Midnight Train to Georgia

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My name is Georgia.  Mrs. Dahl asked me to tell my story.  I hesitated, only because I have just nine days left to live.  Time is precious.  Writing an autobiography as a guest blogger wasn’t on my bucket list.  My biological clock is tick, tick, ticking.  I need to find my soul mate like, yesterday.  It is so very difficult to find the right guy these days.  Well, ANY guy for that matter… Oh well, more on that later.

Here’s my story…

I arrived on Mrs. Dahl’s doorstep orphaned and abandoned.  There were six of us in all; six tiny, vulnerable, hungry orphans.  I got to know a couple of them pretty well.  Bob was the most friendly and the class clown.  Bob and I hung out together a lot.  I remember how my new mom looked as she pulled me up close to her face for the first time.  She smiled (cause she’s weird that way).  Then she got distracted by something or other -- I swear she’s a little ADD and A LOT blond – and set us down on the art table.  I heard her mutter under her breath as she walked away, “I’ll have to find those instructions and read them later… ”  OK, that worried me some.  Surely there is some sort of vetting process for adoptive parents.  Man, I sure hope so.  I wasn’t sure what to think at that moment.  I only knew I was HUNGRY.  So incredibly, insatiably, gnawingly, hungry.  “Where does she keep the Pop Tarts?”  That’s what I wanted to know. 

I wasn’t related to the other orphans, at least I don’t think I am.  I guess one can never be quite sure, especially when one doesn’t even know who their parents are.  I guess mom and dad just did “the deed” and then went their separate ways.  Casual sex has its consequences.  I guess I am what you would consider a “consequence.”  I was born outdoors and then left to fend for myself.  I know what you’re thinking.  My parents should be arrested for callous neglect.  Or at least turned into Social Services.  No, it’s OK, really.  This was my destiny.  I know how it is and nothing can change that.  I am not bitter and I do not harbor resentment.  I don’t have time for negative emotions.  Nine days, remember?

So back to my first day with Mrs. Dahl.  I ate everything I could lay my hands on.  I mean everything.  And it must have been nutritious stuff because I grew.  Man, oh man, did I grow!  To the point that (Ok this is going to sound really weird), but my skin actually felt a little… I don’t know how to describe it exactly, but my skin felt tight.  Yeah, I know.  Freaky, huh?  So I’m sitting around wondering how to get a pizza delivered, and BOOM!  My skin splits open, from the top of my head, right down my abdomen, and clear to my feet.  Holy shemoly, I was FREAKING!!  Whaaaat is haaaaapening????  Am I in a Twilight Zone episode?  Is an alien gonna’ pop out of my gut?  But then it hit me.  I felt… really….. GOOD.  Yeah, baby…. Oooh.  After stretching and stepping out of my old creepy, gross, disgusting skin, I located that Papa John’s number and put my feet up until the doorbell rang.  Then I ate the entire pizza by myself.

So that’s pretty much how my days went.  I’d gorge myself until I wanted to hurl, then the old skin would pop like a natural casing hotdog on the grill.  And every stinkin’ time it felt GREAT!!!  It’s like unzipping your pants after grazing at the Hungry Heifer all-you-can-eat buffet.  Ahhhhh…. relief.   Now, who’s up for Chinese??

And then, on day seven, I had a sudden urge to climb.  Ever see Close Encounters of a Third Kind?  You know, where Richard Dryfuss creates this huge mud thing in his house because he just HAS to?  It was kinda like that.  So I climbed. Right to the top. And then sticky stuff started coming out of my body and I’m suspended there, for like a day.  I can’t reach my food, I can’t get back down, I can’t do ANYTHING.  I felt like a dork.  So I sang a lot.  You know, stuff like you sing at camp.  Oh, and some Earth, Wind, and Fire.  I love R & B.  It helped pass the time until… I didn’t know what.  I didn’t know if I would die up there from hunger or if the fire department would come and rescue me like a kitten in a tree.  I just had no idea what to expect.  So I kept singing.  I was on the second verse of, “September,” when things got shoved into overdrive on this wild and wacky adventure.  I mean WEIRD stuff.

