Our miniature Lab, Tiny, encounters a a Joro Spider.

When I was a boy, the typical fare at the theaters (remember those places where we used to pay to sit in air conditioned comfort and watch a commercial free movie?) included outsized monsters, ordinary creatures grown to monstrous sizes because they were exposed to atomic radiation. “Tarantula” featuring a fifty foot tall spider was my favorite.This was believable to a generation growing up amidst preparations for a nuclear attack from the Soviet Union, our “Cold War” adversary. I also lived near a nuclear bomb plant, so radiation was always on our minds.

At school we practiced hiding under our desks in the event an atomic bomb was dropped on our school. Our neighbors built bomb shelters, privy-sized concrete bunkers that were supposed to be “bomb proof.” I was paid to spend a night in the basement of the coliseum at the University of Georgia, part of a study to see how cooperative or snarly people would be in the event we all had to go underground in the event a nuclear missile hit Athens, Georgia.

To circle back to the above photo: be warned that likely there are in fact giant (well, semi-giant) spiders lurking in your garden if you live in Northeast Georgia. Arriving from east Asia about 2014, the Joro spider has found his new happy place here -as if we needed more trouble. Covid has kept us isolated for much of the past year and our imaginations and boredom have at times taken us to the brink of madness. We have become obsessive gardeners. That’s how I met the mother of all spiders.

I was familiar with the garden spiders that we see so often in the fall. But this was nature on steroids and I was not prepared for the scale of this yellow and black beauty which at first glance looked to be capable of catching and eating small children and pets. Could “Tiny,” our miniature Labrador be at risk? Could this explain why neighborhood kids never seemed to walk on our side of the street? Was it safe to sit outside?

Of course, these concerns have faded since I actually measured Mrs. Joro. She is about four inches across and does not emit any atomic glow at night. She is also a master architect and builder, anchoring herself to a branch of tree or shrub, weaving a wind-born parachutes that carries her across broad expanses of fifteen or twenty feet to string her silk strand to a distant plant. This golden thread becomes the suspension cable from which she builds downward an elaborate web that is spread over several square yards. Her eyesight seems acute. When I lean in to photograph her, she quickly skitters away to hide.

Though I could find no warnings on line, I advise against handling any spider. Like I would pick up a spider? No way.

My friend JZ who lives in an Atlanta suburb tells me he has a Joro and has tried relocating his Joro’s web away from the basement steps. I am too timid to attempt that, fearing Mrs. Joro might snatch the stick from my hand and relocate me. According to scientific information online, she should be giving birth to over 100,000 baby Joros over the next few weeks. This could disrupt my plan to sell the house soon. All the news of inflated values has me dreaming of relocating to the beach.