Dramieta

 

I first noticed Dramieta, a beautiful Furrow Orb-weaver, one afternoon in mid-September as I was walking up to the garage where the bird seed was kept for the feeder. As I paused to unlock the entry door, I could not help but notice the sun glistening on a spider's web that stretched from the tomato plant that grew wild from last year's crop, to the over-hanging eave above. This would be the first of many observations as the web grew more intricate day after day.

Spiders are dreadfully feared by most and I am no exception. With their many spindly, hairy legs they can move and jump with light speed. Perish the thought that one should ever dart toward me and rush with featherlight wisps across bare skin. All the forces of nature could not quell the scream that would erupt. Despite a lifelong trepidation for the all-encompassing order of Arachnida, Dramieta alone held my admiration. 

Her web grew more brilliant from day to day under her constant work of perfection. My admiration was not instant. It bloomed in stages as I watched the web develop to catch the insects that would sustain her. Dramieta could most often be found feeding in the center of her web, where she could quickly spring back to the safety of her home at the top of the eave. There, a small ledge, just the size to hide her body, protruded at the corner where the two soffits met. Time and again, I would find her sunning herself or feeding before retreating as I came near. Although I could clearly see her huddled in the corner ledge with the tips of her feet exposed, I never intruded; nor did I ever touch her web. Though she was unaware, I was her ardent admirer as well as her defender. 

Dramieta was a large spider and could easily be seen from my dining room window as the sun glistened across the silken threads where she gently perched. So entranced was I by her daily routine, as she would rappel down and move effortlessly across her web to make repairs, before springing up to the safety of her nook, that, without rhyme or reason, my sentiment toward this orb-weaver grew. Early one morning, while sitting in my favorite chair in the living room, her name came to me: Dramieta. It suited her. Having never heard the name before, I believe I can claim to be the originator. From that day on she became Dramieta.

Dramieta was one of established routine, never venturing away from her norm. That is why a rush of apprehension shot through me one morning when she was not in her usual place. As I drew closer, I noticed her entire web was swept away from top to bottom without a trace of one ever having been there. Despair tore through my mind with the realization that she was gone. I reached for a flower stalk, long since bloomed, and ran it gently along her corner ledge to see if she was there. She instantly rappelled down in fear and dangled in mid-air for a moment before swiftly retreating to the safety of her nook. That would be the last time I saw her.

A sadness settled upon me for all the hours she had so tirelessly worked on her web only to have it totally destroyed. I never disturbed her again as I waited in vain for the start of a new web. It never appeared. Maybe, like humans at the loss of all hope, she could not muster the ambition needed to start again; or maybe, it was simply too late in the season for a spider, whose natural life cycle will end in the fall of the year at the first sign of frost, to rebuild a web. All I know is, Dramieta, a name I will reserve for her only, showed up unexpectedly and left abruptly. 

A few days later, I grabbed another flower stalk and reached up to the corner of the eaves. This time Dramieta did not rappel. There was no sign of her. She was gone! In her place was a silk sack that holds her eggs. In the spring I will watch for her babies to emerge where once Dramieta lodged. Maybe another web will appear. I hope so, for it will surely recall the uncommon memory of the magnificent orb-weaver that I came to admire.