Down on the old ant farm

It was a pretty good deal for $1 but the events that followed made me reconsider the "bargain" several times over.

"Wow!!" my youngest cried upon spying an ant farm at a local dollar store. "You mean you can farm ants?"

"Sure, they drive teeny-weenie little tractors and raise no-see-ums instead of cows," I replied.

He gave me the "Oh, mom" look but held on tight to the ant farm as his "priority pick" for the outing. I was surprised and rather pleased with his selection considering the variety of candy and toy weaponry available.

But my mood changed once we got home and he began to badger me about putting the farm into action.

Outside it was hot enough to melt a video tape (been there, done that), but seeing as I wasn't able to scrape together enough sand and ants inside the house we took the farm, a pail and a spoon and ventured into the 95 degree heat.

We came upon a big ant hill and began to dig. Wanting nothing to do with two giant humans bent on the destruction of their empire, the ants evaded the spoon and ultimately the farm.

I attempted to pick them up with my fingers. Try it some time - make sure they're not fire ants first - it takes a gentle touch.

After squishing a few, much to my son's distress, I began to dump spoonfuls of sand and ants into the plastic farm.

It was pretty messy, but it looked like at least five ants were trapped inside. We snapped the top on and started to walk home.

Sweat pouring off us, we made our way back home, stopping every now and then to drop a couple more ants into the farm.

This vital mistake led to a real education on ants.

At first the little, black creatures occupied themselves with the business of escaping the plastic farm. We dropped some sugar into the contraption to distract them from this pursuit.

"That one's Little Foot, that's Big Foot, and this one's Harry," my son announced as he watched the little critters scamper about.

"Harry?" I asked.

"He has hair but you're too old - your eyes can't see it anymore," he said smugly.

About a half-hour later, he had something new to report.

"Look, they're wrestling! I can't believe it!"

Then it occurred to me - the ants all looked alike but coming from different hills they considered each other mortal enemies.

Wouldn't you know with all the job titles associated with ants - worker, nurse, soldier - there was not one diplomat in the bunch?

By morning, the farm was strewn with curled, lifeless ant bodies and one big, smug-looking ant with dark glasses, smoking a cigar.

Tears welled up in my son's eyes as he surveyed the ravaged farm.

"I can't believe Big Foot could be so mean!" he cried.

I was just relieved the farm had made it 24 hours without spilling.

I dumped the farm's contents into the trash and assured him we'd try again, this time taking all farm workers from the same hill.

I intend to make good on that promise...

But don't bet the farm.