Chasing Butterflies

A pious caterpillar believes; an enlightened caterpillar knows that the winged life requires metamorphosis.

—Kevin Anderson

The Celebration of Life for my oldest brother, Stanley, was on October 14 in St. Augustine. Following is my brother Stephen’s eulogy that he sent me back in early August after Stanley passed. Following Steve’s is my eulogy that introduces an iMovie I created for Stanley. He was a big Jimmy Buffett fan, so I selected two of his songs for the many photographs. The two opening songs are from The Avett Brothers and Brooks & Dunn. Thank you for joining me in this remembrance of Stanley Joseph Masoner, 1954-2022. Until we see you again, Stanley.

Chasing Butterflies, Paul Stephen Masoner

One of my earliest memories of my brother is at around 4 years old he had a butterfly collection that he had personally netted and pinned in glass cases including both common names and scientific names. To say the least he was very smart.

Fast forward to Age 12, Stan would be driving a tractor in a field and see a butterfly and pop the tractor out of gear but not shut the throttle down and jump off the tractor to chase the butterfly. This is how Stan lived his life chasing everything like he chased butterflies.

Stan was a bookworm. He read every book in the library at least twice. He had 250 college credit hours but no degree.

 We lived on the farm and took the bus to school. In the afternoon the bus would drop us off and Stan and I would race the 3/8 of mile to the house which led to us both running track in high school and college.

Stan played running back in high school until he had an emergency appendectomy, which ended his football career.

One of my memories of Stan as kids on the farm was he and I racing to get into the truck. The last one in had to open and shut gates as we would head out to do chores. It was a winter day and Stan was last and our dad was honking the horn to get Stan to hurry up. As Stan was coming up to the outside stairwell and he missed the last step and went crashing through the glass window of the door. Stan was dressed in 5 layers of clothes for the winter weather, so he was not injured. Life on the farm presented constant injuries and things we laughed about later. 

Stan and I both loved music as kids. One of our favorite things to do on Sundays was listen to Casey Kasem and test each other’s knowledge of the name of the band, title of the song and members of the bands. In the background was our dad saying ‘Turn that music down!’

Over the years Stan would call me up playing some obscure song in the background asking me, ‘Do you remember this one?’

Lots of great memories! Stan was one of a kind.

Chasing Butterflies: Reprise, Kimberly B. Masoner Gray

Stanley Joseph Masoner was born the same day as our Granddad John B. Masoner, March 2; Stan in 1954 and Granddad in 1900.

The year that we celebrated their birthdays when Stan turned 17, we realized that Granddad was 71 that year. Hence, every 11 years, their ages were reversed. The first year that actually occurred was when Stan was 6 years old and Granddad was 60.

Stanley’s middle namesake was our Granddad Joseph Guy Nelson.

The Masoners and the Nelsons were farmers. Because of that and because of the era we grew up, we were very big on playing cowboys and Indians. Stan was busy with other things as a child, as Steve alluded in Chasing Butterflies. Steve had the play name of Dicky and his horse was Silver; my play name was Jicky and my horse was Sheenybean. Stan would horn in on our pretending by stealing my horse and my play name, and off Dicky/Steve and Stan would go leaving me standing in protest that Jicky was my name and  Sheenybean was my horse!

Our Dad told me one time when I was a very young girl that we are of American Indian heritage on our Grandmother Masoner’s side. I thought of that several times as the years passed because we all had dark hair, particularly Stan and Steve. A few years ago, our cousin Audrey Masoner would contact me that she did the 23 and Me DNA but was disappointed to learn that no American Indian was revealed, even though Grandma Masoner had told her that one of her parents was half American Indian, making Grandma one-quarter, and making our Dad, Paul Masoner, one-eighth.

However, I was reading her DNA results and discovered that the 23 and Me test only identified her Mother’s side, not the Masoner side. In sorting through photographs for this iMovie that I created of Stan’s life, I found a letter from a cousin of our Dad’s. She verified that indeed Grandmother Alice Prettyman Masoner’s Father, James Edward Prettyman, born in 1873, was half American Indian from down Tennessee way.

Alice Prettyman Masoner had dark hair and dark eyes, although the Nelson side of our family had dark hair and dark eyes as well. In searching ancestry, I have discovered that both sides are Irish and Scottish and English. The Masoner clan can be found in northern Italy and Scotland.

Steve will not share this next bit–that’s why brothers have sisters, for we are the truth tellers!

