The Christmas Spiders
The grandmother scrubbed her floors and washed the windows. She shined the silver, polished the dishes, and hung mistletoe above the arches. She swept spiderwebs from the rafters and lit candles in each nook, corner, and shadowy place.
You’d think they’d be upset over it all, but the spiders were used to this behavior.
Every winter, for as long as they could remember, the spiders would hide in the attic while the grandmother cleaned every speck of dust and grime from the lower floors. On Christmas Eve, when her house was spotless, she’d bring in a large evergreen from outdoors. She’d prop the tree up near a window, shake off any icicles, and hang shiny glass discs in their place.
Only then, with a clean house and a tree decorated for Santa, could the grandmother relax. As midnight approached, she’d pour herself a cup of tea and grab her knitting needles. She’d sit, praying and weaving, praying and weaving, until her eyes grew heavy, her hands too.
As soon as her snores drifted into the rafters, one by one, the spiders emerged from their hiding spots. While they oohed and aahed over the velvet stockings hung by the mantle, the young ones nibbled on cookie crumbs and peppermint candies.
This year, the old woman had taken extra care with her Christmas tree, and the spiders admired her efforts. They hopped from branch to branch, laughing at their reflection in the bulbous ornaments and dancing around the magnificent star at the very top.
The spiders warned each other not to touch anything (for the grandmother would not appreciate a mess after twelve days spent cleaning), but alas, with their bellies full of treats and laughter, mistakes were bound to happen.
For you see, the spiders had not intended to touch anything: there were no footprints in the fudge or crooked wreathes, but there were webs—everywhere.
The spiders panicked. The grandmother would be devastated to see how they’d mussed her house moments before Santa arrived. They swung from one end of the room to the next, tugging on their delicate threads and trying desperately to erase any evidence of their wrongdoing. But the more they pulled and yanked, the more knotted their webs became.
And then, footsteps on the roof.
Santa slid down the chimney with a jolly demeanor that made the spiders momentarily forget their predicament. He wasn’t surprised to see the spiders (for they have a reputation around this time of year), and instead of scolding them, he offered a gift to quell their fears.
Mr. Clause said a few magical words, waved a hand in front of the tree, and the tangled grey webs transformed into strands of silver.
A Christmas miracle, indeed.
The spiders thanked the old man and scurried back to the attic. Now, with the house more beautiful than they could ever imagine, they longed for morning to arrive. What joy the grandmother would feel upon waking and seeing her house covered in silver!
She would likely say it was a gift from Santa (a token of appreciation for maintaining a tidy house), but maybe she would also credit the spiders. Because before Santa flew back up the chimney and into the night, he hung a silver spider in the grandmother’s tree.
He said it was a reminder for creatures (whether they be large or small) to care for one another—especially when things go dark and all hope seems lost.
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This retelling was adapted from the Eastern European folktale, “The Christmas Spider.”
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