I hate spiders. For as long as I can remember I have had an intense dislike for and fear of those little beasties. I expect this goes back to when I was a very young child and  my mom would make me go to bed while her and dad would settle in on the couch and watch this sci-fi show that came on TV back then that was something like the Twilight Zone. It was in black and white, and the TV would cast eerie shadows on the wall while mom and dad watched, completely engrossed. So engrossed that they never noticed me sneaking downstairs and laying behind the couch, peering around the corner, watching along with them.
The one episode I really remember was about this mad scientist who pours a vial of some sort of potion he brewed down the kitchen sink, right on this unsuspecting spider that got swished down the drain along with the liquid. But, the potion turned the bug into Spiderzilla. And it was a really ticked off spider too, chasing that scientist around his apartment. I think he finally ate the guy, but I’m not sure. I don’t remember the ending, but I do remember that nasty spider, all covered with stringy greasy hair and rolling insane eyes. (If I ever got the chance to see this episode again, I’m not sure the special effects would have the same influence on me...)
And I knew from that moment on that, if it was big enough, a spider would definitely eat you. Now, there are some of you who are thinking that I have little to fear cause, in my particular case, that would have to be one ginormous spider, but rational thought plays no part in my fear.
I have grown a little more tolerant of spiders over the years, but I still can’t stand it when they sneak up on me - usually just as I am about to get into the shower. When Dallas, my son, was very little he was scared of spiders too. After all, there must be something powerful and dangerous about a bug that can elicit a shriek and a freaky hot-footed dance from his mom. Later, when he watched my brother, Clayton, kill a spider with a quick slap (can you say ewwwww?) he realized they were pretty much harmless. From that day forward he became my official Spider Killer, a pretty good title when he was four, but he’s not so impressed with the designation now. However, although I have been able to stifle my screaming and freaked out dancing, I still just can’t deal with spiders. When I find one looming in the bathroom or hiding in the hallway, I meekly make my way to Dallas’s room. I just have to look at him and he knows exactly what is wrong. I guess I have a special ‘I am under spider attack’ look, because he will heave a huge sigh then ask where the little beasty is then go and take care of business.
For a while he went through a period where he would do this capture and release thing with spiders. However, I am not that kind of female. I do not believe the life of a spider is a sacred thing. In fact, if you actually touch a spider on purpose, I think you need to be completely sanitized, from top to bottom. I think it was this latter belief that finally convinced Dallas it was just easier to kill them.
My dad says there is only one way to get rid of the fear of spiders. That is, he says, to actually pick one up on purpose and let it crawl all over you until you get over your terror.
Ya, right.
I thought I’d take the first step in trying this idea out by putting myself in the position of being close to a spider on purpose. I visited a pet store and made my way to the tarantula corner. Then I looked into the cage. The gigantic huge and enormous spider inside the cage glared at me then rushed me. It was like he knew me and we were mortal enemies. Maybe I had a few of his tinier cousins put to death or something. I screamed and left.
Frankly, instead of getting over the fear of spiders I’d just as soon get rid of all the spiders in the world. Think that’s silly, impossible and likely environmentally harmful? I don’t care.
Pass the Raid.

By Jamie Rieger

Column
A few weeks ago, I was sitting with my morning coffee when I heard an odd humming noise coming from outside. I took a peek out and saw my neighbour beside her shiny clean car with a blowdryer, angrily trying to unfreeze her driver-side door which she could not open.
The neighbour, it seemed, did not take into account the previous day when she washed her car that the temperatures at the time were still dropping significantly during the overnight hours.
I went out onto my balcony, coffee in hand, and asked if she needed a hand. After a few colourful words, she laughed and said she was going to be late for work and felt silly for having not thought about the chilly nights.
Ok, my car was rather dusty looking at the time and could have really used a good washing itself, but having watched her with her hair dryer, I decided I would wait until the nighttime temperatures did not dip below freezing until I took my car to the car wash.
And, my car was dirty. Somebody teased me one day about my two-tone coloured car, knowing full well my car is red. The car wash can wait, I said back.
There were the days of trying not to brush up against the car to avoid getting my pants dirty, but I was vigilant. I was not going to wash the car until the weather was warmer.
Well, the opportunity finally came and I was only more than eager to get my car in for a good spring cleaning. It felt good to get all the dust and muck off it and seeing it shiny and clean.
Spring does have a way of bringing out the cleaning goddesses in us all. The house gets cleaned from top to bottom and aired out, getting rid of all the stale air that has accumulated over the cold winter months. It is refreshing to have the windows open and a breeze blowing in. Everything smells clean and fresh and makes one want to just be able to enjoy the moment.
Getting into the nice, clean car, the window is down as I drive down the highway. Ah, now this is driving that I enjoy. Fresh air, dry highways, clean car. I am a happy girl.
Getting back home though, I see the dust is already starting to accumulate on the car and it has only been a week since the car got washed.
All the gravel and sand on the streets have yet to been removed, so it does not take long for things to get dusty all over again. Maybe it is time for the city street cleaning crews to turn into cleaning goddesses and get the roads spic and span so my car can stay clean for more than a week.

