A Delicate Existance

Fall, New York state, 2023…

More rain coming. I could smell it in the low-lying clouds above me and feel the extra weight of moisture on my wings; that fine condensation was wearing me out. I needed to rest and dry my wings, but the instincts of my ancestors made me panicky and loathe to sit idle for too long.

Then suddenly…

Warmth, and brightness. Motes of mist danced in the air before my eyes, sparkling reds and golds and brilliant blues. The damp steam rising skyward amplified the scents of the greenery: the sweet corny scent of the milkweed, the subtle earthy scent of the sundews, and oh my- the pungent odor of the skunk cabbage. I landed upon a broad flat leaf, its bubbly surface slick with the plant’s pleasingly fetid juice, the fine fuzz of leaf hair held the droplets like the bear holds onto a salmon in the rapids. My wee ravenous babies would love this plant, they’d grow fat and hairy in no time…but as my wings vibrated, warmed and dry now by the sun’s rays, the sturdy plant beneath my feet shimmied slightly to and fro.

The water was flowing at an unusually rapid pace.

The wonderfully earthy reek was fainter than it had been just a day ago. Gone was the substantial peaty scent of decaying plant matter much like the ordure of an old neglected stable full of sad farm animals. Missing was the sharp tang of saltwater and the spunky assault of rotten egg smell.

The water would continue to rise, and my world would be underneath it, along with all my eggs. Ah…to be born a fish…lucky, safe creatures, hmf.

Perhaps a new direction today? My antennae was fluttering, touching the atmosphere… Darkness was coming. My instinct was to fly west, where the brush grew thick, and the humans didn’t venture.

But I had just come from that direction and for the first five days of my adult life I had not found a single one of my kind. There had to be a reason for that. A creature who preyed upon us? An entire land of predators? Or worst of all, those beings that destroyed everything in their path. As they thrived, my species was disappearing.

I turned slowly, tasting the air itself with the filaments on my legs. And then…a new scent- like freshly trampled willow leaves, and like the delicate musky fragrance of newborn bunnies… cottonwood. I have relatives who swear by cottonwood trees. Come to think of it, those cousins of mine are thriving. I didn’t think they’d mind sharing a tree species, its not like we’d get in each other’s way, they all flew at night. So, cottonwood it is, nice and high and dry. Perhaps my offspring ought to fly at night as well? Now I was thinking crazy thoughts.

After five days, I had finally found a mate. That left me another week to lay my eggs. I was cutting it close. I shuddered with anxiety. Seemed I spent my entire adulthood at the edge of this state. The breeze morphed into wind; the wetness came with it as well. Anxiety became panic.

The wind twirled me like an unpopular dance partner, my toes spiked into the skin of the leaf. And then, my luck changed. The wind had turned me east, as if agreeing with my lunatic epiphany. Cottonwood it is then. I let go of the leaf and spread my wings, letting the gusty air current take me. I’d never flown so fast and so effortlessly fluid. I thanked Mother Nature for the respite to my weary old body and nearly trusted her to deposit me right to my destination…nearly.

The musky- bunny scent grew stronger. A grove of cottonwoods rose before me like giants- gnarled and bony like elderly humans with soft puffy white hair growing from places they’d not expected (or wanted) hair to grow from. No wonder the air was scented so strongly, white puffs of cottony fluff were swirling in the wind away from its mother source as cottony fluff laden arms waved them goodbye.

As the great hand of the goddess pushed me up and over the charmingly embellished trees, I thought whoa, not so fast! As luck would have it (again) I smacked right into one of the airy white pillows and nearly bounced off of it. I immediately seized the pillow, curling my thin black toes into the fine, downy hairs. A branch was waving goodbye to me! Oh! I plucked my toes from the cotton ball and applied every ounce of strength in my wings to fly against the wind and back to the tree.

As I did this, I saw the bird. And the monarch butterfly, its bright orange wings striped with velvety black stood out against the white of a cotton ball. I sent a silent scream out for it…but in a heartbeat, the black bird had it in its wicked beak.

I made it to the branch, folded my wings and clung, nestled amongst a burst of foliage near the tip…be a leaf…be a leaf…be a leaf was my mantra. The butterfly murderer flew off. I scanned my new surroundings. So different than anything I’d experienced. This could work though. My cousins’ larvae ate these leaves, why couldn’t mine?

With the wet chill came the indigo bottomed clouds. I crept along the branch towards the trunk. I was pleased to find a perfect fissure to nestle into. From my sanctuary, I watched the clouds turn from purple to midnight blue, their pregnant bellies went black as the last light of this invigorating day crept away over the western forest on the horizon. The clouds gave birth just after dark filling the atmosphere with the ozone scent of the fresh water that I had come to despise. It was stealing my existence.

I remained ever the cheery optimistic one however…pfft.

