Early May

Spring rolls along, continually displaying its marvelous miracles. A whole troupe of beautiful Spicebush swallowtails hatch all at once. Everywhere I look they are fluttering about. One even dive-bombs me while I am planting seeds in the garden. The Spicebush makes a beautiful display with its black wings and body, decorated with shimmering iridescent blue on the bottom of its wings. Sprinklings of other varieties, including several variations of yellow and black swallowtails, are continually floating and dipping among the wildflowers.

I become fascinated to take careful note of their many distinct markings. So, in the mornings, while I am in the garden, I pause to carefully note any butterfly that is nearby. Funny thing is that on some days, particularly the cloudy ones, I don’t see a single one. Yet at the moment I think, oh dear, there are no butterflies out, one suddenly appears fluttering in my face. Of course, I am delighted and start to follow it, but it seems to disappear into thin air. It’s your imagination, I tell myself. After they continue to disappear magically day after day, I begin to feel like the enchanted lady with the yellow butterflies in One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Often, I find that trying to pin down the names of the butterflies takes away from the sheer joy of watching them. Nevertheless, since they come in so many subtle variations, I decide to get out the butterfly book and make a log of the types I see. In this case, I think it will make me more aware of the tiny differences in the way they have decorated themselves.

Since they can be so elusive, I decide to make a butterfly feeding and basking garden. This project is not what one may picture. For example, each morning I see several varieties basking on the plot of ground that is spread thickest with manure in my wild flower garden. I seem to remember that salt, manure and fermented fruit are the key ingredients to entice butterflies. I rummage around and surprise myself when I find the old frayed notebook where I had carefully written butterfly garden specifications.

The basic recipe for butterfly food is 1 cup of beer (or some rum), 1 cup of brown sugar, 4 tablespoons of molasses and one overripe squashy fruit such as banana or peach. Mash and mix, then let this slush stand overnight to ferment. The resulting paste can be brushed on tree trunks or placed in a large shallow dish on the ground.

Unfortunately, I don’t have brown sugar, or beer, which would start the fermentation process. So I decide to start with the basic salt and manure puddle and simply use a plain overripe banana for feeding them. I also want to provide them with a basking area where they can sunbathe. This spot is easily prepared by spreading pine needles in a cleared area, then placing a log in it. The salt puddle is also easy: one-half cup of rock salt and one gallon of sand. Mix together and top with a sprinkling of manure. Then place the mixture in an indentation in the ground and keep moist.

First, I putter around in the shed to find a lid or dish big enough to hold the salt mixture, so it won’t seep into the soil and kill the surrounding wildflowers. I finally uncover an old plastic trashcan lid that will do perfectly. As I am clearing the space and gathering the pine needles for the basking area, a thought keeps circling through my mind: this is a sacrament. Sacrament—I wonder what that word really means. Later, when I get a chance to look it up, I find it derives from sacramentum, meaning an oath or solemn engagement. A solemn engagement —that fits! I am engaging the butterflies by consciously and joyfully preparing a place for them to relax and to feed.

Just as soon as I finish the butterfly playground, it starts to rain. The mashed banana is washed off the saucer and the salt puddle turns into a yucky swamp. Since the rain continues, I don’t see a single butterfly for days. Then one day in the hazy shade of the early morning light, I see a Spicebush butterfly sitting happily in the basking area.

I’m not surprised that the first visitor is a Spicebush because they continue to be the majority of large butterflies fluttering about. It’s been almost two weeks since their last inundation appeared. They must all eat the same plant and hatch out together. Around the meadow, I can see that nature is preparing for another mass hatching. Big black fuzzy caterpillars are feeding on the little yellow daisy flowers scattered all over the meadows. The first flowers to appear this spring, the daisies are about to complete their life cycle. Many of these host plants have already gone to seed. If the black caterpillars eat only this particular flower, then this is their hay day.

Everywhere I walk, the scene is decorated with flittering fluttering soaring butterflies. I feel covered with smiles of delight. Ordinarily, I just enjoy their movement as they waltz around me, but occasionally I want to get a closer look. This afternoon, as I am walking through the little woodland on the west side of the pond, I notice a small butterfly on the path. The orange and black angelwing type looks familiar, so I lean over to examine a faint line of luminous lilac around its bottom wings. As butterflies are prone to do when one tries to examine them closely, it disappears. Not yet discouraged, I look around, but it has vanished into thin air. Then I spot its intricately decorated wings—sitting on my shoulder. Well, that’s a close enough look. We remain there reveling in the joy of our butterfly-ness for several moments until he takes off for the skies, while I am consigned to remain earthbound.

One morning after my shower, I walk out on the deck to let the sun dry me off. Suddenly, I am swarmed with butterflies. I suppose my wet skin attracted them. In any event, it is certainly an awesome experience. They are all of two smaller varieties; one is an attractive rusty shade and the other has lots of brown spots. The brown one is not a particularly colorful example, but its designs are quite intricate. I feel a particular affinity to it because this type was the first butterfly that hatched from my caterpillar garden. I notice that all the butterflies have been attracted to the deck by a big piece of rotten tomato. The raccoons or fox must have found a bag of compost I had not carried to the garden yet. The contents are strewn around the deck, but the butterflies picked the tomato. There's another possibility for butterfly food.

Yes, I have a caterpillar garden on my kitchen windowsill, so I can watch the caterpillars while I am washing dishes. When I find a caterpillar, I note what plant it is eating, for I will have to feed it that same food for several days. Some of them insist on being fed for a week. To house the caterpillar, in the past I have made boxes out of screening. However, since I don’t have any available, I am using a tall clear cylindrical glass for each caterpillar, supplied with a sturdy twig for climbing and hanging. I place the caterpillar inside with his host food, then cap the top with cheesecloth and a rubber band. The caterpillar chomps away until it feels the urge to weave a cocoon around itself if it is to be a moth, or convert himself into a chrysalis if it is to be a butterfly.

Then comes the hard part—the caterpillar has an inborn instinct to travel. I suppose this is some kind of protection so that they all won’t be hanging on the same plant when they hatch out. Anyway, the traveling instinct is quite inbred, and that’s the reason for the cheesecloth cover. However, I find it is not sturdy enough to contain the big black fuzzy caterpillar, for, as it turns out, he is strong enough to worm his way out of the cheesecloth, leaving behind a big gaping hole.

I’ve found another hint in butterfly hatching is that they usually hatch at dawn. I may see a twinge of movement in the evening and the chrysalis may start to change color, but the butterfly will not come out until early morning light. Of course, I can’t say that this is a rule, but it has always been my experience.

To see a butterfly emerge from its tiny paper-thin chrysalis is to be a spectator in one of the finest miracles of nature. At first, it appears to be only like a skinny wasp. However, within minutes, it pumps up its wings, so that they begin to unfold and expand. The process is beyond comprehension. Even while I’m standing and watching, it’s hard to believe. With each butterfly hatching, I am truly partaking in a solemn engagement—a sacrament.