Granddaddy Red—Part 2

One of these harvestmen visited me the other evening, as I soaked in the outdoor tub. He had an attractive red body (most of them are gray or brown, so that caught my attention right away). I’ll call this guy “he,” because he was rather small, and male harvestmen are more diminutive than “harvest women.” Males are also more colorful, and this guy was pretty snazzy looking. So I’ll call him Granddaddy Red, or just Red for short.

I have a wooden paddle laid across the top of the tub, with which I occasionally stir the water, to even its temperature. (On winter nights, the water near the bottom of the tub cools quite quickly and needs to be stirred often, lest my butt get cold.) I first spotted Red as he sauntered down the paddle, towards me. When he reached the end, less than a foot from me, he stopped, waved a couple of legs out into space, and seemed confused that his plank road had come to an abrupt end. He stood still, lifting first one leg then another—appearing to be testing the solidity of air. Since I don’t wear my reading glasses in the tub and dusk was rapidly approaching, I was left wondering what he was up to. Guess I’ll have to live with the mystery.

I soon lost track of Red, as I sunk back into my soaking reverie. Darkness began to descend. A few minutes later, I absent mindedly picked up the paddle, stirred the water, and set it back down again. Something tickled the back of my hand. It was Red! My hand had apparently given him a way to continue his stroll forward. Not wishing to drown him. I tried to urge him back on the paddle, but he was having none of that. “Been there, done that… I’m moving on!” So I held my hand out to the wall next to the tub and Red promptly stepped off, climbed up the wall, went over the top, and was gone into the night. He’d found a way to keep heading south, using my hand to boost him along. Farewell, Red! May the road rise to meet you.

There is an urban legend that, although daddy longlegs are very poisonous, their fangs are too small to puncture human skin. As is the case with most urban legends, neither of these beliefs is true. First, they have no venom. Second, their fanglike mouthparts are able to take a harmless bite out of you, but why do so when you may get squashed in the process by the two-legged monster? No, they are innocuous.

In fact, harvestmen are quite beneficial to our world. They are scavengers, chowing down on decaying plant and animal detritus. They are also helpers in the garden, since the other half of their diet consists of aphids, flies, mites, wee slugs, and other tiny pests. They are mostly active at night, so we don’t get to watch what they are up to.

American Indians called them “Grandfather Graybeard.” I find it fascinating that different cultures often have such similar names for nature’s critters. So why is a dragonfly called an “eye-poker” in Sweden and an “adder’s servant” in Wales?