The Bug Diner
Diana Campos
When I was a little girl, bugs swarmed around my childhood home, filling me with wonder and curiosity. Snails glided through the wet dirt in my mom’s rose garden, and I felt a sense of magic in their slow movements. Ladybugs flew during their rotations, seeking wet, succulent grass to land on and rest their tiny wings. Centipedes sprinted to wrap their insect bodies around my then-tiny fingers. Butterflies, honeybees, and bumblebees took off to soar in the skies—a city of ants, on the lookout for their next set of meals. Tiny beetles and pill bugs crawled their way to find their next rest stop. As a girl full of imagination and a large hoard of tiny trinkets, I brewed up the perfect place for my new bug friends: a bug diner, a magical world born from my creative mind that turned a simple garden into a wonderland of tiny adventures.
Graphic by Naliyah Grant
Within my mom’s rose garden, surrounded by fragrant blooms and lush greenery, I created a secret bug city, hiding it from the outside world. To me, it was a bustling metropolis of bugs waiting for me to be their matron of food and sustenance. I imagined tiny streets made of twigs and leaves, with tiny houses crafted from recycled trash and trinkets, alive with busy bug citizens scurrying about. Random buttons became signs, and I painted them with acrylics, letting everyone know the bug diner was OPEN and ready. It was a miniature city built entirely from my imagination and scraps, a place where bugs could live and thrive.
Using tiny plastic kitchen tools and appliances I earned on weekly trips to the dollar store, I created a cozy bug diner. I set up polished stones as tables, pebbles as chairs, and colorful leaves as tablecloths. Broken pieces of wood became walls enclosing my diner, just bursting at the seams to fit everyone’s needs. To outsiders, it looked like a mess of mud and sticks, but to me, it was a tiny paradise crafted from found treasures and my imagination, a perfect bug haven in the eyes of one little girl.
I mixed up my intricate recipe of “mud pies” for them, calling it my special of the day for my insect critters. Using the very wet dirt the tiny pink worms roamed in, I stirred in dried, crushed leaves, broken shards of rock, and dried-up fruit that fell from the trees to the ground. I felt like a tiny witch, mixing with my “wand” of dried stick branches I found as I foraged for ingredients for my bug diner. I brewed them snacks, medicines, and potions, if you will. They were my customers, my patrons, and they laid the care of their wings under the care of my “wings”.
These memories of my buggy friends were moments of excellent endorphin release from the workshop of one 6-year-old’s brain. I spoke to them as if my words meant something to them, letting them know they were always welcome to my bug city, and more importantly, my bug diner. I remember feeling excited and proud as I watched my tiny world come to life, imagining the happy bugs enjoying their special retreat. From that day on, I was promoted to bug caretaker, and I watched them thrive until the home was no longer mine.
