‘It’s reasonable to worry about when, seasonally, to visit ‘The Pupate Garden’ in eastern Massachusetts, given the normal lifecycle of a butterfly or moth. Rest assured, however, that ‘The Garden’ is always the same in that every visit leaves a traveler wondering if they wouldn’t have experienced something prettier if they had simply waited a few weeks for the insects to ‘hatch.’ This time will never come and, having spent your money on an entry ticket, the employees tend to be fairly forthcoming about this little white lie.
‘The Pupate Garden’ deals in cocoons and the like and has no room for caterpillars and grubs or butterflies and moths. They are a specialty business and the tour is more about community outreach than it is about the cost of admission (though, they tend to do a lot of deflection when asked about their primary revenue streams or the legality of certain species on display).
Less a zoo and more an eerie zen garden, the few regulars who frequent the location may be are sometimes seen in deep meditation, attempting to harness the well-trodden natural metaphor of the pupate cycle. As to whether any have succeeded in that transformation, it certainly hasn’t occurred on site.’
‘The Pupate Garden’ is situated in the center of a strip mall on a desolate street in a town called Charles (or ‘Chuck’ by its residents). It’s a place formed as an afterthought to the many historical cities nearby, containing all the trappings of a real-deal town but none of the culture. Everyone was in a hurry to leave when I arrived, but I suppose that’s just morning traffic and I make a note to be out by early afternoon so as not to be stuck longer than I have to be.
The windows of ‘The Pupate Garden’ are tinted near-black, which means they take the health of their mid-life creatures seriously or that this lot used to be one of those crappy little casinos that thrive in the Midwest. The historic smell of old cigarette smoke upon entering makes me think it’s the latter.
Certain venues, for lack of space, are situated such that the ticketing counter is well within the actual confines of the exhibit, and this is true of ‘The Pupate Garden.’ Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see a shriveled, blotchy man at a desk ahead of me and shelves of insects, each quietly rearranging their body. There is a second where I might turn and leave, having seen what there is to see, but I step forward and pay the man and resign myself to looking more closely at this collection under his watch.
He doesn’t speak, which is a relief.
The insects are more interesting than I expect. The stillness of this stage of life gives me time to admire the colors and patterns of each chrysalis and to consider the likeness to the larvae and the eventual form, be it moth or butterfly. The only distraction is, at first, the silence of the room, and then a quiet crackling that disrupts it. I follow the sound between the shelves, thinking I’ve arrived in time to see one of the specimens hatching.
Instead, the sound leads me back to the desk, where the attendant is deadly still and leaned forward, his features locked in the difficulty of some internal struggle. I wait and I watch and the man’s face grows red, as little grunts escape his lips. Finally, he leans back in his chair and sets a little bag of chips on the desk.
“Can you help me open these?” he asks. “Arthritis.”
-traveler
