Why Do They Do That?

I have written before about what happens after I learn something new: it makes me aware of just how little I really do know and it always seems to raise three more questions for every one that it explains. It’s sort of like the Pandora’s Box of knowledge—once you open it, just hold on for the ride.

For many of my questions, I realize that continued observation will likely bring me an answer. I may watch a bird do something that puzzles me and understand that if I just keep watching some more, I’ll come to know why it behaves as it does. This is the essence of scientific research: if you doggedly stay with it, keeping your mind open and all senses alert, the answer will most likely come to you.

For other questions, however, I feel confident that someone has already discovered answers and has even recorded them somewhere. This is the promise of human knowledge: we document our revelations and pass them on to countless others. My challenge in this case is finding out where the findings may be recorded. That’s the prime reason why I so highly value the Internet—it contains a stunning amount of knowledge.

But for a few of my questions, I doubt that either searching the records or additional observations on my part will bring me answers. These are questions for which there may be no answer, or questions that I’ve framed so poorly that I need to understand more so I can even ask the right question, or maybe questions that are so silly, I’d be ashamed of having anyone know I even asked them. You may have heard someone say (attempting to reassure another person), “There are no dumb questions.” On the contrary, I’ve formulated more than a few obtuse questions. I’m not sure but that some of the following examples may fall into this latter category.

First, here’s an example of one for which I later did find an answer: How is it that a woodpecker can bang his beak so hard against a tree and not suffer brain damage? (Sort of like a washed-up boxer being unable to assemble an intelligible sentence.) Years later I read that a woodpecker’s brain is surrounded by a cushioning fluid that protects it’s brain. Aha!

Here are a couple that continue to puzzle me: How does a firefly keep from temporarily blinding itself when it flashes? If I were to switch on a bright light in the dark, my slowly-acquired night vision would immediately be destroyed, and I’d blindly stumble around for a few minutes until I recovered. That temporary blinding could be fatal for the firefly. In a similar manner, how does a cicada not deafen itself? From 50 feet away he hurts my ears; I’d hate to think of the pain I’d feel if I held him in my hand. How does he tolerate his own noise?

How does a whippoorwill ever tell if he has another competitor singing nearby, when he never shuts up long enough to listen? How does a plant decide when to continue growing upright and when to send out a lateral twig? Does a grasshopper or a flea ever get leg cramps and have to limp along, rather than jump? Or when they make one of their spectacular leaps, do they ever sprain an ankle as they land? Do they even have an ankle?

So many questions, so little time to answer them all.