Live Long and Prosper

Image Gallery For all animals, every new generation brings with it new possibilities. TOM BRAKEFIELD/GETTY IMAGES

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Funny, how some seemingly trivial images stick in your head for decades. You can’t explain them, but there they are, stubborn memories that have no more apparent significance than countless others that have long since slipped away.

Among my own peculiarly steadfast recollections is one late-summer day on my grandparents’ dairy farm in western New York. I remember my cousin Bonnie and me, both of us 9 or 10 then, sprawled side-by-side and belly-down in cool green grass beneath one of the three old maples lined up like leafy-headed, one-legged sentinels in front of the big white farmhouse. The object of our fascination was a restless dinner-plate-size cluster of ladybugs — hundreds of them — at the foot of the tree. Not a hair’s width separated one ladybug from the other; they moved like a single red-shelled, black-spotted organism with 3,000 legs. With hands held sideways, karate-chop style, to form walls, we could steer them, nudge them forward or back, right or left, like cowpokes coaxing a miniature herd across valleys and over hills (the tree’s aboveground roots).

And that’s the entire memory — just that image, nothing more; no sense of how long we amused ourselves with those beetles, no recollection of the day’s events before or after.

I’m tempted to describe it as a moment frozen in time, but I know better.

Once or twice a year, if I am lucky, I make the trip back to Genesee County, N.Y., to see my family. Invariably on those visits, I am drawn to the site of my grandparents’ farm. I walk the familiar fields and woods, home at last. And always, at some point, I end up in the front yard beneath that maple where Bonnie and I and those beetles played. It must be a peculiar sight to passersby on the highway: a stranger sitting cross-legged among high weeds in an empty, overgrown field.

The farmhouse and the rambling timber-frame barns are gone, victims almost a quarter century ago to two boys in a hayloft toying with matches on a windy day. Gone, too, are those ladybugs … the birds singing in the boughs that long-ago summer … the golden dandelions on the lawn … that season’s whispering leaves … my gentle grandparents. Meanwhile, for now, I and the maples remain. And there are newcomers on the scene: asters and chicory in place of mown grass; a fresh crop of insects crawling over the maple’s roots; a son at my side.

Time, I have learned, does not freeze, nor do moments in it. Time is the unstoppable current on which we all ride, at our various speeds and on our various journeys, through this astonishing world. Each moment in each place in nature is a remarkable coming together, never to be repeated precisely so, of lives crossing paths in time; like twigs swept together for an instant, then drawn apart, in stream eddies.

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