farm. Not just any ant farm. This one was a giant gel habitat. The translucent blue gel contained, according to the box the farm came in, all the nutrition and water the ants needed. Developed from a NASA experiment to study animal life in space, the gel ant farm had received a Teachers’ Choice Award in 2006. It received the Hattie Thorn-Lester Award two months ago—a much more prestigious prize, in Hattie’s humble opinion.
Jane had sent away for the ants. Her first inclination was to simply go outside and find a few, but the guidebook warned against it. Apparently, if the ants didn’t come from the same colony, and especially if the ants differed in size, fighting would ensue. An all-out ant war, while it might be interesting to watch, wasn’t what Jane had in mind. When the ants arrived in the mail—large, black, mean-looking critters—she and Hattie poked little holes into the gel. In rapt silence, they watched the ants burrow shafts. It was impossible to shelter the little girl from existential matters in the ant colony, so Jane didn’t try. Amazingly, worker ants carried their deceased brethren to the top for easy cleanup. Hattie insisted that she be allowed to bury each ant in the flowerpot Jane had set next to the table for just such a purpose. It was always a very solemn moment when Hattie discovered a lifeless body. She insisted on a graveside service. Jane said a few words; Hattie patted the dead ant and then gently brushed some dirt over it.
The ant farm was better than a video game, better than a picture book or a playground, or even a hot fudge sundae. Hattie would sit for hours, transfixed, talking to them, encouraging them, singing to them, but mostly bossing them. Sometimes she would lose patience when they didn’t listen to her. Jane tried to help Hattie understand that the ants didn’t speak or understand language, but Hattie insisted Jane was wrong. They were talking. They just had very tiny voices. As Cordelia would undoubtedly say, for good or ill, Even ants should obey a true Thorn.
Jane worked until just after three, making progress on a project that had been on her desk for several weeks. In the current economy, the restaurant was doing a much bigger business in appetizers. Instead of ordering a full meal, people would choose an appetizer, a glass of wine, and, if they were feeling flush, maybe a dessert. Thus, the appetizer menu was in the process of being revised and expanded. Jane had worked up a special trial menu. For a fixed price, a couple would get three appetizers to share, a bottle of wine, a basket of fresh bread, and one dessert. They’d tested it out last weekend, and it was a hit. Now that she’d made a decision about driving up to the lodge, she had to sign off on the new menu before she left. The new offerings had to be costed out, keeping a specific price point in mind. It was tedious work. Leaning back, she stretched her arms over her head and looked over at Hattie, “Hey, sweetie. I think it’s time to head back to my house.”
Hattie was no longer sitting but standing on the chair. “This ant is dopey. He thinks he can get out. I pushed him back in the goo.”
“That’s good.”
“Yah. I took care of it.”
“Want to go feed the ducks?” This was Jane’s only hope for prying Hattie away from the farm.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes!”
On their way out, they stopped in the kitchen for a sack of stale bread. Hattie hugged it to her chest as they made their way down the steps to the lake walk. The best feeding spot was a sandy patch a few hundred yards from the restaurant. As usual, Hattie dawdled, watching the ground for potential bug activity.
When they finally reached the log where Jane liked to sit, Hattie cried, “Look, baby duckies!”
Jane opened the sack and handed her a croissant. “Remember, small pieces.”
“I know.”
Hattie always approached the ducks with infinite care, talking softly to them, telling them she loved them. She would holler
Jane had sent away for the ants. Her first inclination was to simply go outside and find a few, but the guidebook warned against it. Apparently, if the ants didn’t come from the same colony, and especially if the ants differed in size, fighting would ensue. An all-out ant war, while it might be interesting to watch, wasn’t what Jane had in mind. When the ants arrived in the mail—large, black, mean-looking critters—she and Hattie poked little holes into the gel. In rapt silence, they watched the ants burrow shafts. It was impossible to shelter the little girl from existential matters in the ant colony, so Jane didn’t try. Amazingly, worker ants carried their deceased brethren to the top for easy cleanup. Hattie insisted that she be allowed to bury each ant in the flowerpot Jane had set next to the table for just such a purpose. It was always a very solemn moment when Hattie discovered a lifeless body. She insisted on a graveside service. Jane said a few words; Hattie patted the dead ant and then gently brushed some dirt over it.
The ant farm was better than a video game, better than a picture book or a playground, or even a hot fudge sundae. Hattie would sit for hours, transfixed, talking to them, encouraging them, singing to them, but mostly bossing them. Sometimes she would lose patience when they didn’t listen to her. Jane tried to help Hattie understand that the ants didn’t speak or understand language, but Hattie insisted Jane was wrong. They were talking. They just had very tiny voices. As Cordelia would undoubtedly say, for good or ill, Even ants should obey a true Thorn.
Jane worked until just after three, making progress on a project that had been on her desk for several weeks. In the current economy, the restaurant was doing a much bigger business in appetizers. Instead of ordering a full meal, people would choose an appetizer, a glass of wine, and, if they were feeling flush, maybe a dessert. Thus, the appetizer menu was in the process of being revised and expanded. Jane had worked up a special trial menu. For a fixed price, a couple would get three appetizers to share, a bottle of wine, a basket of fresh bread, and one dessert. They’d tested it out last weekend, and it was a hit. Now that she’d made a decision about driving up to the lodge, she had to sign off on the new menu before she left. The new offerings had to be costed out, keeping a specific price point in mind. It was tedious work. Leaning back, she stretched her arms over her head and looked over at Hattie, “Hey, sweetie. I think it’s time to head back to my house.”
Hattie was no longer sitting but standing on the chair. “This ant is dopey. He thinks he can get out. I pushed him back in the goo.”
“That’s good.”
“Yah. I took care of it.”
“Want to go feed the ducks?” This was Jane’s only hope for prying Hattie away from the farm.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes!”
On their way out, they stopped in the kitchen for a sack of stale bread. Hattie hugged it to her chest as they made their way down the steps to the lake walk. The best feeding spot was a sandy patch a few hundred yards from the restaurant. As usual, Hattie dawdled, watching the ground for potential bug activity.
When they finally reached the log where Jane liked to sit, Hattie cried, “Look, baby duckies!”
Jane opened the sack and handed her a croissant. “Remember, small pieces.”
“I know.”
Hattie always approached the ducks with infinite care, talking softly to them, telling them she loved them. She would holler
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