Mom told me once that when I was a little over a year old, she went to change my diaper and spiders, bees, ants, beetles and several other types of bugs fell out of it. Included in the writhing menagerie was a tree frog, and one tiny lizard. Mom was absolutely mortified of insects of any kind, and she didn't hold much love for lizards or frogs, either.

From then on, she approached my diapers with extreme caution when having to change me.

On my Christmas list of 1969 — a yearly tradition every October that my highly organized and perfectionist parents insisted upon — I made sure to include my “must have” toy of that year.

The Creepy Crawler Maker by the Mattel Toy Co.

It consisted of a series of die-cast metal molds resembling various bug-like creatures — spiders, roaches, millipedes — into which was poured a liquid chemical substance called Plastigoop, which came in a variety of colors.

The mold was then heated to about 390 degrees Fahrenheit, atop an open-face electric hot plate oven. The Plastigoop was cured by the heat and when cooled, it was removed from the mold, forming semi-solid, rubbery replicas.

Mom objected. However, her reasons were well founded. She knew how predisposed I was to playing pranks on everyone, and didn't much relish the idea of finding several rubbery cockroaches in her morning bowl of corn flakes. Another was the safety factor. The heating elements got very hot, which was necessary to melt the Plastigoop enough to create the wonderful assortment of bugs the molds made available.

The possibilities were endless.

One Saturday evening,  Mom and Dad took my two younger brothers and me to the Dixie Twin drive-in. George R. Romero's Night of the Living Dead was playing, along with The Oblong box, starring Hammer Horror staple actor, Christopher Lee. Halfway through the second feature it began to sprinkle, and dad decided that we'd better head home.

We arrived home late—well after midnight—as dad fumbled for his house keys while my youngest brother, Scotty, was draped over his shoulder like some fleshy bandoleer. It was then my love and admiration for all things creepy-crawly took on a much deeper admiration.

On the sidewalk, leading into the entrance of our home was one of my prized, Plastigoop creations.

The gigantic hairy tarantula.

Dad managed to get the front door unlocked, then entered carrying Scotty, with my middle brother in tow.

Mom lit into me then like a tornado in a trailer park.

“What have I told you about this, boy? Didn't tell you that if I found just one of these...these things lying around, you and that Creepy Crawler contraption were toast?”

For emphasis, her finger jabbed repeatedly at the huge, motionless spider on the ground below us.

“This is your final warning! If I ever so much as see an antennae of another of your horrid...creations, you're grounded, and that awful contraption of yours is going straight in the garbage!”

What could I say? She'd warned me, on Christmas morning, no less, after I'd opened the present, quickly realizing that "Santa" had gone behind her back and brought me the toy, regardless of her constant protests.

I didn't have a leg to stand on, much less four or better.

“This is the first victim for the garbage can, buddy boy! The next one of these things I so much as catch a glimpse of outside of your room, the whole kit-and-caboodle will follow. You reading me?”

I nodded sheepishly. I was caught dead-to-rights. I hadn't recalled making one of those bigger tarantulas yet, though. I was getting low on Plastigoop, and it was the largest mold in the kit. I was saving it for later, after I talked dad into buying me more goop. It had to be my middle brother, Brandon.

I would get even with him later.

Two things happened next. I learned how deeply certain phobias affect people differently. Also, I was vindicated for leaving the spider on our doorstep...sort of. You'd think I'd be happy about that, right? However, this is my mother we're talking about.

She released her grip on my arm, then bent over to pick the thing up. Her shrill shrieks woke up every neighbor within a thousand-yard vicinity. It scared the hell outta me so badly, I nearly jumped out of my Keds. We lived in a plat of homes, and the houses were built about eight feet apart. One by one, lights began to flick on up and down the street. People began running out of their houses, in various forms of undress. It probably sounded like someone was being slaughtered.

Mom held in her petrified paw a live, wriggling, behemoth of a wolf spider. She was so terrified, she simply shut down — like a defective cyborg who's lost power to everything but the voice.

That, my friends, was in still perfect working order.

She just stood there, screaming, as the mammoth beast squirmed desperately to break free. My dad rushed out of the house looking as if what little hair he had left was on fire. Mom was frozen with fear. Dad smacked her hand; she dropped the spider, and as soon as it hit the ground, it put all eight of its legs into overdrive. The traumatized thing scurried off quickly beneath the hedgerows.

Mom stood there blubbering incoherently, “I-thu-thought....I thu-thought...” while Dad rushed quickly back inside to grab an afghan. He wrapped it around her shuddering shoulders, then led her into the house. Turning back to me, he looked down and winked. Flashing a huge grin, he said, “Ya better get to bed, Champ, before it's too late.”

The next morning, a sunny Saturday, blood-curdling screams shredded the peaceful silence of the Cook homestead. I'd been busy that night, up until dawn using up what little Plastigoop I had left.

I suspected Mom had poured herself a big bowl of Cheerios.

I sure hoped so.