My earliest musical partner was my brother John who celebrates his birthday today. This web log is not so much about the music as it is about someone who helped to release the music in me. Happy Birthday, John….

DAYS OF THE BUTTERFLIES

I guess the season might have been termed early autumn, though in Savannah autumn had little to distinguish it from late summer, or from almost any other time of the year for that matter. Most of the trees were pines or live oaks, evergreens that changed little in appearance from season to season. Spanish moss hung from the available limbs of most trees, lending a certain homogeneity to those South Georgia scenes.

But in early fall, if one looked closely, there were some differences. For one thing, cleared fields were filled with flowering weeds and shrubs. In my memory, these wildflowers were not the bright, well-defined flora found in some climates; rather, these were pale, scrubby things hanging on in dry, sandy, sun-hardened soil. What made these fields interesting to us back in those days, however, were the butterflies.

Now my brother and I were not people who went around just admiring the beauties of nature. We saw ourselves as amateur scientists, and we had discovering to do. Oh, about my brother. I came from a large family with siblings spaced in ages like telephone poles on a highway. There was a bit of daylight between most of us. For that reason, different ones of us were usually doing different and age-appropriate things. But, at least for a time, I did a good bit of hanging out with my nearest sibling in age, a brother, a little over 5 years older than I. In many ways he was my mentor – a little bigger, stronger, smarter than I, but someone with whom I shared substance. I tried to be like him, and I imagined that I was like him in some interior way.

I think the insect collection was part of a school project my brother was involved with. However, since the project was largely done at home, I could fully participate – and did. My brother had a killing jar for the bugs we would collect. Today in my mind it sounds a little morbid, but then it seemed efficient and practical – a jar with a false bottom, and a substrate saturated with carbon tetrachloride. Our specimens would flutter for but a moment then take on perfect stillness.

For the purpose of actually collecting the insects, we traveled a little distance from our house to a field that today is covered with houses but then was an expanse of scrubby weeds, thorny vines, and scraggly shrubs. Our collecting was never done in a haphazard fashion; we employed a field guide with pictures and descriptions of our intended quarry. We sought the pale orangish fritillaries. We tracked butterflies of bright yellow and deepest metallic blue. But we most arduously sought the stunning monarch butterfly and his clever mimic, the viceroy. The monarch seemed to be, as its name implied, a regal visitor before whom the other moths and butterflies were mere vassals. A monarch would perch on a milkweed so gracefully, so royally, expanding its wings in such a manner that its beautiful garb would catch the fullness of the afternoon sun and seem to shimmer with perfection. We were ever so careful as we tracked and captured our prey in fine-meshed butterfly nets.

Later, we mounted and identified all the members of our collection in an attractive display, every single one representing so much more than a diminutive mindless invertebrate. Each trophy brought with it tales of an exotic world where some members avoided potential predators by distinctive markings or by pretending to be another creature known to taste bad. Every one had its own preferences and reasons for being in that particular field of scrubby weeds and afternoon sun. Each had its own grace and meaning so independent of the social world in which we were commonly involved. More importantly, every one of them represented a collaboration between myself and my brother that I remember these many years later.

I don’t remember how long the process of insect collection lasted, a couple of weeks maybe. But the sensations linger much longer – the warmth of the afternoon sun, the smell of scrubby vegetation, and the distinctive odor of diluted carbon tetrachloride. What I also remember, though, is that I seemed to be exactly where I was supposed to be, doing exactly what I was supposed to do. And through that experience I learned something real about how to meaningfully encounter the world, how to smell it, see it, and feel it. With so little effort, I was learning to be me. — Bob Tatum

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Sound Traveler will be traveling to Savannah this weekend to participate in the wedding of Rachel Lauren Victor to Joshua Isaac Goldsmith. We wish these two every happiness and blessing as they share their future together.

To respond to this post, click on the title, scroll down and tell your own story.

6 Comments to “SongTravelin’: 2.16.11 — Days of the Butterflies”

• February 16, 2011 at 10:01 am
  Tyler says:

  I used to have a butterfly collection. It seems strange now that we used to do that. Nice story.
• February 16, 2011 at 11:29 am
  Pamela Ramey Tatum says:

  i thoroughly enjoyed reading that story… what a wonderful memory. I know John will enjoy it also.
• February 16, 2011 at 12:20 pm
  Ellie Hjemmet says:

  I used to collect praying mantises to watch the mate and munch scenario. It was years after the fact I figured out they were NOT engaged in battle! Just yesterday one of my FB friends, Gretchen, posted an amazing photo she had taken of a yellow jacket eating a grasshopper, started at the head and eating down leaving a pale green skeletal remains. Still fascinating after all these years!
  I particularly love your blog today. Thanks, Bob!
• February 16, 2011 at 12:22 pm
  Ellie Hjemmet says:

  And HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO JOHN!!!
• February 16, 2011 at 4:57 pm
  Patty says:

  I agree with Tyler, because it does sound strange. Although I never hunted butterflies, I sought out plenty of other critters – most notably the poor turtles who wandered through our yard that were required to be guests of my turtle “hotel” for an unspecified period of time.

  But, of course, this writing isn’t really about butterflies. Bob’s writing is always about something much deeper than it originally appears to be. It’s about connections. The Tatum family is expert at keeping those connections strong.

  Happy Birthday, John! Enjoy every minute of it!
• February 17, 2011 at 10:22 am
  Terry says:

  I read your blog. You take my breath away! Beautiful memories shared with such talent that we are transposed to a different place in time – a magical place deep within. Thank you for sharing this talent and memories with us.