One day when I was small, I apparently put a bunch of potato bugs in my wheelbarrow and gave them a ride.  I know this story because my mom tells it, not because I remember the day.  It’s kind of a surprise story, really, to anyone who knows me now.  As an adult, I’m closer to a full-blown bug-phobic than I am an entymologist.  That’s probably from all those years of living in the city, traumatized by a lack of camping and an understood constant vigilance against roaches and bedbugs… But back then, I was still young and untainted.

I do remember being fascinated with these slow moving mini-armadillos, at how they’d curl up into a ball at the slightest touch.

I remember patiently waiting for them to unfurl.  It was as though they trusted me and relaxed.  Until I touched them again, of course.

What possessed me to give them a ride?  I dunno.  Seemed like a good idea at the time, I guess.

I wonder what the bugs thought?