Suddenly, my skin splits AGAIN and now I’ve got this strange, but kinda’ beautiful green undercoat thing goin’ on.  And then the darn thing starts to harden.  It’s like I’m being imprisoned in my own body.  I know I’m always saying that I could use more time to myself, but this was really over the top.  Now I’m completely encased in myself, like a little kid zipped tight in their sleeping bag. 

I’m not that crazy about the dark either.  Or tight spaces.  I had both goin’ on in spades.  Now I can’t breathe.  I think I’m hyperventilating!  Quick, I need a paper bag!  Breathe, Georgia, BREATHE!!  Go to your happy place and try to relax…

When my heart stopped racing like the pistons on a Corvette, I took stock in my predicament.  I put my hand to my chin cuz I was thinking, right?  And then I realized with horror that where my hand had formerly been, there was nothing more than a sticky, oozy glob.  I… was… LIQUIFYING!!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!  Somebody wake me from this zombie horror nightmare!!!

And then everything went black.  I must have passed out or something.  I have no idea how much time elapsed.  I’m guessing a week or more.  Was I dead?  Not sure.  Maybe.  Nothing makes sense anymore.  All I know is, I awoke and saw a thin ribbon of light shining into my dark cave.  Light?  Am I free now? 

I felt odd.  REALLY odd.  And really light.  I wriggled a little to get a better look at the light shaft, when all of a sudden, my surroundings opened wide.  I blinked in the harsh light, but decided escape was now or never.  Pushing with all my might, I broke free of my prison and was now fully outside the sleeping bag thingy and clinging to a net.  I looked around with wonder.  Where WAS I?  I took in my surroundings.  I was in some sort of mesh enclosure and there were other creatures with me.  Two, in fact.  Beautiful, totally graceful creatures wearing the greatest outfits ever.  And there were also three green sleeping bag things hanging from a hook.  Was this heaven?  Hell?  Purgatory?

I began to lean towards the hell option when I realized that I was being watched.  I could feel the stares before I saw who or what it was.  Chills ran up and down my spine.  I wasn’t being watched by the fashionistas with me.  No, these were childish faces with enormous eyes, messy hair, and spaghetti sauce on their faces.  Were these monsters?  Ogres?  They weren’t of my species, that much I knew.  They were creeping me OUT!  Those big, unblinking eyes were pressed against the mesh and they were giggling and shouting things like, “Mrs. Dahl, another one emerged!!”  “Mrs. Dahl, it’s flying!!”  “MRS. DAHL, its drinking nectar from the cantaloupe!!”  “IT’S DRINKING NECTAR, MRS. DAHL!!”  Why did every syllable from their mouths have to be at 120 decibels??

Wait… nectar??

Now I’m thinking about some pretty pressing needs.  I am RAVENOUS.  I look around frantically and spot winged creatures sitting atop strawberry slices and orange cantaloupe chunks.  FOOD!!!  Now how to get down there??  I’m a climber, not a flyer.  As I sat pondering this dilemma, I realized I am hovering.  How is this possible?  I can feel the soft rush of air around my body and the chills start down my spine again.  No, it cannot be.  This is not happening.  I’m a climber.  I climb.  I have little feet, not…. Not WINGS!!  Holy cow, I HAVE WINGS!!  Can I move them?  How do you make wings move?   I’m trying too hard, I think.  Just relax, Georgia.  Just go with it.  Be the wings.  Yes, yes!  Hee hee… HOLY COW, I. Am. FLYING!!!  This completely rocks.  I might join the circus or something.  No, wait.  I can’t.  I only have nine days left to live.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I suddenly have a craving for canteloupe juice.  Mmmmmm…. it’s like the best stuff I’ve ever tasted.  It’s like nectar.  Wait, it IS nectar.  No wonder nectar gets so much positive buzz. Nectar is delicious! 

