As The Aspiring Naturalist Learned, Survival Is A Matter Of Grim Reality

When anyone brought a grasshopper or stalks of pussy willow to Show and Tell, my first-grade teacher, Miss Elmendorf, would make a big fuss over them and launch into an inspiring discourse on the wonders of nature. "Living in the city may mean you have to try a little harder," she'd tell us, her voice rising to a thrilling crescendo, "but if you're resourceful, you can surely discover Mother Nature's handiwork anywhere—even in your own backyard."

That year happened to be the peak of the seven-year-locust cycle in Washington, D.C., and in the spring swarms of them fairly rained on the city. To Miss Elmendorf's credit, she never showed the slightest dismay when, over a period of a week, the entire class showed up with assorted jelly jars full of locusts, both dead and alive. I remember how she held one jar up to the window so we could all admire the insects' transparent, variegated wings.

But Miss Elmendorf wasn't the only one who seemed bent on fostering my interest in nature. As if to make amends for the deprivations of city life, almost every adult I knew, including my parents, continually exhorted me to appreciate the few trees, birds and flowers we did come across. Day-camp counselors marched me through park after park, passionately expostulating at every step along the way. My parents put up a bird feeder and acted giddy and wonder-struck when a few starlings began coming around. Half the books I read were sentimental tales about animals who talked, overcame adversity and seemed to possess more charm and wit than people did.

Their efforts were only too successful. By the age of seven, I'd turned into the kind of nature lover who couldn't bear to see so much as a lowly ant trampled underfoot. When mice appeared in our basement, I was shocked and horrified to discover that my father set traps for them, and I would sneak downstairs and remove the traps. If I saw a bird preparing to devour a squirming worm or beetle, I'd rush to chase it away from its prey. I even removed fallen leaves from our driveway because I couldn't stand to see them crushed beneath the wheels of the car.

Since there were no limits to my own fervor, grown-ups' reactions—their lack of enthusiasm in my interests—often puzzled me. Once when I was scouting the neighborhood, deeply involved in my role as budding naturalist, I noticed that the water in a backyard birdbath was rippling mysteriously. I gazed into the depths and beheld hundreds of tiny creatures swimming about.

"What can they be?" I wondered, searching for a container and finding an empty coffee can that I used to scoop them up. Convinced that I'd discovered some new form of life, I raced home to share my scientific breakthrough with my mother.

But when I handed her the coffee can, a look of disgust came over her face. She ran into the bathroom and flushed my discovery down the toilet. "They're wigglers!" she exclaimed, rushing to the sink to wash her hands.

"But they were so cute! Why did you do that?" I protested, both crushed and bewildered.

My mother gave me a scathing look. 'Maybe you should wash your hands, too," she said. "Those cute little things were mosquito larvae."

Though I had as little use for mosquitoes as she did, I still wished my mother hadn't flushed the wigglers down the toilet but had let me dump them far away, so that they could live but not return when they metamorphosed. My early conditioning had led me to hold the idealistic notion that nature in all its manifestations was noble and good, and I fuzzily equated this belief with other lofty concepts, like patriotism. My rather fleeting contact with the great outdoors had turned me into an incurable romantic.