By Delynda Pilon

It costs a lot of money to get hearing aids.
For some reason the government decided last year that my dad earns about $30,000 more per year than he actually does and they refused to help him get those silly little extras old people can easily do without - like teeth, hearing aids and decent glasses. Fortunately, the glasses he has do him pretty well and he still has at least half a set of dentures (As for the other half, well, he doesn’t want to talk about where he might have left him, but I’m kind of worried they might be sitting on a shelf at the grocery store somewhere, or maybe on a seat at the movie theatre. You have to kind of wonder what the person who finds them is going to think...).
Anyway, since dad is fighting with the government - and, as is usual, losing - he decided he doesn’t need a hearing aid. Mom begs to differ. She says her voice is getting horse from hollering at him when he goes out front to tend to the store.
Tending to the store is usually a euphemism for playing solitaire on the computer or chatting with one or another person who drops in. Its also a place for him to putter and paint - and avoid any household chore mom may want him to tend to.
Because of her frustration, mom had me send away for this amazing hearing device that’s been advertised on television lately. It came in the other day and I hand delivered it to mom who promptly gave it to dad. He was kind of excited with the device - after all, it has batteries, a cool little LCD light that glows blue and kind of makes him look like a product from a robotics factory and it enhances sounds incredibly well at a very low cost.
Now you can whisper in the living room and dad can hear you. He no longer has to sit right in front of the speaker to hear the television and the music blasting out of his van (Usually either Johnny Cash or Credence Clearwater Revival - though Dallas makes him turn it off when he grabs a ride to school with his gramps. He’s a lucky kid. When dad used to pick me up from school he wore a headband and blasted Willy Nelson from his tape deck - and there was no silencing him either.) has gone down a decibel or two.
So it was with some surprise that I walked in the other day only to hear mom hollering herself horse for dad to come and help her in the kitchen. Dad was sitting at his drawing desk, working away on this idea he has for a graphic novel (it’s based on a novel I wrote some years ago which he keeps encouraging me to send to a publisher - but then I’d have to actually retype it and I am too lazy for that). Anyway, mom would yell and dad wouldn’t even flinch. I watched him for some time before tapping him on the shoulder. He jumped about a foot in surprise before flashing me a grin.
Me: Mom’s calling you. Where in the world is your hearing gadget?
He picked it up, set it on his ear and turned it on.
Dad: What’d you say?
Me: Mom’s calling for you.
Dad: Ya, I know. That’s why I took this darned thing off. I think that woman wants me to cook something again.
I sighed, shook my head - then went and ratted him out to mom.
When he finally joined her in the kitchen he probably wished he’d ‘forgotten’ to put his hearing piece back on. Instead he had to listen to every word she said.
And she had a lot to say.

By Jamie Rieger

When a friend in need calls for help, I do not think I am any different than anybody else out there. I do what it takes to help them. Unless I am physically unable to assist, I will help. That is just something friends do for one another.
That train of thought was severely put in jeopardy last week when a friend called needing a jerry can of gas brought to him. My daughter and I were in Redcliff at the time, but we left immediately to take him some fuel.
We had a general location for where he was - by the rig that sits along Highway 41A. Okay, I know where that is. I drive by it all the time. It seemed like a simple enough mission, even if it was pitch dark out. Driving slowly eastward down the highway, we could not see his truck. We turned around at the junction and came back towards the city, driving even slower and looking down all the approaches to see if he could see his hazard lights blaring.
My daughter calls him from her cellphone, asking him to please turn on his hazard lights so we could see where he was and to give us better directions. It was about this point when her cellphone promptly cut out and we lost communication.
Up one range road and down another, we drove without any success. We went back to the highway and continued heading closer to town, thinking that we were narrowing the gap between he and us. Because we could not see him, it was starting to get frustrating, not to mention late and I was really wanting to get home and go to bed.
I turned the car south down what I thought was a range road, but in actuality was an access road to the rig site.
"Oh darn, I can't go down there. I will get stuck. That ground looks far to soft for this car," I said.
As I went to turn the car around, my car sunk to halfway up the tires. Now, I was not saying 'darn' any more.
Bear in mind, that before that phone call, the weather was nice and neither of us was dressed for this kind of outdoor activity.
Nonetheless, I get my shovel out of the trunk and we take turns digging. Getting more frustrated and realizing that we would be there all night shoveling, my daughter takes my shovel, throws it and starts walking.
I grabbed the shovel,put it back in the car and we start walking down the highway towards the city lights.
I told my daughter that I was going to stop at the nearest farm and ask for help, but she advised me that we should not do that given the late hour. So, we walk; her in her little runners and me in a pair of slip-ons, which were definitely not made for walking.
It did not take long until we were descending down a big hill, walking close enough to the white line to use it as a guide in the dark and far enough from the edge of the ditch to not go tumbling down. Carmen was getting considerably further in front of me as I had to keep stopping to get the pebbles out of my shoes, but eventually we made to town and to a phone where we called a friend of hers to come get us and for a tow truck to pull my car out of the soft gravel.
Just as we were getting into her friend's truck, we saw the friend in need drive past in his, with a big dually right in behind him.
"There he goes. I think my head is about to pop off my shoulders," Carmen yelled.
Unbelievable! The person who we were trying to help had gone and called somebody else, having gotten tired of waiting for us. Ok, now both of us were steaming mad.
The tow truck arrived at my car a short time later and was able to get my car out in a matter of a couple of minutes, but informed me that if I had tried to venture down that road any further he would not have been able to help...and, AMA does not cover it if you are stuck off of a government-maintained road. That is good to know. However, because I had basically just gone in there to turn around, I was alright.
So, some major lessons were learned that night. Would I go out and help another friend in need? Sure I would, but you better have your hazard lights on and you better be able to give me good directions (i.e. range road or township road numbers help) or I will not be coming. I will not drive up and down every grid road in the county in the dark of night trying to find you. Better yet, make sure you have enough gas in the tank before heading out and none of us will have to worry about having to come rescue you.