Although one of the giants in the insect world, the praying mantis is often hard to spot due to its camouflage.
I loved being in first grade at Bridge Street School. My teacher, Mrs. Hinson, all decked out in her floral dress, was very nurturing and taught us to read and to do math. But all I really remember is the time we spent singing. Our teacher taught us a full repertoire of patriotic songs. She led us in the classic versions, and then we had several adulterated versions which included lyrics featuring grouchy teachers equipped with long rulers. We thought these were hysterically funny and sang them with great gusto whenever there was a lapse in the action on the teacher’s part. Then Mrs. Hinson would rein us back in by dividing the class up and leading us in rounds. These were wildly fun and raucous versions of “Row, row, row your boat” and “Frere Jacques”, and our voices were probably heard down the street.
Then it would be time for recess, and there was more singing. We jumped rope singing “Bluebells” and “Miss Lucy had a Steamboat”. We sang “Red rover, red rover would Jimmy come over” until the bell rang, and we ran back into our classrooms.
At the end of the day, we got on the buses and careened around town singing “100 bottles of beer on the wall” and “The ants go marching 2 by 2”. We would circumnavigate most of the town on the bus singing our hearts out. The weekend rolled around and at some point, my dad bought a player piano, and we spent hours perched on the bench of our player piano as it rolled out the classics and we joined in with “You Are My Sunshine”. And on Sundays my parents having signed us up to sing in the children’s choir, we added a whole new range of songs to offset the edgier ones we had in our repertoire. We also got to dress like little friars which, contradictorily, made us sing even louder. No one ever told us we had terrible voices. That was back in the day when tact had a place in our world.
We would repeat this whole routine of singing in school, on the playground, on the bus and at church week in and out. All our weeks blended together. One week stands out in the fall. Right in the middle of a two-part rendition of “Three Blind Mice”, a praying mantis flew into the classroom through an open window in the back. Mantises are clumsy fliers, and he landed near the chalkboard. There he turned his triangular head to catch a glimpse of who was making all that noise. He caused quite a commotion from all us six year olds. We were mesmerized, and in the blink of an eye our beloved Mrs. Hinson deftly coaxed him into a gallon jar and screwed the lid on tight. She checked to see that all her buttons were still holding on her frock and then led us out to the playground to set him free. We were quiet on the way out, thrilled to have witnessed the praying mantis in our classroom and amazed at having seen a whole other side of Mrs. Hinson, one that had required stealth and agility. When the mantis crawled out of the jar on the playground, we were silent. But in my head, I was singing “So Long, Farewell” from The Sound of Music.
I have always had a soft place in my heart for praying mantis and spend half of my summer days looking for them in my garden or on the side of the barn. I call them the king of insects. They are ambush predators, disguising themselves and waiting for the right moment to catch their prey. They even employ rocking behavior to make them look even more like a branch moving in the wind. In the fall, the female lays eggs in a case called an ootheca, usually attached to a branch. Then in the springtime a whole batch of tiny praying mantises hatches out of the case and moves deeper into the meadow.
It has been said that the arrival of a praying mantis is good luck. It sure felt that way to all of us back within the walls of Bridge Street School. I’d like to think that he was drawn in by all those children’s voices being lifted up in unison. There sure is something magical about how music connects us. I visited a shut-in the other day, and during a lapse in conversation, I offered a solo, which soon turned into a duet of one of those songs from back in first grade. And you know, he lit it right up. I guess even my off key version of a familiar song is way better than my boring old monologue. Just ask my kids.