I’m sitting there hogging an entire orange chunk of fruit and eyeing a nearby strawberry, when a winged creature lands softly next to me.  “How you doin?” he asks amiably.  I stare.  This voice I know.  My mind is racing with options and possibilities, none of them making any sense.  But that voice… it HAS to be.  “Why you starin’ at me?,”  that voice asks a little defensively.  I have to ask.  I have to know.  It is not possible, but I have to know.  “BOB??” I ask incredulously.  “Yeah….” He answers hesitantly.  “Do I know…?”  Suddenly his eyes grow wide and his antennae stand at attention.  “GEORGIA??”  We just stare at each other, not comprehending.  “How…?”  “Who…?” 

The next days speed by as we enjoy our new wings and all the nectar we can sip through our proboscis.  We gradually began to accept our new look and even got a little narcisstic about ourselves.  The flattery flowed between us like spilled chocolate milk in the lunchroom.  “Nice colors on the wings, girlfriend.”  “Ha!  Oh, Bob, you are such a charmer!”  Then more giggling and flirting.  You know how it goes.  I think we could all feel the pressure to reproduce building.  We knew the clock was ticking.  Time to bust out of this joint.

For one thing, we were getting really tired of being watched all the time.  We couldn’t do anything without those big eyes and grinning mouths in our personal space at all times.  It gets worse.  Not only were we the center of attention, for like, seven hours a day, we were actually suspended above some sort of worktable in a room with painted clouds on the walls and a fake tree in the corner. It was like living The Truman Show.  The only upside was that the lady the little ogres referred to as “Mrs. Dahl” brought us fresh fruit chunks everyday.  So I guess she was OK.  Kinda’ had chaotic hair and hippie leanings, but she was cool.

Me and my friends met in small huddled groups and whispered ideas to one another of how to escape our see-through jail cell.  Ideas were bandied about, and then discarded.  We were too light to rip the mesh and not strong enough to unzip the top.  Days blended into nights and then back to days again.  And still we were trapped.  Our situation was growing more desperate by the hour.  Bob was bouncing a rubber ball against the wall of our cell one day, pondering more options when suddenly an earthquake struck.  The whole enclosure shook violently.  Were we going to die imprisoned forever,   never to have known the sweet freedom of the outdoors with its blue skies and gentle winds?  We had just days left to reproduce, and now it looked as though that dream would never be realized. 

It was our darkest hour.

But then, we were suddenly being carried up stairs, the jarring chatter of the little ogres a cacophony of noise.  And then….

And then....

We were outside!  The smells, sounds, and sights were overpowering.  I wept.  I noticed Bob was a little misty too.  “Allergies,” he tried to deflect with.  Whatever.... 

Our mesh prison was placed gently on the sweet, green grass of a large field and then the faces were there again, saying words of parting and undying love and devotion.  Each ogre was allowed to say something in turn and a few goodbye notes were dropped in carefully from the top. 

I heard Mrs. Dahl say, “Are you ready?”  and a loud chorus of cheers erupted.  Then the Zipper of Incarceration came apart and her giant hand gently scooped a compatriot towards the top of the enclosure.  And… floop!  Suddenly one of our own was gone!  I pressed my face to the mesh and watched in disbelief as she spread her beautiful wings and soared to the heavens.  The Little Ogres shouted with joy and flapped their gangly arms and chased after my friend, encouraging her on. 

My emotions were a raging mix of conflicting forces.  I was so happy for her!  But so  heartbroken that I was still trapped.  I wanted to soar too!!  Just as I was ready to scream my fear into the wind, the giant hand appeared again and scooped another pal towards the endless blue of the sky and freedom.  Again the ogres screamed with delight and chased another chum into the heavens.  Mrs. Dahl was snapping pictures like fury and smiling that goofy smile of hers.  She seemed inordinately pleased with herself.

