When I was eight, I had a cruel streak. Especially when it came to bugs. I liked to stomp beetles, fry ants with a magnifying glass, and hunt for flies to whack with the fly swatter.
One spring, when the June bugs arrived (they come out in May, so why are they called June bugs?), Finny and I caught a live one, tied some fishing line to its hind leg, and flew it around like a kite.
All of that cruelty came to an end one summer day at Squirrel Lake. I was in the side yard, between the cabin and the tall white pines that guard the lake, and I had built a very small fire in the fire pit. The purpose of the fire: I was feeding a collection of live daddy long legs spiders into it, one by one.
Frieda came by to see what I was up to. In case you don’t remember, Frieda was the caretaker for the Squirrel Lake cabin and was also the best cookie chef I’ve ever met.
Hands on her hips, she said in her typical brusque, authoritative voice, “I wouldn’t do that If I were you. God doesn’t like it when you kill things for fun. Especially spiders. There’s an old Indian saying that if you kill a spider, it will come back for revenge in the afterlife.”
“These aren’t spiders, they’re daddy long legs,” I said meekly.
“They’re spiders,” she said harshly. She walked away, shaking her head.
I didn’t know whether she was right or wrong, but suddenly I was very nervous. I blew out the fire and let the other daddy long legs go.
Then I looked up at the sky. I hadn’t noticed while I was busy cremating spiders, but the bright, warm sun had been replaced by dark, ominous clouds. The gentle breeze had picked up and there were now menacingly strong gusts. I thought I heard a faint rumble of thunder off in the distance.
Within minutes all hell was breaking loose. The black clouds scudded in and turned the daylight to darkness. The gusts of wind became blasts, bending the tops of tall pine trees almost horizontal. Bolts of lightning erupted nearby, followed almost instantly by thunderous booms. The rain came down not as drops but as a deluge. I ran inside as fast as I could and watched in horror from the window.
This was the worst storm I had ever seen! And it was all my fault!
I swore right then and there that if I were spared, I would never harm another living creature. At least not intentionally.
Within about 20 minutes, the storm had subsided, and the sun poked through the clouds. And have I kept my part of the bargain since that fateful day at Squirrel Lake? Mostly. I no longer kill things just for the sake of killing them. But no one’s perfect—especially parents who have kids who won’t take out the trash even after being asked six times. The gods understand that sometimes, violence is the only solution.
