bowler hat, wiped his brow with a hanky from his vest pocket, and replaced his hat. “It was really quite harrowing, I have to say. I still find the memory rather stressful.”

“I can imagine. Do you need a moment?”

“No, no. I’m fine.” He began to pace the length of the nightstand drawer, took a deep breath, and started. “As I mentioned, I met Julius P. for the first time under the forsythia bush. We chatted for a while, waiting for the temperature to drop, as it was so terribly hot. Having just decided to start our journey in the lush garden across the Great Dark Divide (Narrator's note: I determined quickly that the Great Dark Divide is the street in front of the house), we were planning our route, when we heard a tremendous rustling in the forsythia!”

I leaned forward, anxious to learn what might have caused the rustling.

“Suddenly, we heard a frightful squawk and were very nearly trampled by a rather… portly… sparrow. Julius P. knocked me out of the way, or that bird would have surely used me as a stepping stone and squashed me flat!”

“Ah, is that how Julius P. saved your life?”

Christopher J. shook his head solemnly, his eyes wide. “Oh, no. It got worse. Ever so much worse. It wasn’t long before we were to discover just why the sparrow was squawking and trying to make his way through the forsythia.”

Our spider friend sat back down on his Kleenex bed and fanned himself before going on.  “We were completely discombobulated, as I’m sure you can imagine, and I was just about to ask Julius P. what on earth he suspected was going on, when his eyes got wide and he pointed to something behind me. And then… and then… I felt it.”

“Felt what, Christopher J.? Felt what?!” I was on the edge of my seat.

Poor Christopher J. was sweating, clearly distraught at the memory. “It was a paw! A great, heavy paw! Upon my back! My legs went out from under me and I was suddenly flat upon the ground, unable to move! It was terrifying! I craned my neck and turned my head to see what had me… what was, I was certain, going to eat me!”

“And? What was it?”

“It was the Beast of the Garden! The fiercest creature to prowl our corner of the world! The monster of which legends are born!” Christopher J. had clearly given this “creature” a fair amount of thought.

“But, what sort of creature, exactly, is The Beast of the Garden, Christopher J.?”

Our 7-legged pal leaned forward, looked left and then right, as if to make sure The Beast was not within earshot, as if simply speaking about him could summon him right into my bedroom, and he whispered, “A cat.”

“A cat? Oh. Oh. I see. What does this cat look like?”

“He’s huge! And orange and white, with beady eyes and enormous paws! Have you seen him?”

I nodded slowly (and possibly a bit guiltily, I have to admit). “Um, well, yes. He’s, you know, sort of, um, my cat.”

“Your cat?!” Christopher J. squeaked in alarm and disbelief. “Your cat?! But how? How can you – you, a kind and caring soul – be associated such a creature? Such a beast?!”

“Well, he’s actually quite nice, Christopher J. His name is Pedo.”

“Pedo?! No. No. That’s simply far too benign, too gentle a name for this beast!”

“It means fart in Spanish,” I offered up helpfully.

Christopher J. snorted derisively. “While I don’t find it completely inappropriate that he’s named for flatulence, I do believe the name the birds have given him is far more appropriate.”

“What’s that?”

He whispered, somewhat reverently, I thought, “they call him El Diablo! The Devil!”

“Oh, dear. That seems a bit extreme… a bit, well, hyperbolic… don’t you think?”

“Hyperbolic?!” Our little spider friend threw up his arms, clearly beside himself, and knocked his bowler hat clean off. He watched as it sailed across the nightstand drawer. “Oh, dear me,” he said, shaking his head. Taking a deep breath, he picked his hat up, put it back on, and said, more quietly and calmly this time, “have you seen the carnage? Have you witnessed the bodies he leaves in his wake?”

I nodded sadly. “I have, actually. Sometimes right on the front porch. But it’s his nature, you see. Cats are hunters.”

“But he does it for sport!” Christopher J. spat the word out disgustedly.

I really could not blame him for being upset. While I certainly love my cat, I have to admit that I’m not so keen on the whole concept of the ‘Circle of Life’ when it comes full circle on my doorstep.

“I understand, Christopher J. I do. But please do go on. What happened when you realized it was The Beast, er, Pedo, who had you flattened?”

Christopher J. took a deep breath, eyeing me with clear doubt on his little face.  I could tell he was wondering if he could trust me now, given my connection to The Beast of the Garden. I was afraid he wouldn’t go on after all. Thankfully he did.