Then the top opened again and again and again.  Bob was next.  He looked at me with something of a twinkle in his beady little eyes, and simply said, “See ya on the outside.”  And then he was gone too.

I waited.  And prayed.  I knew my time had come.  And then as if in a surreal dream, the top opened wide, the blue sky beckoned, and I felt my wings beating a song of release, matching the beating of my tiny heart.  I felt my body rise, clearing the enclosure, and I sailed into the winds.  I was free!  I had never known such joy.

I was only vaguely aware of the ogres clapping and cheering my release and running beneath me, their voices growing more distant and finally fading into a soft hum of giggles and shameless joy. 

I smiled and stretched my breathtaking wings to their fullest extent.  And just as I cleared the maple at the edge of the field, I caught a brief glimpse of Mrs. Dahl.  She was looking straight at me and mouthing the words, “Be free…”

I caught a wind current and soared over a freshly planted wheat field, eager to find a mate and reproduce. 

Now... where did Bob go???

Epilogue:  I don't purport to know the thought processes of butterflies, but the rest is largely true.  We watched six tiny Painted Lady caterpillars go through the entire process, culminating in metamorphosis.  The Darlings each adopted a butterfly and gave it a name, which was dutifully recorded on the adoption papers.  Georgia and Bob were two of those names. On the last day of school, we paraded out to the playground and released them with as much fanfare as we could muster. It was a beautiful day, both literally and figuratively.  

And if you see a Painted Lady butterfly alight on a leaf or flower, please say hello from the Darlings.  It may be one of ours…

The Darlings wrote goodbye notes to their adopted butterflies

The custodian made this tiny top hat and briefcase for the departing butterflies

The children joyfully chased each butterfly upon release and cheered their flight

A few stuck around and graciously allowed my Darlings to get up close and personal

One student hands a feasting Painted Lady to another student without disrupting the meal in the least

Utterly captivated and intrigued

Such great detail of a Painted Lady sipping dandelion nectar

There's Something About Her

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She flits into my classroom early in the morning.  Although she lives within walking distance of the school, she usually arrives before other students and a few teachers as well.  Large schools have policies about that sort of thing and they shoo the Early Birds into the cafegymatorium or cattle chute them into a hot breakfast line. 

Not us.   

Eventually an aide will take them outdoors to play in order to give we teachers those last precious moments of day’s preparation.  But there are no rules about colonizing them into regions unknown the moment their feet cross the threshold.

She is not one of my first graders, but rather a student from an upper elementary grade.  She habitually walks on her toes and it creates the stealth of a cat on lush grass.  I generally do not know she is there until she is nearly upon me.  I am endlessly surprised that she never startles me.  She waits for me to acknowledge her presence and then she greets me with a never changing, “Hi, Mrs. Dahl.”  She smiles her sad little smile, but behind her cat-shaped eyes I detect the sparkle of intelligent wit .  I am usually in the middle of laying out seat work, or entering grades, or trying to answer a parent’s email in those last eye-of-the-hurricane moments before the Darlings come spilling through the doorway, all jabbering simultaneously and in desperate need to tell me about what they dreamed about, or what they had for supper the night before, or their newest video game victory.  It is my favorite part of the day, when they are energetic and fresh for learning.  There is generally a note or two shyly laid on my desk like offerings for capricious gods declaring their endless love for me, along with stick figure drawings.  I can always pick out myself in primitive artwork.  I am the tall one with the chaotic hair. 

And so it is sometimes difficult to fully focus on my early morning apparition.  Her next words are also unvaried and never fail to soften my heart a little and pull my eyes to her face and my attention to her words.  “I brought you something.”  “What is it today, dear?”  Only then will she allow herself to enter my personal space.  It is akin to the king raising his scepter for a peasant to enter his presence. 

