Christmas got off to an odd start that year. I was 9 years old and was doing what most kids my age were doing — enjoying my last month of freedom before my fourth-grade incarceration.
My folks were at work while I was under the eye of my babysitting sister which meant that as long as I was alive and in one piece when Mom got home, Big Sis would have done her job.
Knowing she’d be in deep trouble if I came up disappeared or dismembered, I usually felt relatively safe. The more I was out of the house, the better she liked it — as well as the plausible deniability it offered her if I came up missing.
On this particular day, I was digging around some old rotting logs in a wooded fencerow when I found the biggest bug that I’d ever seen. This was no praying mantis or cicada; this one looked mean: prehistoric monster mean or big-sister mean. It was as long as my finger and bigger around. It had huge jaws that surely made it deadly. I was amazed and, just like on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, I was going to capture and study this creepy-crawler with saber-toothed fangs.
I carefully wrapped it in a handkerchief and walked home. From there, I put some dirt in a Ball jar and gently dropped the bug into his new home. I properly secured the capture with a lid that had been carefully poked full of holes.
My teachers would have been proud to see me splayed on the living room floor, carefully studying our set of encyclopedias. There are two problems with dictionaries and encyclopedias: 1. You need some idea of what you’re looking for, and 2. You need to be able to come close to spelling it. Since nothing was listed under “bug,” “giant bug,” “prehistoric bug,” “dinosaur bug” or saber-toothed bug, I was in quite a quandary. Maybe I’d discovered a brand-new bug!
I proudly showed it to my sister with hopes she might help me find it in the books. She once again threatened to remove a piece of my anatomy and instructed that I “get that INSECT out of the house, IMMEDIATELY!” Huh … insect. I knew she might be of some help.
I hid the bug in my closet and got back to the books. Insects … there was page after page of them but nothing helped. At least now I was on the right path, but I needed more pictures. When Mom got home, I asked if she would take me to the library. I think she actually began to tear up.
After supper, we got into the car for the ride to town. I was carrying a brown bag, and she curiously never asked what was in it. That was probably a good thing, and I may have unwittingly set the groundwork for future “don’t ask, don’t tell” policies.
I was sitting at a big oak library table with a stack of bug books in which I learned more about their pseudonym “insects.” Except for a little scratching sound, the paper sack sat on the table silently as I carefully perused the books. That’s when I found a picture of the beast.
About then, a librarian walked by, pointed at the sack and requested that I not eat or drink in the library. I proudly pulled out the bug, recently, dubbed Mr. Big, to assure her that it wasn’t food. My Mom responded pretty quickly, promising that the lid would be put back tightly on the jar. You know, I always thought librarians were supposed to whisper …
I found out that Mr. Big was a stag beetle, also known as the pinching beetle. They’re not uncommon in Ohio, though seldom encountered. Stag beetles range from reddish brown to black and adults can measure 2 inches. Large curved jaws extend in a vicious portrayal meant to fight other male stag beetles for mates. The similarity to rutting bucks’ use of antlers landed them the name “stag.”
While mean-looking, the worst those imposing jaws can offer us is a very mild squeeze, but the less intimidating-looking females can inflict a painful bite. Another life lesson learned that I didn’t heed — in so many ways.
These beneficial insects aren’t pests. The larvae feed for several years on rotting deciduous wood while growing through three larval stages, helping with the decomposition process. Adult stag beetles feed on tree sap and the sticky secretions of aphids. They’re found around oak trees, rotting stumps and logs, often hiding under leaf clutter.
They’re active at night which reduces the chance of being eaten by birds, but they do have a bit of an Achilles’ heel. Stag beetles, like many insects, are attracted to nighttime lights which can place them squarely on the front porch. If you have a librarian’s aversion to large bugs, this can come as quite a surprise. Don’t step on this harmless insect, just collect it in a Ball jar and use it to amaze a 9-year-old. It’s still possible.
Upon returning home, Dad and Mom carefully looked the bug over; Mom was seemingly even more fascinated than me as I recited from my notes.They wanted to see where I’d found it, and Dad suggested I return it to its home. I carefully released Mr. Big and gave him a kind of head pat as he buried himself under the leaves.
Just a few short months later, Dad took me to the local Five-and-Ten store for some Christmas shopping. My brother and I were each given an allowance to pick out gifts. Our budget was pretty limited so careful selection was necessary. That’s when I saw it in the jewelry case: a life size stag beetle brooch with a jade-colored back. It was beautiful and looked exactly like Mr. Big — if Mr. Big had been green. It was also more than my allowance could afford. Dad saw the disappointment and slipped me another dollar. He must have known that Mom would love it.
On Christmas morning, instead of ripping into the packages, I grabbed the carefully wrapped gift and presented it to Mom first. She opened it and looked really surprised, while gave Dad a sideways glance. I could tell that he was really proud of that gift, too, because as we were leaving for church, he was smiling as he reminded her that she might want to show it off. Without hesitation, she snatched it up and fastened it to her dress. Mr. Big was going to Christmas Mass.
“I like to compare the holiday season with the way a child listens to a favorite story. The pleasure is in the familiar way the story begins, the anticipation of familiar turns it takes, the familiar moments of suspense, and the familiar climax and ending.”
— Fred Rogers