“Well, I was terrified, as I said. Certain The Beast was going to eat me, I cried out for Julius P. to run! I thought that if my travels were over, at least my friend could go on in my memory.”

“That was very gallant of you, Christopher J. And did he?”

“No! That brilliant cricket saved me! He leapt right into The Beast’s face, landing squarely on his nose! The Beast was so startled that he lifted his paw, allowing me to wriggle loose. He slammed it down again on my leg but I was able to pull free.”

“Was that how… um…” I pointed to the stump where his 8^th leg had been, not wanting to ask the question out loud.

“How I lost my leg? Oh, no. That was a different situation altogether.” He stood up and began pacing again, as he went on with the story. “The Beast swatted at Julius P., knocking him to the ground. The poor chap was stunned, so before the paw came down again, I wrapped 4 of my legs around him, intending to drag him deeper into the forsythia, away from The Beast's reach. And then?! You’ll never guess what happened!”

My heart was racing now, worried for my little friend and his little friend. “What? What happened?!”

“Remember that sparrow? The one who nearly trampled us, trying to get out of The Beast’s path?”

I nodded.

Christopher J. began gesturing wildly. “Well, he swooped in just as The Beast was about to capture both Julius P. and me! He closed in on the collar of my vest with his claw and he flew us right out of the forsythia! Julius P. was wrapped in all 8 of my legs and I held on for dear life, terrified I was going to drop him! It was spectacular! And let me tell you, I was ever so glad Mum had made sure all my vest buttons were secure before I left for my travels, as if they'd popped, we would have been goners for certain! The Beast was, for once, not quick enough to pull us out of the sky, which is odd, really, when you consider how rather chubby Spiro is, and that he was carrying both a spider and a cricket, weighing him down even more.”

“Spiro?” 

 

 

Christopher J. smiled. “Yes, Spiro T. Winger, of the Great Maple Wingers. He became the third in our traveling trio." A little giggle escaped the spider and he continued, "though we weren’t certain at first that he hadn’t rescued us only to make a meal of us later!”

“Oh, my! Where did he fly you to after the rescue from The Beast, er, Pedo?”

“Straight to his nest in the Great Maple. And that? Is a story all unto itself. My goodness, it is.”

“Well, I want to hear it! But first, I need another cup of tea. Would you like some?”

“Oh, dear me, yes. Thank you. All this storytelling has me parched!”

Christopher J. sat back down on his Kleenex bed, clearly spent from reliving his ordeal, and I made my way quickly to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

 

To be continued...

The Adventures of Christopher J.: Installment 3

If you remember, we ended the last installment of the Adventures of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, with me heading out to make both a cup of tea and a mental note to email my friend Todd, whose spare room, I believe, was the original Arachington homestead. 

If you missed the first installment of Christopher J.'s story, you can read it right here... and if you missed the second installment, you can read it right here...)

And so we continue...

I returned with my tea, curled up in the wicker chair near my nightstand, and bid Christopher J. to begin his tale. He took a deep breath and started…
 
“If you remember rightly, it was very warm last July 3^rd. When you set me down in the forsythia near the street, I had to catch my breath and wipe my brow. I was deciding whether to be on my way or wait until the evening cooled a bit when I happened upon the lovely chap who would become my traveling companion for some time – Julius P. Crickman.”
 
“And Julius P. is a… cricket?”

 “Exactly! And a jolly good mate as well! He was off on his own adventure, you see, as, sadly, he’d been involved in a little altercation with several other crickets. He decided simply to leave the lilac bush just down the way from the Red Shed, so as not to wind up in any real trouble, you understand.”
 
“An altercation? What about?” Insect altercations seem rather interesting, don’t you think?
 
Christopher J. continued, “Well, I don’t know how much you know about crickets, but I assume you know they chirp?”
 
“Of course. And loudly, too.”
 
“Yes, indeed. Well, only the males chirp. Did you know that? It’s true. However, Julius P. doesn’t.”
 
“He doesn’t chirp? Why?”
 
“Well, he doesn’t know why. It’s the way he is; the way he was born. But those bullies teased him unmercifully about it! They called him extremely unflattering names and called into question his… male-ness.”
 
“Oh, I see. Poor Julius P. For the record? Things like that happen in the human world, too.”
 
