Finding trumpet worm nests was never a game—it was an escape. It was proof that the world still held

secrets for kids like us, kids with more month than money and worries we didn’t yet have words for.

While others stayed indoors with screens and noise, we searched for quiet. We dug into

dirt and silence, convinced that something hidden and wonderful might still be waiting.

Those fields and backyards were more than places to pass time. They were classrooms

where we learned how to live with little and still feel full.

Every trumpet worm nest felt like a small victory. It reminded us that

beauty could exist anywhere, even in places shaped by scarcity.

Scraped knees and muddy hands became symbols of pride. They showed

we could create our own sense of wonder without anything new or shiny.

We didn’t compete over discoveries—we shared them. Friendships

formed around curiosity and awe, not envy or possession.

Now, when life feels loud and rushed, those memories return gently.

They remind us of a slower rhythm, where joy came easily and asked for nothing.

We learned early that magic isn’t bought or downloaded. It’s uncovered—by kneeling down,

digging deep, and choosing to look closely at what’s already there.