The View from the Treehouse

Somewhere in the woods of New Hampshire stands an empty treehouse. Its bunks have yet to give slumber to small people, its spy holes yet to detect enemy advances, its shingles yet to gray from their first winter. Completed at summer's end, the treehouse remained fixed to its pines as the family station wagon disappeared down the road on Labor Day, taking hostage its little residents.

It is said that, on top of its obvious altitude advantage, this treehouse confers extraordinary sight to anyone who peers out from within. Much like the wise worm in "The Big Brag," the visitor to the treehouse finds her vision able to bend with the curvature of the earth in any direction. Early this morning a Monarch has fluttered into the treehouse for a rest. The butterfly remembers the kindness of the little people who once climbed here when they caught her but decided to let her go. She looks down the road in the direction of their departure. With dizzingly clarity, she finds she can see for hundreds of miles, past bridges, highways, commuter rails, barges and skyscrapers...

Their green car comes into view first. Double-parked for street cleaning in Brooklyn, New York, the car wears a rubber "Bumper Badger" against urban assault. It appears the little people have abandoned their leafy residence for a brick one wedged among matching ones. The brook where the little people caught fish and frogs has given way to concrete sidewalks that pinch the roots of trees.

She finds the little people sulking at the breakfast table. Sweaty, shaggy heads are now washed and shorn. Bare feet now wear new school shoes. No meandering this morning -- it's all rush rush rush to meet the F Train. The little people look stressed as they join the jostle. On closer look, the big people look a little stressed too. Even the four-legger looks bewildered, overwhelmed by a million smells he'd forgotten during his country sojourn.

Their migratory distress fills the Monarch with dread. This is more than she wanted to see. She has never known anything but the drifty days of summer in New Hampshire, but she knows she too must migrate. She flutters out of the treehouse and the vision is gone. Overhead the great blue heron soars from the pond to Blow-Me-Down. Wild turkeys nibble in the grass. The Monarch nibbles some milkweed to calm herself. But a breeze brushes her wings and she knows its time. She lets go and it lifts her.

All day she flies over green hills giving way to gray grids. The sun rolls over her from port to starboard. As night approaches the wind dies and she drops, exhausted, into an endless tangle of lights and piercing sounds. She doesn't smell milkweed anywhere. At last she finds a honeysuckle bush clinging to a chain link fence where she stops to rest and drops off to sleep.

As the sun rises again, a familiar sound awakens her: The voices of her little people! In helmets, they fly down the sidewalk on shiny metal scooters ahead of the four-legger, who is unhappily tied to one of big people by a harness contraption. The butterfly flutters her wings with excitement. They see her too!

"Mommy, it's the Monarch! Let's catch it!"
We don't have a net, the big person explains, and we don't want to damage its wings. Let's just say hello.
"Hi, butterfly! Hello!" they shout. The Monarch and the little people gaze at each other for a single moment that holds every happy memory of summer.

Then the busy little people scoot away, chattering, "Mommy, why do they call it a butterfly anyway? That's a dumb name. She doesn't fly butter, does she? We should call her a Flutterby..."

The Monarch opens her wings and lets the wind carry her away.