Yes, in the spider world, too! I, myself, had an horrific experience when two of my loutish cousins, Bubba and Jim-Bob humilia…”
 
“Wait," I put my hand up to stop him. "I’m sorry to interrupt you, Christopher J., but Bubba? And Jim-Bob?”
 
Christopher J. sighed. “Yes. Their mum, Crystal Mae Weaver, of the Brown Shed Weavers, married my Uncle Jonathan Q. Arachington.”
 
“The Brown Shed?” I had to know.
 
Christopher J. looked a bit disgusted. “Yes. You know the one… on wrong side of the garden… paint peeling… a smelly groundhog lives underneath…?” He peered at me for signs of recognition.
 
I realized which shed he meant. “Ohhhh. Yes. I know the one.  Please go on…”
 
Well, the whole family knew that Crystal Mae was a gold-digger. My Granda even tried to forbid the marriage, but Uncle Jonathan was always the headstrong sort. In fact, it was being headstrong that landed him right in a woodpecker’s flight path!”
 
“Oh, dear!”
 
“Yes. And without anyone else at home to help with Bubba and Jim-Bob, Crystal Mae moved them all into the Red Shed. Much to MY chagrin, let me tell you.”
 
“I understand. So what did they do to you that upset you so?”

Our little friend’s face filled with such righteous indignation! “Oh! Oh! Wait until I tell you! My whole life they called me “Nancy-Boy” because I preferred to be tidy and well-dressed and spoke properly. As if using ‘ain’t’ and wearing dirty baseball caps makes one better than anyone else!”
 
I nodded in complete understanding (I know a couple of Bubbas and Jim-Bobs).

He went on, breathlessly, clearly reliving his ordeal, “Well, one night, while I was sleeping, they took tree sap and they smeared it over… over…” he stopped, his face reddening in embarrassment.
 
“Over what, Christopher J.?”
 
He mumbled something, “My spinner…”
 
“I’m sorry, your what?”
 
“My Spinneret,” he declared in exasperation. I must have looked perplexed because he went on, “You know, don’t you? It’s the… hole… in my… bum… from which I spin my webs.”
 
“Oh! Oh, dear! That must have been awful for you, Christopher J.! I’m so sorry.”
 
He nodded, the wind out of his sails. “It was. It was beyond awful. It took days to sort out. So much… discomfort! And those two brutes and their friends laughing at me all the while." Christopher J. swallowed hard.  "I’ve never forgiven them.  And poor Julius P. suffered in a similar way. It was completely unacceptable, it was! Julius P. is a grand chap, whether he chirps or not, and it was my great good fortune that he decided to find his own way, as he wound up saving my spider-skin on not one, but two occasions!”
 
“He saved your life?”
 
“He did. And the first time was on that very night…”

To be continued...

The Spider Story Continues...

And here we have another installment of the adventures of our pal, Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons. If you missed the first installment, you can read it right here...

So, I know you’re all waiting to hear about Christopher J.’s adventures but I have to admit that I interrupted him before he really got a chance to start.

 
“Christopher J.? May I ask you a question?”
 
“But of course!”
 
“Have you ever been to England? The reason I ask is that there is an affect to your speech that is very British. And, quite frankly, that seems rather odd, coming from a spider from Pigsknuckle.”
 
Christopher J. nodded. “Yes, I can see how that might be confusing. I, sadly, have never been to England, though I do consider it my homeland. You see, my grandfather, Sheldon P. Arachinton, was from London. He raised me you understand, as my own father, Clarence D. Arachington, lost his life in a terrible accident involving a,” Christopher J. swallowed hard and went on, “involving a… lawnmower.”  He bowed his head for a moment, and I did as well, out of respect, you know. “So, it is only fitting that I sound a bit like my Granda.”
 
“Of course. You say he was from London? Do you know what part?”
 
“Yes. Wgate.”
 
“Wgate? Hmmm… I don’t know that part of London, I’m afraid. Do you know anything more about it?”
 
“Only that it’s quite leafy and green. My Granda came from the Red Room in Wgate. In fact, the color red plays quite a significant role in our family history. You see, Granda lived in the Red Room, he traveled from Wgate to here in a great red valise, and he moved into the Red Shed. Quite interesting, don’t you think?”
 
I nodded. “Quite. A red valise, you say?”
 
“Yes. Quite a big one I’m told.”
 
“And do you know anything more of the Red Room?”
 
