Creature Curiosity by Kate Emery General

Shortly after our move from Hawaii to Virginia, my eldest daughter, Jenny, and I went on her second-grade class field trip. It was a beautiful September day, and as we walked outside, I was struck by an incredibly loud, almost deafening sound. I assumed it was crickets, but the noise was so intense that I could barely hear what the teacher was saying.

The teacher explained that 1985 was a major cicada year. I had never seen, or heard a cicada before. Coming from Hawaii, where I had never encountered anything quite like them, I was fascinated by these strange, rather creepy, incredibly noisy insects. Their buzzing seemed to come from everywhere, filling the trees and surrounding us as we walked.

I learned that cicadas have remarkably long life cycles. Depending on the species, some emerge every fourteen years and others every seventeen years. They spend most of their lives underground, only to emerge by the thousands or even millions, when their time comes.

What a welcome to Virginia! I had been in the state only a short time, and already I was learning that the natural world here was very different from Hawaii. 

As I was walking my dog last week, I heard that unmistakable buzzing and immediately thought of that September field trip with Jenny and my first encounter with the wonderfully weird world of cicadas.

My thoughts then turned to the other notable bugs that have made appearances throughout my life. Each place we have lived seems to have had its own particular cast of creepy-crawly characters.

Wyoming has wonderfully dry, hot summer days, followed by cool nights. Screen doors are a necessity, keeping the bugs outside while allowing the cool evening air to flow through the house. One of the most memorable visitors is the Sphinx moth, also called the hummingbird moth. It often chooses the screen door as its landing place.

With a wingspan of nearly three inches, the Sphinx moth is an impressive creature. It is surprisingly gentle and quite beautiful, but that did not keep me from being startled the first time I saw one. Its size and appearance made it seem much more exotic than the ordinary bees, boxelder bugs, potato bugs, flies, and mosquitoes that made up the rest of Wyoming’s short summer bug population.

My parents had their own stories about the insects they encountered while living in countries south of the Equator. They both preferred the relatively harmless Sphinx moth to the enormous and sometimes venomous creatures they encountered in the Philippines. Hearing their stories made me appreciate just how fortunate we were in Wyoming. Our bugs might be annoying, but at least most of them weren’t frightening.

Then we moved to Hawaii, and I quickly discovered that I had been spoiled.

I was completely unprepared for the flying cockroaches and enormous centipedes that seemed to inhabit every corner of the island. The cockroaches were especially horrifying. They were big, fast, and, worst of all, they could fly. A cockroach on the floor was bad enough; a cockroach taking flight was an entirely different level of terror.

There was, however, one entertaining exception. The best show in town was watching a gecko chase a cockroach that appeared to be twice its size. The tiny gecko would dart after it, finally catch it, and then proceed to gobble down the enormous cockroach as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. I developed a great appreciation for the geckos. Despite my profound dislike of cockroaches, I was perfectly happy to let their natural predators take care of them.

The centipedes were another matter altogether. One morning, while working in my garden, I dug up a centipede that must have been ten inches long. For a moment, I simply stared at it in disbelief. Then the shock turned into pure adrenaline. I grabbed my shovel and began chopping. I chopped and chopped until the centipede was in what seemed like twenty tiny pieces, all while screaming.

I’m sure anyone who happened to hear me wondered what kind of gardening emergency was taking place.

And then there was the day our cat became a hero. My son Marshall was in his room when a centipede began climbing up his bedpost. It appeared to be making its way toward him, and he was convinced it was gearing up for an attack. Fortunately, our cat spotted it first. She went after the centipede and, in my mind at least, saved Marshall from certain disaster.

Hawaii taught me that bugs could be more than a nuisance. They could be enormous, aggressive, airborne, venomous, and occasionally useful. They could also provide entertainment, if you were willing to watch a gecko do what you absolutely did not want to do yourself.

Looking back, I realize that every place I’ve lived has had its own insect population, almost like a local cast of characters. Wyoming had its bees, mosquitoes, boxelder bugs, and gentle Sphinx moths. Hawaii had its geckos, flying cockroaches, and enormous centipedes. Virginia introduced me to the unforgettable sound of the cicadas.

I may not have loved all of these creatures, but they certainly left their mark, and some of them are impossible to forget. It’s interesting to me that our attitude toward bugs; whether we feel curiosity and respect or fear and disgust is often learned from the people around us. Family and friends can have a powerful influence on how we see the natural world. A child who watches an adult calmly pick up a spider and carry it outside may learn to be curious about it. A child who watches that same adult scream and run may learn that spiders are something to fear.

As a teacher, I made it my mission to teach my students to respect the bug population, even the spiders. There was plenty of discussion about “good bugs” and “bad bugs,” but I didn’t want my students to simply accept that some bugs were bad. We investigated.

We researched the so-called bad bugs, including wasps, and discovered that even they have a purpose. They may not be the most welcome guests at a picnic, but they are important predators and play a role in keeping other insect populations in balance. Once the children understood that, the wasp became less of a villain and more of a creature doing its job.

Pollinators, of course, were revered. Bees and butterflies were classroom favorites, and we talked about how dependent our gardens and food supply are on these tiny creatures. But I wanted the children to understand that even the less lovable members of the insect world had a place and a purpose.

There are wonderful stories and fables about bugs, too. Crickets, cicadas, ants, spiders, and butterflies have all found their way into stories that have been told for generations. Once we started looking, we discovered that the bug world was full of interesting characters.

Cicadas were particularly popular after my own first encounter with them in Virginia. During our class’s daily nature walks in the fall, I turned cicada hunting into a competition. The children searched the trees and kept count of the empty cicada shells left behind after the insects had emerged. We would see who could find the most.

It was a simple game, but something wonderful happened. Even the children who had been frightened of bugs began to look more closely. Instead of immediately backing away, they became observers. They wanted to know what they were seeing, why the bugs were there, and what happened to them. 

Little by little, fear was replaced by curiosity. That was really my goal. I didn’t expect every child to love bugs. Frankly, I understood that some of them were harder to love than others! But I wanted my students to understand that bugs are part of the world we share, and that even the creatures we find unpleasant have a role to play.

Teaching children to respect bugs was, in a small way, teaching them to respect nature itself. It was also a lesson in perspective. Something that looks frightening or disgusting at first can become fascinating once we understand it.

Perhaps that is one of the most important things we can teach a child: Don’t be so quick to squash what you don’t understand. Stop, look, ask questions, and learn.

And if all else fails, call a gecko.