Her long, slender fingers then open gracefully to reveal whatever treasure grabbed her attention that day. It may be a feather, or a leaf, or a frog, or beetle.  She is famous for her ceaseless collecting of interesting rocks.  She has donated countless chunks of quartz to my science discovery shelf and even a few treasured fossils. 

Yesterday she placed three green bean seeds lightly in my hand.  Today a dozen dried kernels of corn and lettuce seeds. “I thought your students could plant these in their soil (we are in the middle of a huge thematic soil unit) and see if they’re good for growing stuff.”  She paused, waiting for my encouragement to continue.  I give it.  “That is a great idea,” I assure warmly. 

Now that the charitable deed is done, she wanders around my classroom thoughtfully, noticing things that most people miss.  Her senses are oblivious to the common nuances of everyday living.  She struggles with finding her niche in the society of her class.  She does not seem to notice or alter her behavior when her peers teasingly point out her differences to others her age.  She is offended at times, yes, but sees no need to change her foundational self in order to fit someone else’s mold.  She is unashamedly true to herself.  I cannot help but admire that a little.

The opposite pendulum swing is that she seems to be attuned to things most people are too busy or noisy to notice.  She walks outside with her head down, always. Not because she is disconsolate or lacks confidence.  No, rather, she is engrossed with what amazing discovery she might find at that moment.  She is the most aware nature lover I have ever met.  It is appreciated by few.  Maybe no one.  I’m not sure.  

Maybe that’s why she brings her bounty to me.  She knows I will exclaim over the half robin’s egg, or the ladybug in the cup.  I identify with her, this child who struggles to find her place in society, but who butterflies follow and the Sun kisses with appreciation.  I understand her peaceful coexistence with nature.  As a child, I too walked with my head down and stooped to pick up a pink quartz stone or a clover.  I would climb every tree in our sprawling yard and sit quietly for hours listening to the birds and watching squirrels chase up and down trunks.  I would rather be outside than anything and I couldn’t get enough of the wonders of nature.  If my neighbor and best friend was busy and couldn’t play, no worries.  I’ve got trees to climb.

I haven’t changed in this regard.  I am still daily amazed at how wonderful this big world is.  I still look up and wonder how the geese know where to go and when.  I smile that green grass is emerging from still cold ground.  I think about gravity and interesting clouds and spotted fawns and how my tomato seeds can lie dormant for decades and then rise from the dead, given the right set of circumstances.  I am flat out blown away by these irrevocable truths. 

My little friend is too, I think.  I don’t know how much she knows or cares about God, but I’m pretty sure she’s a fan, like me.  Like me, she finds her sanctuary at the top of an oak.

I turned back to my grading this morning as she gazed at my soil sample display and the praying mantis tank and the tray of rocks with magnifying glasses beside them and I heard her sigh in appreciation.  “Mrs. Dahl, your room is like a dreamland of science.”  I beamed.  For a moment we basked in the shared appreciation of nature and I laughed a happy laugh.  She is a quasi-hippie in training.

I have small hopes for this child and myself.

I hope I always find time to make this small, daily connection with her.  She stopped coming for a while and I found I missed her and her gathered treasures.  When I told her so in the hallway one day, she was incredulous.  “You do??”  The very next morning she was back as if no time had elapsed.  Her silent approach, standard greeting, and proffered gifts were all there.  When she left this morning, I carefully added the corn kernels to the small dish with the bean seeds.  I would share them with my first graders during reading rug time.  She took the time to bless our class with them.  They will be graciously discussed in turn. 

I hope my students catch her love of nature.  I hope they learn to see things others miss.  I hope they are never in too big a rush to spot a treasure and lean down to pick it up for examination.  I hope they climb a few trees and listen to the birds’ song for the sheer joy of it.  I hope they learn to recognize the beauty all around them.  I hope the setting sun takes their breath away everyday of their lives.  I hope they never stop wondering or asking questions about the things they see and feel and hear.  I hope they are amazed by something each and every day.  I hope they catch the spirit of my little friend.

I think the world could use a few more quasi-hippies…