Children and Bugs
Sammy and the Snail Race
I don’t know why children are so fascinated with bugs, but they are. They keep them as little pets. Maybe, it’s because they see them as something amazing, something funny, or just something cute that's even smaller than they are.
I remember one July I was visiting my middle daughter in Manchester, New Hampshire. We were in the kitchen and I could hear children cheering, so I looked out the kitchen window into the backyard to see what was going on.
There must have been a dozen kids out there all huddled around the slide on the swing set, waving their arms around and excitedly yelling. They were having a great time with something and yet my four-year-old grandson, was on a swing crying.
I went out there to see what was wrong. I gave Colin a hug, and asked why he was crying. He sniffled and after wiping his nose on my T-shirt, he said,
"We're having slug races, Grammy, and my Sammy stopped racing. He won't go AT ALL, even if I poke him!
(sniffle-sniffle)"
One look at the metal slide told me exactly what the problem was. Sammy had been so slow that he got stuck to the hot slide.
I told Colin he should give Sammy a much needed rest and maybe he should go find another slug to race with. While Colin ran off to search, I scraped Sammy's tiny fried body from the hot slide ...
This little poem was written from a child’s point of view for Colin with love:
I Love Bugs
by C.J. Heck (Grammy)
I love teeny tiny ants
and itchy bitsy fleas,
spiders, big and little,
and grouchy grumble bees,
butterflies that flutter by,
and beetles when they run
from marching caterpillars.
I think bugs are fun!
Skeeters like to bite me,
but lightning bugs, they don’t,
and flies that get inside the house
could bite, but they won’t.
Silly racing centipedes
and slow and slimy slugs
are my very special favorites.
I love bugs!
-*-
[From the book, “Me Too! Preschool Poetry”, by CJ Heck]
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When I was a kid I spent summers and holiday recesses with my beloved Aunt Mary and uncle Joe in their house in the coal country of Southwestern Pennsylvania. I used to catch bees in Mason jars, then, after observing them for a short time, I would set them free. One day I became distracted, and the poor bees died in the jar. Aunt Mary explained that they had gone to sleep for lack of air, and would never awaken again. She gave me an empty match box and had me make a bed in it from fresh dandelion blossoms. She then had me carefully place the bees on the dandelions in the box, and close it. Aunt Mary gave me a small spade, and I dug a hole in the yard. I placed the match box with the bees in the hole, and covered it. Aunt Mary then had me tell the dead bees that I was sorry, and we said a Hail Mary. I can still remember those bees lying there on their bed of dandelions.