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 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?