“Well, I hesitate to say this, as it makes my Granda sound rather… peculiar… but he would often speak of two moons.”
 
“Two moons? Really…”
 
“Yes. To tell the truth, I’ve often wondered if perhaps my Granda dipped into the sherry a bit too often in his youth, but he was quite adamant about it. He said there was a moon outside the Red Room and a moon inside, as well.”
 
“That’s very curious.”
 
“Indeed. Oh, and the Red Room was also an ogre’s lair,” Christopher J. mentioned, rather nonchalantly, I thought, for such a significant statement.
 
“An ogre?”
 
“Oh, yes. He was quite fearsome, really, and heavy-footed, always chasing Granda about with a shoe or a book. But my Granda was terribly cunning and quick,” Christopher J. glowed with pride. “He used to tell us the funniest story about how he stole onto the ogre’s bed one night while he was sleeping and tickled his nose. The ogre awoke with a start and when he saw my Granda , just inches from his face, he screamed like a little girl and flailed about like a madman. Granda laughed and laughed until he saw the ogre crying in fear. Then he felt terrible. Granda was really very kind, you see, and only liked to tease the ogre. He said that after that incident, he did his best to keep out of the ogre’s way.”
 
“That’s all very interesting, Christopher J. I’m sorry I never got to meet your Granda. I think I would have liked him.”
 
“Oh, I expect you would have. He would have liked you as well.”
 
I smiled and excused myself to make a cup of tea. And as I was going to the kitchen, I made a mental note to email my friend Todd… Todd, who hates spiders… Todd, who lives on Barrowgate, in leafy, green  West London… and whose spare room is painted red… the same room which has a light fixture that looks like a moon… the same room in which I stay when I visit… with my big red suitcase…

To be continued...

Let Me Tell You a Story About a Spider...

It's, like, 652 degrees below zero outside and I'm as sick as the proverbial dog (though my real dog is quite fine, snoring beside me). My brain is all frozen and fuzzy and I've had difficulty articulating coherent thoughts all day.

So, instead of slapping down some NyQuil-induced gibberish, I'm going to give you some gibberish I came up with when it was about 652 degrees above zero outside, in the way of several recycled Facebook posts.

Last summer, I started a story on Facebook that just trailed off after several installments, but I've been meaning to pick it back up, as several people enjoyed it and I had fun writing it. I'll give you the back-story today, as well as several of the original posts, and then, hopefully, I'll continue it periodically, until it's finished.

So, as I say, let me tell you a story about a spider...

It all began two summers ago, actually, when Ryan went into my bedroom for something... she came back into the living room and stated (rather matter-of-factly, I thought), "There was a spider on your pillow."

"Um... a spider? On my pillow?"

"Yeah. A big one."

"Did you get it?"

"Uh, no. It was a big one."

Lovely. I went to bed that night with some trepidation. I'm not afraid of spiders, mind you (like several people I know), and I "rescue" them quite often, but the idea of one crawling on me in my sleep? That gave me the heebie-jeebies.

Turns out? I had little to worry about. I became convinced, in fact, that the spider was friendly, and that he'd taken it upon himself to turn off my alarm the next morning.

Two days after Ryan's initial spotting (July 3, 2012, to be specific), I posted this on Facebook...


I met the spider last night. A lovely chap, really... Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons. We had rather a pleasant chat. Christopher J., it seems, is full of the wanderlust, much like his grandfather, Sheldon P. Arachington (who, sadly, met his demise when he frightened a lady in the shower in a shockingly pink bathroom on the second floor of a house down on Willow). I thanked Christopher J. for kindly turning off my alarm yesterday and, since I believe in reciprocal relationships, asked if I could give him a lift back to the Red Shed. He suggested the front yard, however, as he had his passport with him (tucked into the breast pocket of his vest, so as not to lose it [wish I'd thought of that]). I obliged, quite happily, warning him to steer clear of the house 3 doors down (I helped the lady of the house with her groceries the other day and saw a big can of bug spray in her bag).

Safe travels, Christopher J.! It was lovely to meet you!

I will admit, many people who read that Facebook post thought I was a little... well... screwy. Whatevs. Wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last.

It would be more than a year before I would hear from Christopher J. again. It was, in fact, this past August that he re-appeared. Here is the post from August 16, 2013...

