Searching for trumpet worm nests in the dirt was never a meaningless childhood pastime.
It wasn’t boredom, nor a lack of creativity—it was survival wrapped in curiosity, hope tucked beneath dirty fingernails, and a kind of adventure only children who grew up with very little could truly grasp. While others were glued to glowing screens, we vanished into fields and backyards, chasing tiny wonders with scraped knees and open hands.
Every small discovery felt like a secret treasure meant only for us.
We didn’t know it at the time, but each nest we uncovered was quietly shaping the people we would one day become. With no expensive toys or endless distractions, we turned the world itself into our playground. We grew up where new things stayed behind store windows, where video games belonged to someone else, and where imagination was our most valuable possession.
