by Regis Boff
I would spend hours on hot Pennsylvania summer days chasing ants on our patio, on my hands and knees, trying to cook them with a giant magnifying glass angled perfectly with the sun’s rays.
I had built fires this way in Boy Scouts. I used twigs, not ants, for that.
The ants often adopted a “clump together” stratagem in their insect terror, a wrong move.
There is cruelty in children that blends agreeably with innocence.