Two days later…

I gave birth on the underside of a sturdy leaf to 59 healthy whitish brown- beige? - eggs in neat little rows like stitches on a homemade green quilt. (Yes, I had seen a human’s handy work close up once, but that’s a story for another time. Ha. Ha.) I was amazed and proud of my wee little ones. I wished I could see the little larvae grow into voracious fuzzy caterpillars, but that has always been a rare occurrence in my world. I had four to seven days left to live. My babies would hatch in four to ten days. You see the conundrum here? The plus side of being adult is that I don’t have to search for food. I can sit here watching over my eggs until my life expires.

I have picked a good place and as I sit here in my old age, withering away hour by hour and minute by minute, I think about my old home. Specifically, why my ancestors chose such a wet environment. Perhaps it had not always been that way though it certainly had in my oh-so-lengthy life. That’s sarcasm. As I sit here, I hone that skill while meditating. Caterpillars are said to be the snarky ones…the tweenagers of my genus. And butterflies are given such lofty admiration while in reality they are quite aloof and annoyingly smug. It’s a blessing they taste better than I do.

And four days later…

I felt mummified. My ancestors were plentiful during the time humans were really truly mummified so I’m not just metaphoring. My wings were dry and crumbling at the edges. My once silky black body hair was greyish and patchy. My vision was cloudy, as if I’d been focusing so long on my babies, all I saw now were round beige spots. I think my feet were frozen into claws, but I really couldn’t feel them. Frozen. Like my old home was perhaps being. If not now, then soon.

In the distance I heard branches snapping and smelled the musky bunny scent this time mingled with the scent of fresh cut wood. I heard the rumble of what sounded like farm equipment and even drifts of human men’s voices. But all that was so so far away…

Three eggs closest to me wobbled. My imagination.

But that was enough for me; I clung to the happy ending as the world faded.

***

Fall, Sonoma, California, 2015…

“Oh honey…really?” It was Bill’s wife, saying it with the edges of her lips curled up, indicating she was totally amused by the thing.

The thing was a stuffed woodpecker. A genuine taxidermist’s project that Bill knew Samantha would dig.

Bill took the bird upstairs and gently set it upon the shelf by their daughter’s bed.

Bill and Maureen sipped coffee and waited for it…

“AAAAAIIIIEEEE!” Not a scream of terror. One of pure joy.

Thump thump thump down the stairs she came running, the stuffed woodpecker in her arms. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god…” You’d have thought they’d gotten her a real live one.

“Happy birthday sweetheart,” Maureen said while eyeing her husband slyly. She’d kissed her daughter’s head, getting up to whip up some cream for the blueberry pancakes, a birthday tradition in the Witherspoon household.

“Where did you get him?” Even at three she asked smart questions.

Bill said, “It was donated to the lab about a month ago. Thought you’d dig it.”

“Oh boy! Do I ever! I’m naming him Marvin. Marvin the Marvelous.”

Marvin sat on the shelf between Samantha’s bed and her desk for eight years. Listened to her joys and woes in turn. And was the first subject of her illustrating interests. Marvin starred on countless Christmas cards, birthday cards, letterheads…even a St. Patrick’s card one year when she was nine. Marvin the golden fronted woodpecker, dressed in a pilgrim’s hat and a green suit saying cheerily, “Ha-ha-ha-ha-HA! HA-ppy St. Paddy’s Day!”

The card was still on the fridge two years later even though her illustrations were so innumerable, they had to be replenished monthly like a magazine circulation. On her tenth birthday, she’d received a wonderful faux leather covered scrapbook to save her work in. On her eleventh, she’d received two because she filled the first so quickly.

***

October, 2023…

Samantha diligently worked on her science fair project. She had constructed, with a little help from her dad, a five-foot-tall wooden display with a plexi-glass front that slid in and out the top. Originally, she had planned to use Marvin as the focus, re-creating a habitat for the eastern North American bird.

She had been allowed and encouraged to seek out sources for her projects and had ordered replicas of genuine white satin moths that make cottonwood branches their home off of Ebay. For quite cheap. She had been arranging the branches, complete with cotton balls still intact, concentrating on where she would place the moths and singing along to a song on Spotify by Skee-Lo. It was one she’d heard on a commercial on tv and even turned her dad onto it…”I wish I was a little bit taller…”

Her singing cut off as if her vocal cords had been sliced by a home invader…then, “DAD!”

“What? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Bill checked over his daughter quickly at first and then slower as he detected no blood, no limbs pointing the wrong way, no nails sticking out her feet.

“Dad!”

“What?!”

“Dad!”

“Okay. What?”

Bill Witherspoon looked down at his precocious daughter of eleven, lifting the magnifying glasses from his eyes as he did so. She was even dressed like him. White lab coat, name tag, “Samantha, Junior Researcher” proudly displayed on her thin, gangly frame.

He’d had it made for her the Christmas before after she’d spent the entire day with him at his work. She had declared, “I want to be a biologist just like you Daddy.”

He had said, “That’s very noble of you sweetheart! The world will thank you for all the good you will do…I’m so proud of you.”

Sam had beamed and pushed her glasses up the nose too small and upturned to hold them.

