Monarch Butterflies

 

Background Information

For many years my students and I have enjoyed raising monarch butterflies in our classroom. At first glance, they appear to be a good lesson about metamorphosis and life cycles, but there are a great many other lessons we can learn from them, as well. With that in mind, I have led my students in many cross-curricular lessons that developed from our classroom monarchs. As a result, my students have a great fondness and respect for these insects as fellow creatures on our planet.
Interestingly enough, while my students have learned about the butterflies, they have also learned about themselves. They care for the caterpillars, and take great interest in their progress as well as their safety. The students compare the life stages of the monarch to their own, as they grow and change from little children to adults. This appears in prose or poetry most readily as they describe how the animal must feel in its changes. They take great joy in seeing their “little ones” finally emerge from their chrysalids as adults, spread their wings and fly away. Classmates watch Online reports of the gathering flock in Cape May while being vigilant of weather reports that would impact the migratory group. They even pretend they are butterflies flying through all the states along the route, and investigate the many interesting places they would pass on the way to Mexico. It is an excellent learning experience in so many ways.
As a member of the Monarch Teacher Network, I was very fortunate to win a grant to visit the winter refuges of the monarch butterflies in Mexico. The monarch is a creature that is shared by three countries and varying cultures since it migrates all the way from Canada and the Eastern United States to Mexico in the fall, and returns to our northern climes in the summer. This flight of thousands of miles by insects that have never made the trip before is quite a feat, and it is still not completely understood by scientists.
Unfortunately, monarch butterflies are losing habitat on both ends of their migratory route. In the United States, due to land development they are losing milkweed, the only food the caterpillar eats. In Mexico, the oyamel fir trees that are the winter roost of the butterflies are being illegally harvested and sold for lumber. Another problem monarchs face is that there are often cold temperatures in the mountains of Mexico that decimate the population. Adding these factors together, there are some scientists who think that in a short number of years there may be no more migrating monarchs.
It is my hope to nurture awareness and affection for this creature in my students because our children are the key to the future of this planet and its living things. With this in mind, I would like to share the following story about the importance of the monarch to the remains of an ancient culture in Mexico. My wish is that fellow educators will find my story helpful and will be interested in it as well as the many other activities offered in Journeys from the Monarch Teachers Network, monarchteachernetwork.org

  
 
Poco a Poco, Don Pedro and The Day of the Dead

Darlene Yanoff
Introduction:
In the State of Michoacan, Mexico, the Purhepecha people believe that the souls of their dead family members and friends come to visit their homes once a year in early November on All Saints’ Day or the Day of the Dead. This also coincides with the arrival of the monarch butterflies to their winter roosting sites in Michoacan.
The Purhepecha believe the spirits of their loved ones return to the earth in the form of monarch butterflies, for they were the only creature that could fly to all the layers of heaven, and still come to earth to visit humans. For these reasons, Purhepecha families make altars of fragrant flowers and many foods for the dear, visiting spirits to enjoy. To be sad or cry would disrespect the dead, so music plays, and the Day of the Dead becomes a happy celebration of reunion. This is the story of Don Pedro, an old Purhepecha man, and his special day:Don Pedro swept his doorway as the late October sun shown upon his face, brown and grooved as the land itself. At ninety-five years of age, Don Pedro was the oldest man in his village. In fact, he was the oldest man any of his neighbors had ever known. He leaned his broom against the wall, wrapped himself in his tilma to keep off the chill, and sniffed the air. The smell of tortillas and a wood fire greeted him as he made his way down the dusty road to the pueblo. “Poco a poco,” he thought, “I will get there soon enough.”
As he reached the corner, he nodded to another old gentleman sitting in the shade of his garden. Don Pedro’s eyes fell upon vases full of zempasuchil, brilliant yellow marigolds, that his friend offered for sale. He carefully selected a number of them and handed the man a few pesos. “Ahhhh,” he thought, “these are just what I need for my ofrenda, my altar. Their color and their smell will guide the spirits to my home”.
The next day, after Don Pedro had tidied the house, he found his dog stretched out in the path enjoying the warmth of the sun on his belly. His tail wagged, and he stood for a welcome pat on the head. Don Pedro felt the golden sun upon his own face and smiled. It was not as scorching as the summer sun, he thought. Soon that day will be here. With that, his old feet quickened their pace into town. When he reached a little tienda where food was for sale, he bowed his head as he entered the low doorway.
“Hello, Senor,” sang out the woman behind the counter, “what would you like today?”
Don Pedro picked out a few sugar candies and a bottle of soda.
“This will do,” said the old man, “Angelita loved them,” and after paying for them, he began the walk toward home. Poco a poco. I will get there soon enough, he thought, and he grinned like a schoolboy as he looked into the bag of candies.
The following day, Don Pedro washed Angelita’s white tablecloth and
hung it out to dry, he decided to visit the panederia, where fresh baked bread would be cooling on big trays. He threw on his blue tilma and began down the road once again. “Don’t be in such a hurry, “ he told himself, “there is plenty of bread, but this is special bread, he thought. I need to be sure I get some. Poco a poco. You will be there soon enough,” he felt himself say.
When the baker saw Don Pedro, he welcomed him with open arms.
“Abuelo, have you come for some of my good bread? I have just taken it out of the oven. Smell it for yourself.”
Don Pedro closed his eyes and smelled deeply. The spicy aroma of the many loaves tickled his white mustache and he thought of his mother. He remembered her handing him some of her bread a very long time ago. His hands had been so small and soft. “She liked this bread very much,” he thought, “I will buy some for her.”

