I come to a sign that says Monarch Boardwalk. I picture butterflies on rollercoasters, butterflies on Ferris wheels, mama monarchs pushing green, black and white caterpillars in strollers.
And I see Dad in cargo shorts, a golf shirt and a U.S. Navy ballcap. He stops at the sign and reads it out loud.
“Well, let’s see… ‘The orange and black monarch butterfly, known scientifically as Danaus plexippus, migrates every year to Monarch Grove, a preserve at Natural Bridges State Beach.’”
I stand next to him, waiting patiently as he finishes the paragraph. I’m certain the child version of me was much less understanding - a ten-year-old needs only so much prologue to the Grand Canyon or Old Faithful - but this is different. My dad has always enjoyed these performances, but even more now that he’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. This is a way to demonstrate that he’s still in the early stages, that he can still give a decent reading of a park sign - even the Latin words.
This little program was dreamed up by my big sister, who thought my stepmom could use a little time off from Dad, who was getting cantankerous and slovenly. We’re calling it Dates with Dad, and taking turns dreaming up entertaining afternoons. As a huge fan of Dad’s home county, I suspected that he had never been to see the monarchs, and I was right.
Problem was, there were none. We stood on the viewing deck, slowly rotating, like a couple of well-behaved drunks, and could not locate a single speck of orange. We had come too late; the monarchs had headed north.
Still, it was a nice stroll. We stopped at a spot next to a lagoon to watch a snowy egret prowling the lily pads. My dad sighed and said, “You know, I thought I could at least make it to ninety.”
But it was not the Alzheimer’s that got him. A long-ago case of scarlet fever had damaged his heart. Now it was leaking, and he was too old and fragile for surgery. My family said that at least he didn’t have to go through the ravages of Alzheimer’s. I’m a little grateful that he didn’t have to go through the pandemic and my nephew’s suicide.
Today is different. It’s an artfully sunny oceanside afternoon, with just enough wispy clouds to frame the blue. Halfway down the boardwalk, an elderly couple sits on a bench next to a sign reading Please be quiet - monarchs at play.
At the end of the long descent, a group of eco-tourists gathers in a library excitement, conferring with a woman in park service clothing. At first I assume she’s playing bouncer, limiting the number of patrons who can board the main deck. In fact, she’s got a telephoto camera trained on a high cluster of monarchs, and her visitors are gathered at the screen. I walk past them to the viewing deck.
In the sunlight, the leaves of a small tree are popping bright green as monarchs fit from twig to twig, gathering nectar. Above them, in a large eucalyptus with its familar blue-gray leaves, hundreds of butterflies huddle on the Chosen Branch, looking like thickly set orange and black leaves in a constant flutter.
After peering at this marvel for a few minutes, I lower my gaze to let my neck rest. I leave the viewing deck in search of better angles, and just then I hear an excited chattering. I look up to see that dozens of monarchs have taken flight, scribbling the blue gaps like motorized confetti.
And I think, Yes, that’s how it feels. If succession holds, each of us will experience orphanhood. But it doesn’t have to be dismal. One is no longer beholden to the unique supervisory power of parents. It’s as if the universe is whispering in one’s ear: It’s all up to you now, buddyboy.
My eyes have taken in all the butterflies they can hold, so I take my leave. I am met by a long line of second-graders, barely able to contain their need to shout or squeal. I am grateful to have avoided this imminent melee, but I do feel like handing them little track-and-field batons. Here, it’s your turn now.
A couple of things. These eucalyptus trees that monarchs so love are not native to California. They were shipped in from Australia to be used as windbreaks. Two: it takes three to four generations of monarchs to complete the northward migration from these wintering grounds to the Pacific Northwest. And yet, the great-great grandchildren of these very butterflies will return precisely to this little grove in Santa Cruz. This blows my mind.
Michael J. Vaughn is the author of Punks for the Opera, Mermaids’ Tears and 27 other novels, available at Amazon.com. The image is from B. Smith’s 1970 painting, formerly owned by LCDR Harold J. Vaughn.
