Growing up there wasn’t a reptile, amphibian, mammal, bird, or fish that I didn’t want to observe or catch. I was infatuated studying them and, of the reptile and amphibian bunch, procuring them to admire their skin, color, habits, and movements. When I wasn’t seeking them, I spent hours sketching these creatures on paper and in my mind. Many of these drawings included elaborate creeks, ponds, and cattail marshes developed for the animal kingdom’s prosperity and my mental dreamland.

My father would often take his boys exploring in areas that were much like my dreamland. One of these areas was a large woodlot owned by the University of Tennessee and within hiking distance of our house on Appleby Lane. The highlight of our walk was a shallow pond at the very far end of our hike. For me, it was the destination. Here one could witness all sorts of wildlife. In the summer frogs would go leaping into the cattails and the occasional snake slithering into the lily pads. Numerous species of birds clung to the branches of shrubs guarding the pond while herons stalked crawfish and minnows along the edges.

On one particular day we were hiking to the pond in the winter. It had been unusually cold and ice covered the shallow pond. Because my dad was a biologist and a professor in the field of wildlife, I pictured that he knew everything there was to know about the creatures we might encounter. I never doubted his infinite wildlife wisdom. Per usual he had been making observations along our route. When we arrived to the pond my dad pointed out the muskrat paths now channeling under the ice. In curiosity I asked, “Do you think they use those paths when there is ice?” His reply was, “I wouldn’t think so. It’s too cold.” Case closed. I learned something new . . . until a few seconds later we witnessed a muskrat swimming under the ice in his channel. I learned something newer: My dad, and all professionals, aren’t omniscient.

Similarly, grown and now a father of my own kids, it was a proud day when my oldest son, at that time about six years old, developed a method of lizard capture that I thought a farce.

At our home in Hot Springs, Arkansas we had a back flower bed lined with stacked railroad ties about four ties tall. Often five-lined skinks, fence lizards, and anoles would lounge there in the day’s warm rays or lurk in the safety of the crevices. Not understanding the request, my son asked me to tie some fishing monofilament to a stick he had procured and a mealworm to the other end. I was curious.

My son snuck to the edge of the railroad ties and lowered the on-line mealworm to dangle near a crevice. I stood back and smirked fatherly and endearing pessimism while he “fished.” Not thirty seconds into his first attempt a skink appeared slapping its tongue up, down, and around catching scent of the mealworm. In quick, jagged movements the scaled herp closed the distance and snatched the mealworm into its jaws. My son simply lifted his prey to waist level and, due to the lizard’s voracious appetite, was able to nonchalantly grasp the creature with his free hand. Simple as that, lizard snatching became a thing. I stood back and smiled incredulously, my herptile expertise dismantled.