Preschool Observation

When I was five, my family and I went on a tour of N.C State's open house. I trailed after my parents, shuffled along by bustling figures. The newborn foal in the corral had drawn a large crowd - too large for me. I veered towards a vet student who was giving a presentation on equine colic. They held up the twisted stomach like a trophy as I approached and the scent of formaldehyde enveloped me. I felt no apprehension or disgust; only curiosity. I wondered what had caused the organ to twist and why it had been fatal.

I never lost that sense of curiosity.

A couple years later, my dad took me to the local science museum. We walked through the dinosaur complex first, which was fine with me. The exhibit was large and overwhelming; dinosaurs

Our pond attracted an assortment of wildlife that ranged from herons to bullfrogs, and our garden attracted even more. I was an equal opportunist and set out each day with a single goal. I liked to pretend that I was Indiana Jones, though my own adventures paled in comparison: climbing trees, catching insects, and digging in our sandpit.

I favored the tree frogs that appeared during the summer. They lined up on our door every night, clinging to the glass and contrasting sharply with the dark sky. I would run outside and gingerly dislodge them. As they sat motionless and docile on my palm, I watched them fervently, willing them to divulge some secret. They never did.

Relinquished from my hands, they leapt into the night and disappeared into a world where I could not follow. The description in my frog encyclopedia described them as. To me, they living embodiments of my frustration. I never knew where they went during the day, nor why they returned each night.

As much as I adored everything to do with nature, I never considered. Other than the stereotypical image of a bespectacled genius, I didn't understand what being being a scientist really entailed. A a profession, science seemed abstract and out of my