“Ah, yes, Miguel, I would like to buy one,” the old man said, when he realized the baker was waiting for him. Miguel put a loaf in a paper bag, threw in two cookies, shook Don Pedro’s hand and wished him well.
On the way home, Don Pedro’s wizened eyes searched the sky and saw what appeared to be a little orange leaf being tossed by the October breeze. Suddenly, two more appeared and then a third. “At last! At last they’ve come,” thought Don Pedro. “Poco a poco, I will be home soon, but I cannot seem to get there fast enough.”When Don Pedro reached his home, he put an old orange crate in a corner of the room and covered it with Angelita’s clean white tablecloth. On it he arranged the vase of marigolds, the candies, the soda and the loaf of bread. Next to them he placed a glass of water, for surely those who have traveled so far would be thirsty. Behind that, he put a worn picture of his wife, Angelita, on their wedding day. He put up another picture of a little boy who had been his son, a picture of his sister, Teresa, and his little nephew, Manuelito. Another photo was of a couple, his aunt and uncle, with their two small children. He scattered flowers for all of those for whom he had no picture. In the center he placed a large cross on a stand.Don Pedro stood back and admired his altar. Everything looked ready. It would soon be time. How he yearned for this day to come each year! Soon the souls of all his family and friends who were long gone would return to the village and come to his home once more. They would smell the flowers, drink the soda, taste the bread and candies. This was a day he looked forward to every year, but he still looked forward to something even greater. The next morning the village was astir with preparation. Women walked quickly to the tiendas buying what they needed and pulling their little ones along with them. Neighbors walked by with marigolds, mole and food of all kinds, laughing as they went. Families joyfully cleared weeds from the cemetery and decorated the gravesites. Children played in the streets and ran around their parents as they walked. The dogs joined in and there was a fiesta, a party feeling in the air.
Don Pedro looked up into the sky. The sun was warm, and as he looked, he could see little orange wings flickering between the pines on the trail up the mountain like flames on the candles in the church. Now there were many of the little mariposas, butterflies, fluttering above the trail as it wound up to the top. Don Pedro’s old eyes shown in the glare of the sun and his face crinkled into a broad smile. This was even greater than the fiesta in the village. He wrapped himself up in his tilma and set out for the mountain trail. He knew this would be a long, steep climb, but poco a poco, he thought, he would again make it to the top. “Poco a poco, that is the way. Many times I have done this before, “ he told himself.
Up and up he climbed with little clouds of dust at his feet. Lose rocks rolled down the trail, but Don Pedro’s old feet continued steadily up the worn path. He noticed the delicate fronds of maidenhair fern on either side, like girls bending and throwing their hair before them as they washed it in the river. His sister had done that when they were children, and he had teased her with one of the little silver fish that skittered between the rocks. He missed her too, but soon he would talk with her again.
On he went noticing flowers on either side, but he continued following the butterfly kings, the orange and black monarchs. They played with each other on their way up the mountain in a spiral of orange wings like the center of an ancient conch calling the people to worship across the centuries. After a long time, Don Pedro reached the top. He was very tired, but as he parted the branches of an oyamel fir tree, he saw thousands and thousands of monarchs, some clustered in the branches and many flying between trees. They flew all around him with a sound like falling leaves, as he stood watching. His brown face beamed and he carefully lowered himself to sit. As he sat very still, first one butterfly landed on his shoulder, then another and another. Several landed on his hat and some clung to his tilma. These were the family and friends who had gone on before. Again they had come to talk with him, as they did every year. Some seemed to kiss him as their wings touched his cheek. How he had missed these souls! They continued to gather. He sat in the sun for a very long time as he listened to their whisperings and spoke to them without words. This was the magical time he waited for each year. He was again in the company of those he loved. He breathed in the great joy of the gathering.
He was, indeed, a very happy man.

Glossary

abuelo- grandfather
fiesta- party
mariposas- butterflies
mole- a dish made with chocolate traditional on the Day of the Dead
ofrenda- altar
panedaria- bakery
poco a poco- little by little
tienda- shop, store
tilma- shawl, wrap
zempasuchl- marigolds