Last night, exhausted, I dragged myself to my room, ready to sleep for days. Sundance hopped onto the bed, barked once, and then snuffled about my pillow. How surprised I was to see our very own Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons, holding onto the corner of my pillowcase for dear life, to avoid being sucked up Sunny’s nose! He looked decidedly bedraggled, his vest torn, his bowler hat (did I mention he wears a bowler hat?) askew, and he was (gasp!) missing a leg! 

“Christopher J.” I exclaimed, pulling my curious dog away. “You startled me. Are you alright? What are you doing here?”

Poor Christopher J. collapsed, prone on my pillow, clearly exhausted and possibly even in shock. “I’m… sorry. I… need… a… place… to… stay… tonight…”

Given his state, I decided it was best not to press him for more information. “Of course,” I nodded, “no worries.” I lifted him gently, opened my nightstand drawer, and placed him onto an open pack of Kleenex (a soft bed for certain). He sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped immediately off to sleep. He’s still sleeping, in fact, poor little guy. His story will have to wait until later…

Now, understandably, some people were curious about what on earth Christopher J. had been doing for a whole year and I know I wanted to find out how he lost an appendage! It would be the next day before the little guy woke up, though...

I stole quietly into my room  and crept over to the nightstand. The drawer was open a smidge, so as not to suffocate poor Christopher J. Arachington , of the Red Shed Arachingtons, and to keep nosy canines and felines from injuring him further (or worse!). I slid the drawer open to find our friendly arachnid pal reclining on his Kleenex bed.

“Christopher J.! How are you? I’ve been thinking of you all day!"
 
He smiled and tipped his bowler hat at me, “I’m well, thank you. Much better than last night, certainly. I slept longer and more deeply than I have in a year. I don’t know how to thank you for your hospitality.”
 
“Aw, it was nothing, really. I have to say, though, I’m very curious to hear about what’s happened in your life since the last time we spoke.”
 
Christopher J. straightened up and cleared his throat, “I would love to regale you with tales of my adventures. But first, might I impose upon you a wee bit more? I haven’t had a proper meal in a few days and, well, the truth is, a bath is really in order, as I’m rather, shall we say, ripe.”
 
“Of course! How rude of me not to offer. But, um, I’m not sure what to prepare. I mean, I don’t really have a supply of, you know,” I dropped my voice to a whisper,”… insects...  hanging about.”
 
“Oh, dear me, no!” Christopher J. exclaimed. “I’m a vegetarian. Some sort of salad would be lovely.”
 
“A vegetarian? Really?”
 
He looked a bit defensive, as if, perhaps, he’s had to explain this often. “Don’t get me wrong, I used to love a good, juicy fly as much as the next spider. But then I met my friend, Spencer C. Flyby (‘Specs’ for short) and, well, as you can imagine, I was faced with a moral dilemma the likes of which I’ve never encountered! It changed my philosophy regarding ‘the circle of life’ altogether.”
 
I nodded, understanding completely (I felt the same way about a cow I knew as a child) and ran about fetching something for Christopher J. to bathe in (a jar lid) and dry off with (a neatly trimmed piece of thick, absorbent paper towel). When his bath was ready, I set off to find salad fixings fit for a spider, leaving Christopher J. to sort himself out (he seemed a bit reluctant to remove his vest in front of me).
 
As I left the room, he called out, “And perhaps, if it’s not too much trouble, a spot of tea? Earl Grey if you have it. With cream and sugar? If you please.”
 
I do so love a spider with good manners. Don’t you?
 
After his bath, dinner (finely chopped spinach, tomato, and a wee bit of grated cheese [for protein]), and his tea (Earl Grey, sipped from the lid of a honey container), Christopher J. thanked me profusely, settled back onto his Kleenex bed, patted his tummy in a satisfied manner, and rummaged in his valise. Bringing out a tiny pipe, he asked, “Do you mind?”
 
“Well, I do, actually. But if you’d like to sit on the window sill and blow the smoke outside, that would be fine.”
 
At the mention of the sill, his eyes widened in fear and he quickly put the pipe away. “No, no, really. I should quit anyway. Nasty habit, it is. Alright then, where should I begin? At the beginning, I suppose… on the evening of July 3, 2012, when you kindly set me out in the front yard, off for the adventure of a lifetime…”
 
And so it began --  the story of Christopher J. Arachington, of the Red Shed Arachingtons…

I'll leave off there for now... but there is more to come. Soon...