Essays

Moseying: Living La Vida Llanero

A garden can heal grief
August 31, 2003

I had come to the shade at the pond to do some reading. As I took my seat, I glanced at the title “Cultures of Habitat; on Nature, Culture and Story,” by Gary Paul Nabhan. Not wanting to yet tax my brain, I left the book in my lap. For ten minutes, I sat quietly, watching birds return to the shade as they forgot my presence.

With beak open and orange eye glaring, with neck arched in defiance, and with legs resolutely spread-eagled, the curve-billed thrasher postured on a contorted branch of the coyote willow. “It is 100 degrees in the shade, and in the sun it is twice is hot, the sun glare is blinding.” I gave voice to the bird’s attitude. “Do I dare enter – I don’t trust your kind, human, you are big, you are loud, you are dumb, you are blind.” If the bird could speak, invective would be inflected, for sure!

I sat in the shade on the south side of the south pond at the Gone Native Arboretum. I could hear the occasional metallic creak emanating from the windmill’s fan, hidden behind the branches of the grove of trees that encircle the pond. I answered the pushy bird’s snotty comment; “The doves have already returned. So have the quail. A dozen of your fussbudget cousin mockingbirds have already joined us here in the shade as well, so why do you have to be so blankety-blank testy?”

A pipevine swallowtail butterfly careened through the trees. The curve-billed thrasher glared at it when butterfly and bird almost collided, shifting his footing and blinking, then becoming quiescent. The butterfly continued swirling, emphatically erratic. Why such crazy behavior in the intense heat – why did it not seek motionlessness as did all of the birds all about me? In my imagination I suddenly heard my father’s voice but I could not understand the words.

The pond was my father’s favorite place. For the last ten years of his life he spent almost every summer afternoon sitting there in the shade, enjoying the breeze. He would read, snooze, or just watch the critters, just as I was doing. In the final year of his life he suffered from the early stages of Alzheimer’s, so he often became lost in his memories. It was here that Deborah and I once heard him talking to his little 3-wheeled cart as if it were the ranch pony of his childhood.

Since my father’s death in January 2000 I have not spent much time at the south pond. This summer, however, I have often been drawn to the pond, compelled to be where my father spent so much time. I have been pruning the trees, hauling dirt and rock to refurbish the landscaping, and transplanting plants.

My father’s passing was a release; for him, for my mother, for me, and for my wife Deborah. The stresses caused by the presence of Alzheimer’s wear everybody out. He daily forgot he could no longer drive his truck. He raged against the physical prison of the limitations of age upon his body. Several times he wished for death when we tried to encourage him to accept the limitations of his physical decline. I had not ever truly completely mourned his passing – because of a feeling of guilt about the sense of release. My mom, Deborah, and I did give the ol’ cowpoke a heck of a send-off, though.

We took his ashes up to the privately owned Crawford’s Ridge (the steepest hill in Midland County) as a glorious winter sunset flamed. Sandhill cranes circled high overhead, his favorite bird song, their sonorous medieval chant, resounding. We played his favorite piece of music, Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries, as I released his ashes to the strong south wind. Cows came traipsing from every direction to stand in a circle around us. The act of the cows was magically fitting – his pastoral upbringing defined much of his self-image. On the way home from our ceremony, my mother announced that the presence of the cows had brought a deep peace to her. “He would have liked that so, so much.”

The thrasher dropped to the rocks below the willow, and hopped down to the water. The butterfly swirled over his head, and then my eyes followed it. Why was it here, now? Why was it flying about in the heat? As soon as I asked the question, I realized that the pond grove is the appropriate habitat for pipevine. I made a mental note to search out some mail order sources on the Internet for several species of the plant genus. Maybe the butterfly was telling me to plant what it needed for egg laying!

Pipevine Swallowtail butterflies, which visit the southern Llano Estacado each growing season, use most species of the Aristolochia genus as their larval food source. If their caterpillars do not eat pipevine (which is not native here on the Llano), they die. Pipevine is inconspicuous to the human eye, even to an avid amateur naturalist, for its habitat is under trees and shrubs in leaf litter and among rocks.

Pipevine is a powerful medicine, long used by Native Americans. It is most often found at archaeological sites, in overhangs used for shelter for thousands of years. Human detritus, consisting of unused plant parts left over after processing, bones of animals, old clothing, and excrement, forms dark humus beneath the overhangs. Pipevine prefers just such a growing medium.

A tiny female fly pollinates pipevine. This fly must suck blood out of rodent ears to reproduce. The small brown and red pipevine bloom resembles a mouse ear and exudes carbon dioxide. Confused by the scent and appearance, the fly enters the bloom and becomes trapped, shaking the bloom’s anthers and dusting its body with the pollen in its frantic efforts to escape. Once free, the fly continues her search for blood, visiting more pipevines before finally finding a mouse. She then deposits her eggs in water that is no more than a light sheen over bare rock.

As I watched the butterfly, my fingers opened the book on my lap. A leopard frog jumped out of the Jamaican sawgrass jungle, missing the butterfly. My father loved the frogs – especially their singing during this, the “moon of fat happy frogs.” It was he that first made me aware of the actions of frogs during the canicula (dog days) of August. “Frogs talk during the day in August. It sounds like they are chuckling over jokes,” he observed. August is hot, and for most animals it is a month to be endured.

My eyes fell upon the open page of the book on my lap – on page 82, to be exact; and my eyes read the following at the very bottom of the page. “the butterfly is a” and I looked to the top of the next page, “manifestation of the soul not only among the Tarahumara, but all the way to Central Mexico, among Nahuatl speakers there.”

My heart translated the words as a sign – the butterfly represented my father. I uncontrollably began weeping, deeply mourning him. Being an observer can create epiphanies of intimacy. The earth and all of its creatures and plants always offer consistent positive reinforcement. The diversity of life all about us will allow connections to be revealed that will heal our souls.