Oh look, a butterfly.
Hazel moves in close to examine the soft brownish bug fluttering past her line of sight. She isn’t afraid of anything with wings. “Anything that flies must have a light heart,” she says. I ask her about wasps. “They only sting if they have to. Otherwise they just buzz around humming to themselves,” she states plainly. There’s no reasoning with her once she’s made up her mind.
She moves like a gangly panther, all fours, each hand and foot placed softly. Deliberate with her movements, the only goal is getting closer to the wild creature. An oblong insect, powdered and triangular, its fuzzy head a chocolate brown peeping from under dull brown spotted wings. Probably just a Common Buckeye. However the chance to discover a Great Spangled Fritillary would be something to talk about. Her dad started teaching her the different types of winged insects before he left for work last week. Crawling across the back lawn, Hazel doesn’t mind her dress in the grass or knees in the dirt.
The goal is to observe her quarry while remaining out of sight as long as possible. It’s easy with people, they never notice anything. Nature is a different story. In a world where she is hundreds of times normal size, it’s like a mountain sneaking up on an anthill. Her gentle pawing on the ground might register as an earthquake to the fragile creature. Sometimes she feels guilty for invading the insect’s existence, wondering if invertebrates feel fear. Still, her purpose must be honored – scientific exploration requires moderate anxiety. The little brown triangle takes flight and Hazel freezes. First rule of a good observer, don’t start pursuing something until you know where it’s going.
Fluttering over the chain-link fence at the back of the lot, Hazel immediately moves to the side gate. If it goes past the bushes before she gets to the other side it will be lost in the brush. She turns to check for a sign of its movement. From this distance the tiny beast is barely visible in the spring air. She dashes through the open gate and tears across the gravel driveway. Slipping at the corner, she grabs the corner post of the fence to saves herself from a fall. Of course this flings her wide from the fence line and she loses all sight of the fluttery object of her attention. Alas, she must start from the beginning again. Perpetual plight of the intrepid explorer.
Turning west toward the setting sun, Hazel heads toward the power lines. A huge swath of land clear cut down to the grass, it’s the closest thing to a meadow in Hazel’s world. Should be a good place to spot butterflies. Monolithic steel towers string wires across miles of suburbs, promising uninterrupted electricity for basic needs like cable TV and the internet. A serene area faintly humming with unseen energy, Hazel’s mother says people don’t go near power lines because there’s a myth it gives you cancer. They bought this house because the power lines make it cheaper. Fear is a powerful force, especially when it comes to money.
Underneath the steel towers the hum of electricity is drowned out by katydids and distant traffic. Today Hazel hears something new. A yipping sound. Almost like mewling or maybe a baby bird! Converting back to stealth mode she takes a wide berth toward the sound knowing that approaching from behind something will only scare it away. A square concrete platform anchoring one corner of the tower impedes her view. Stalking low, on two legs for speed, Hazel carefully moves around to her left, sidling sideways slowly. Peeking just around the edge she sees a dark lump moving just below the stone.
Holding her breath so as not to make a sound she wonders what kind of animal has long brown hair. Maybe a fancy dog? The sound stops suddenly and the lump stops moving. Casting about for a hiding spot Hazel dashes for the far leg of the tower. Breathing fast she wonders what sort of wild animal that was.
“What are you doing,” a sniffling voice says flatly. Almost a question, more of an accusation.
Hazel pops up. “Oh, you’re just a girl.”
The pathetic creature’s lip trembles and she starts making the yipping sound again, this time with the added effect of a trembling lower lip. Tears stream down her face rapidly andthe sad girl just stares at Hazel.
“What is wrong with you?” Blunt and gentle like a shepherd’s crook, the perpetual laughter in Hazel’s eyes softens her directness.
The sad girl stops crying. Staring silently again.
“Well, go on. Tell me,” Hazel gets impatient, “Are you dumb or something?”
The sad girl frowns and shakes her head emphatically.
“Oh. Well,” already bored, Hazel’s eyes cast about for a distraction, “I’m out here hunting butterflies.
Sad girl’s expression turns quizzical, “You can’t find butterflies out here,” she states matter-of-factly between sniffles.
Hazel immediately stomps her foot and declares, “My mom says I can do anything I set my mind to!” No one has ever told her she can’t do something.
Without much change in her voice, the sad girl says, “Well, then I suppose you just won’t. Butterflies live where there’s flowers and shade.”
Confused and flustered Hazel can’t decide if she likes this purveyor of negative information. She scrunches her nose, puts her fists on her hips and exhales sharply.
Suddenly the sad girl busts out in raucous laughter.
“What’s so funny!”
Catching her breath a little the other girl gasps, “You just snorted like a horse!”
“I did not!” Hazel scrunches her nose again with a humph and realizes she just did it again. The other girl laughs all over again and Hazel can’t help but start to giggle herself. Decision made, the two girls became friends in that instant. After they stop laughing Hazel remembers to be polite, “My name is Hazel, what’s yours?”
“I’m Ernestine. But you can call me Ernie.” And then her nose started bleeding.