Gerald Shrewsbury—Room number 101

I spent most of my life next to a pond, searching for needles of red darting amongst the reeds. The Eastern Red Damselfly, Amphiagrion saucium, was my life’s work. An insect as long as a pinky finger and as slender as a poppy stalk may not seem very intriguing at first, but let me assure you, the moment you see the multifaceted eyes of such a creature through a magnifying glass, or watch it fly gracefully through the air while attached to its partner in a heart-shaped mating wheel, wonder and amazement will strike. It’s hard not to be rendered speechless by nature’s stunning beauty and complexity when looking at an insect as wondrous as the Eastern Red.

For many years, each and every time I saw a flicker of crimson settle on a blade of grass and fold its graceful wings down over its body, my heart would warm and fascination would take hold. Some people dedicate their lives to understanding the human body; I dedicated mine to understanding an insect’s.

Midair dips and dives that evoke thoughts of alien flight; four wings that work together in perfect, mind-blowingly complex harmony; a complete metamorphosis that rivals caterpillar-to-butterfly or grub-to-beetle; aquatic larvae that use harpoon-like jaws to capture prey—these are the things that made the Eastern Red Damselfly the love of my life. And these are the things I dreamed about every single night, until the day I died. The Eastern Red was my everything.

When the Pennsylvania Entomological Society honored me with their Entomologist of the Year Award in 1980, I saw my life’s biggest goal realized. I had published three studies and was rightfully admired by many researchers in the international entomological community. To celebrate, I took to the wetlands, immersing myself in even more research and observations. I loved the steady buzz of wings beating through the air, the tickle of six tiny legs climbing over my skin, the soggy taste of the marsh constantly settled in the back of my throat.

By the time I was fifty-five, I had taken more notes than Darwin himself and I set my sights on writing a book about damselflies. A book the average Joe could appreciate, one that avoided scientific jargon and focused instead on my passion for this charismatic insect. I wanted to write a book that spoke about the importance of nature to human beings themselves. I wanted to connect people to the Eastern Red with a trail of passionate and thought-provoking words about nature herself. I wanted everyone to have the chance to feel what I felt every time I saw a flash of red skimming across a pond.

But it didn’t work out that way. I had my first stroke before a single word ever hit the paper. Without any family to help, my recovery was long and arduous. It was months before I could walk well enough to return to the wetlands. A speech therapist visited twice a week to teach me how to talk again, and an occupational therapist helped me relearn how to write. By the time I could hold a pencil and form written words correctly, nearly a year had passed. But, as soon as I felt I could, I started writing. I wrote fast and fevered, putting words to paper as quickly as I could, as if I was on a mission from Mother Nature herself. I spent long hours hunched over my desk, sorting through my notes, looking for ways to link people with nature through stories about the Eastern Red. I was halfway done with the manuscript when my second stroke hit. The blood thinners failed to do their job, and I was struck hard. My ability to write—and walk—was completely gone.

From that day on, the words came out all wrong. I called girls, boys and cats, dogs. My brain knew what to say, but it couldn’t make my mouth form the right words. And it couldn’t make my hand hold a pencil anymore either. The Eastern Red’s lessons got tangled up in knots inside of me and no amount of therapeutic cajoling was ever able to get them out.

I lived in Pine Manor for the last twenty years of my life, the right side of my body frozen and stiff, unyielding and useless. I chewed on the left, scratched on the left, breathed on the left. But when I dreamed, I dreamed with both sides of me. I dreamed about the Eastern Reds, rising up out of the reeds and surrounding me every single night. Observing me as I had observed them. They had so much to tell me, and I’ll forever be disappointed I wasn’t able to share their message with the world.

On the night I died, my left hand held my last polyresin-encased damselfly against my chest. I had given the rest of my collection to the Natural History Museum years ago, but I couldn’t bear to part with my Eastern Red. He was my only comfort, aside from the young lady at my side. She was the one who handed him to me when the time came. And she was the one who listened to the last breath of air leave my body.

She was the one who gave me peace.