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When I was a little girl, I was afraid of dragonflies. It wasn’t just that I found their anatomy unpleasant with their barrel chests and that vile tail protruding, straight as pin.
The hornet has that same stinger tail but they are graceful, wild dancers darting and swooping. The dragonfly lacked their imagination and, to me, appeared rigid and unyielding. My dragonfly fear wasn’t rational. A hornet could seriously harm me and dragonflies don’t even bite, much less sting.
But they were hoverers, invasive and attention seeking. I remember hot, sticky walks through Mohican Park in Ohio, where they would fly straight toward me, their wings buzzing out a warning. I learned to hear them coming and would swat and gesticulate with such enthusiasm that it would catch the eye of my preoccupied mother.
“Stop it!” she would reprimand. “They never did anything to you.”
Later, I learned they weren’t intelligent enough to organize a coordinated attack. But as a child, walking hand in hand with my twin, I felt pretty certain the dragonflies were out to get me.
On one such family walk, my father, a stern man who taught me the value of becoming invisible, cured me of my fear.
“The first person to catch a dragonfly gets a 50- cent piece.” In my childhood economy, it might as well have been a million dollars. And just like that, greed swallowed my fear, bloating my ego.
Our older brother, an ambitious sort, immediately ran ahead hoping to catch one before it made its way to our family cluster. My sister was up for the challenge and dropped my sweaty hand to run after our brother.
But I knew something they didn’t. The dragonflies were after me. I didn’t have to pant down a path chasing them; all I had to do was continue steady on, pretending to be afraid. I had long suspected they were attracted to my fear.
My siblings were out of visual range by now, but I wasn’t worried. I could practically feel that gorgeous, 50-cent piece in my pocket. It didn’t take too long for me to hear that telling buzz.
Steady on, Abigail, just act normal. I didn’t even look around for it, I just kept slowly walking, almost creeping down the path. It darted in and hovered by my ear, testing my resolve.
I kept my arms at my side – what a cool character I had become. This emboldened the dragonfly to zoom in toward my arm where it landed. Despite my revulsion, I smoothly moved my left hand over the offender and cupped him within.
“I got one!” I shouted. “I win! I win!” My sister came running back to see, but our brother was too far ahead for me to gloat.
Our parents came up just as I was about to open my hand. “Let me see; I want to see it,” my sister said, her head bent over my hand. It hadn’t occurred to me to actually look at it.
What was there to see but a bullet-like body with an engorged head? I opened my hand and expected it to dart away. But it settled into my open palm like it belonged there.
“Go on,” I said, “Get off of me.” The dragonfly remained still but for the occasional twitter of its four lacy wings. They were gossamer and so delicate. I don’t think I had seen anything so pretty. And I hadn’t noticed before, but its body was a purply-blue color.
“It’s shiny,” my sister said as we both stared at the magnificent creature. “It’s forest fairy,” I whispered just as the dragonfly lifted itself straight up like a helicopter and whoosh away. I watched it, expecting fairy dust to fall in its wake until it disappeared in the forest.
The coveted 50-cent never did appear in my hand. By the time we all passed around the little plastic cup full of cool water from our green Coleman cooler and made our home, the 50-cent prize was never mentioned.
Our father either forget, or, more likely, never intended to hand over an amount he surely thought excessive. And I would
never have asked for it. It wasn’t that kind of a relationship.
But I never felt the loss of that prize because the dragonfly had given me so much more. In those few seconds that it chose to rest in my hand, I learned that scary things, even repulsive things, if given time, can reveal themselves as remarkable. Or, in the case of the dreaded dragonfly, something magical.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at ablythebatton@gmail.com or leave a message at 828-837-5122.