Somewhere Between Bottles & Butterflies

A reflection on spirits and choosing Cava

The text message came through regarding the wines to be selected for my beloved editor and friend, Nancy’s, repast. For me, Rondel was a hard “NO,” A WTF “NO,” an the- ancestral-spirits-will-revolt, “NO.”

There was a budget. I understood that, but there was no way I could sign off on any wine that I wouldn’t drink with Nancy myself. Wines that could be purchased at Walgreens liquor store were not among them. Once you’ve had beautiful wine, not expensive wine, but thoughtfully-made wine, wine that slithers through your senses like the long awaited kiss, leaving you breath-full, back arched, palate singing, there’s no turning back. 

Death has a no-turning-back quality that makes me long more and more for those ephemeral pleasures–walking barefoot in the warm sand, laughing, silence, eating Jamaican oxtail stew from the Styrofoam container, listening to Cleo Sol, and good wine.

I almost didn’t attend Nancy’s memorial at Fairchild Tropical Botanical Gardens. I had the house alone for a few days and wanted to write. But here’s the thing (for me, at least), you can be in the most ideal circumstance– quiet house, ocean view, meditation high, fresh off that dynamic dick, and the words just won’t weave together. It’s the most exasperating feeling. Premeditated writing has never been my strong suit. The writing is always best when the story is ready to come out of my body like, I’d imagine, a baby. 

Out of my body and onto the page

Out of my body and onto the page

Out of my body and onto the page

When I arrived to this part of Coral Gables, I was reminded of all the wealth and beauty on this side of town–the magnificent old oak trees entangled along the roads, folks pushing strollers, and holding hands, the non-urban-jungle smell. The freshness, the away-ness.

If you’re not familiar with how incredibly diverse Miami is, the scene won’t feel like Miami. It will feel like you’re driving through a small island occupied by tourists who never left. 

As I pulled onto the lavish property, I knew undoubtedly that I was supposed to be there. This was one of Nancy and her husband George’s favorite places. On some level, it felt like those of us who were attending Nancy’s service were sharing in a closing chapter, an epilogue unfolding before our eyes among the butterflies though I hadn’t actually seen any while I was there (The property is known for its butterfly exhibit). 

What’s interesting is that it’s only recently that I’ve been noticing butterflies –tiger striped, aqua blue. Instead, I’ve always been enchanted by the iguanas stalking the Miami streets like prehistoric creatures left behind to taunt the entitled humans. But I seemed to miss the butterflies. Once Nancy died,  and I learned of her affection for them, they seemed to be everywhere.

Before I walked towards what looked like a chapel on the property but was not, I checked on the bottle of Cava I was bringing to the repast later, wrapped in endless Publix plastic bags I stuffed with ice.

The weather was sublime–breezy, breathy, sun-light. I tiptoed in, thinking I was probably too late and missed a good portion of the presentation, but I was not. Sitting in the back row, I got to know Nancy in a different way. The crowd was a mixed audience of colleagues I hadn’t seen in years, people I didn’t know–older, younger, and of course, it’s election season, so there were also the politicians.

One, in particular, really stood out. Unlike the other guests, she arrived in all black, a lacy, black church hat cocked to the side of her head. She walked around the side of the room where the technology person was sitting. She had arrived. She wanted us, her audience, to know that, and she was ready to speak.

She was given the mic, and the monologue began. “Why did I leave the bottle of Cava in the car?,” I asked myself. I’m boss at sneaking around bottles and plastic cups. This moment deserved a sip, a few sips. The woman wearing the lacy black hat spoke in English and occasionally in French about her interactions with Nancy who led her team to two Pulitzer Prizes. If this were a movie, the moment would become animated, American composer Michael Nyman’s iconic, piano piece, “The Promise” would fill the room, a fleet of black butterflies would charge the space, and we, the audience, would give her the standing ovation her presence commanded.   

While folks were speaking, I followed one of Nancy’s dear friends outside. She was feeling Nancy’s goneness. So was I. I think she was wearing an embellished cowboy hat and a large copper wristband. Her tears flowed through my silk dress and into my shoulder. I’m not sure where mine went. 

She went back inside, and I went looking for the bench that was purchased in Nancy’s honor.  “Over there,” someone said, pointing left. “Over there,” another person said, pointing in another direction. Eventually, I did what any good reporter does. I took off my shoes and went my own way. Following the breeze, following the spirit. My feet were in the grass. My eyes were on the people.  As people gathered in the room, sharing their thoughts about Nancy, life continued. I watched children running, a man carrying a child on his shoulders, a couple kissing deeply. I stopped and looked at the names on other benches–some faded, others freshly inscribed. Then I found Nancy’s wooden bench, slightly wet and beautiful.

“In Loving Memory of Nancy E. Ancrum,” it said., “...ally to butterflies, owner of the world’s best smile”

I arrived at Nancy and George’s house, their backyard, its own kind of botanical garden, trees towering, bodies moving through rows of flowers and food. I had the bottle of Vita Vivet Cava Brut. I asked the bartender to open it and shared some with one of the members of Team Rondel. “That’s really good,” she said (twice). Then she insisted I pour some for a friend of hers. 

It was delicious. Always is. A Cava among Cavas. Just before the butterfly release I got to share a vibe with Leonard Pitts, a former columnist whose work I used to read as a young writer coming up. Just when I thought the day couldn’t get any more beautiful, a baby iguana the color of turquoise jewelry and beach sand landed on Robbie’s shoulder (She was part of Team Rondel). The spirits had spoken.