Bill had added, “I’m not actually a biologist though. I studied and learned how to be one…and was for ten years or so, but now I’m what is called a ‘naturalist.’ Not much difference. Both are cool titles. I am so proud of you; you’re going to be great. Especially since you can draw like Audubon.”

Audubon was Samantha’s idol. She was in the fifth grade, an A student, and had taken up birdwatching at eight. Though Marvin had been an inspiration, her parents had been proud and amazed to watch her progress.

Sam was flapping her hands like pale little doves. She took in a huge breath, then said, “Member the branch from Ebay? The cottonwood?”

“Yessss…?”

“Check this out…” Sam grabbed her dad’s arm and took him to her project. She gently and snail-slow lifted the leathery leaf of the cottonwood branch. There were eggs there. Moth eggs for sure, about thirty of them.

“Oh honey… I doubt these will hatch…”

“I beg to differ. I mean…I don’t see why not.”

“Hmmm. What kind of moth do you think?” he queried as he lowered his readers back onto his nose and looked closer.

“Well, at first, I thought White Satin Moth cuz they looooove cottonwood. But Satin Moth eggs are greenish and clumped in white papery stuff.”

Bill nodded, agreeing. “These are bigger too.”

“Yes! I’m thinking maybe Cecropia!”

“That would be my guess too.”

Sam clapped her hands, “ooooooo…that’s my all-time favorite moth!”

“I’m guessing your project is going in a new direction?”

“Well, I’ve got the habitat all set up. The caterpillars will have plenty of leaves to eat. Hmm, I’ll plant some nasturtium…and dandelion…and maybe order some honeycomb off Ebay. No, Amazon is faster.”

“Well, even if they don’t hatch, your display will be very pretty.”

Sam nodded absentmindedly, amending her project in a brain ticking like clockwork.

The day of the science fair, Sam’s father wheeled in her display case on a handcart.

“Careful Dad! Don’t bump it! The eggs…”

“I know, I know. I got this.” He slowed his pace and babied the display into its spot between the Hawaiian Islands display, compete with volcano of course, and an impressively detailed rainforest map.

The next morning, Sam got to school a half hour before the bell. She sucked in her breath when she saw two dozen tiny caterpillars exploring the habitat: they inched along the leaves and branches mostly but there were two on the plexiglass, one near the top. They were only a quarter inch long, whitish, with big shiny black heads. Could be a number of different species. She watched them amble about until the first bell rang.

She reluctantly left the biology lab and went to her classroom.

The science fair projects would be on display for two weeks. Then all the fifth-grade students were given ballots with the eighteen projects listed. They were to vote on their top four favorites. During these two weeks, Sam’s caterpillars became the stars. The children and teachers alike were fascinated by the rapid growth of the wee squirming creatures and felt privileged to be watching their real-life development. For Sam it was better than TV.

After two weeks, the caterpillars were now three inches long, moss green, with thickets of hairs in rows down their plump bodies. Sam had been bringing new greens and flowers for them to munch on daily. As she changed their food source out, she answered countless questions and basked in the spotlight of popularity for the first time in her life.

At home at the dinner table, Sam gave her parents updates. “They’re definitely not cecropia,” she said, her voice coated with disappointment. “Those are green and fat with yellow and blue tufts.”

Bill nodded. Maureen said, “Any idea what they might be?”

“Not yet. I’m going to concentrate my research on moths from the exact place I bought the branch from. I’ve contacted the seller. I hope I hear back from him.” She shoveled the last bite of mashed potatoes into her mouth and swallowed. “Can I be excused please?”

“Of course, Honey.”

Sam got up so fast her chair rocked on the linoleum. She muttered, “Oops. Sorry,” and pushed her chair back in but forgot to take her plate to the sink.

Bill and Maureen looked at each other and giggled.

Maureen said, “Honey, were you that nature crazed when you were eleven?”

“The spitting image.”

“DAD!”

Bill stood up grinning and looking twenty years younger.

Catching the excitement too, Maureen followed close on her husband’s heels.

In Sam’s room, they found her bouncing in her chair and pointing to the computer screen. “He emailed me back! He told me the branches he collects for his Ebay business are from the marshlands in southern New York state, he thinks mine were from a reserve called The Saw Mill Creek Reserve. So then…check this out…these caterpillars are exactly what mine look like!”

The parents bent and looked at the pictures on Google.

“Dad. I believe these are Bog Buck Moth caterpillars. Look.”

Bill studied the pictures. “Holy crap. Those moths are on the endangered species list. They’re the only moths known to fly in the daytime.”

Sam looked up from the screen, her eyes wide. “Holy crap.”

“They’re only found in east coast marshes and bogs. Thanks to global warming, their habitat is flooding during their mating season.”

“It will only get worse.”

“Yes, sweetheart,” he said sadly.

“I need to bring them home and release them. Where Dad?”

Bill said, “Bothin Marsh Reserve. Forty-five minutes from here.”

The old moth would have been surprised at her legendary good luck.