Stan and Steve were both excellent runners in high school and college. Stan attended College of the Ozarks, then called School of the Ozarks, near Branson, Missouri. He was only there one full year, though as a Freshman, he ran track on a Relay Team. He won three or four NAIA medals; I don’t know where those medals are today. What I can tell you is that when Stan and Steve were competing in high school, a very small school, everyone would stop to watch them run. Their form was truly beautiful to witness. In my mind’s eye, I can still see them now. I can also still see and hear Steve say to Stan, “Stan, I think Kim needs a lesson today.” Stanley would start laughing because he knew what Steve meant . . . Each would grab me by one arm and run me across a gravel road with me barefoot. The abuse of two older brothers was immeasurable.

Two schoolmates from Sherwood High School, whose Relay team continues to hold the record at the school, contacted me that Stan was their mentor, that they admired him for his running skill. The emergency appendectomy that Steve spoke about ended his football success, but he made a come-back for track in the Spring 1972. Watching him run was a beautiful sight to behold.

Let me preface the next part by saying that you might initially wonder why I choose to share this, but I promise it leads somewhere beautiful.

The last time I visited with Stan was Christmas Day 2019. Because of a disagreement that day, I refused to talk to him again. I wanted him to apologize. He contacted me this last November asking me to send him a rifle that I took back with me to New Mexico after cleaning out our parents’ home near Weaubleau. It ended up costing me a sum of money to send it, and then he emailed me that he was having to send it back, which cost me another sum of money to receive it. I was angry all over again.

The man at the gun store in Santa Fe told me when verifying the Serial No. that the gun was made in 1918. He went on to say that Canadians still use British 303s for moose hunting even today. He also said that the carving and seeming ivory or bone inlay on the rifle was created by the soldier who may have once carried the gun because this was a common sentiment of soldiers.

I refused to reply even to Stan’s emails, or even to look at any after the gun was shipped back to me.

I deeply regret that I did not take the high road. I forgot a key principle of living, Do not let the sun go down on your wrath.

Regret has been heaped on grief. The days following his passing, I sat out in the back yard near Santa Fe numb because of my inaction in accepting his phone calls. Steve had already sent me a draft of his Chasing Butterflies eulogy that he had written. 

Have you ever heard the word synchronicity? A word coined by the famed psychologist Carl Jung? Carl Jung once said that the meaning of synchronicity is the essence of God attempting to communicate. Since first introduced to the meaning of synchronicity, I have had many.

Let me share one that will lead to my closing before introducing the iMovie I created.

In the Fall of 2019, I was fly fishing on the Pecos River in Northern New Mexico. (As an aside, I can tell you that Stanley loved to fish!)

I decided to take a break, drink some water. It was mid-morning. A slight breeze was blowing. The leaves were golden. My fishing guide, Bob, said he was going to walk up the river and cast. I walked onto a bridge that passed into private property and watched him make his way up the river.

He eventually found the perfect spot. I observed him for a while. Then, a bright yellow bush closer to the bridge caught my eye. I would vacillate from observing Bob’s casting skills and the awareness of the almost golden and shimmering bush; the breeze created a very slight movement of the leaves.

This back-and-forth observation on my part took place over the course of maybe 15 minutes. I would watch Bob cast, then my awareness would move back to the bush. All of a sudden, the bush took flight, and a-seeming hundreds of yellow butterflies took flight, moving in tandem until disappearing from sight.

Immediately, I knew that this was significant, though I knew not why. I would know in the following February of 2020. An officer of a State organization of women, to which I have belonged for nigh on 30 years? She called me one day. She asked, ‘Would you co-chair the planning of our New Mexico State convention for 2022? It’s a two-year process.” 

She told me that her theme for the convention that year when she would preside as President, Dreams Taking Flight. The logo was a yellow butterfly.

These past two years have been the most insightful of my entire life. Most particularly 2021 into 2022; the Convention came off like a ‘Dream Taking Flight’ in April.

As I sat in the backyard in August grieving Stan’s passing and my regret, a yellow swallowtail butterfly flew over my head and continued around the yard for quite some time. The next day, it was back again. And the next day after that.

And then, one morning at the end of August I went to the mailbox, and this letter had arrived. It was from the international office of that women’s organization in Des Moines, Iowa. Here is what it said,

Dear Kimberly

We are pleased to inform you that a gift has been given to P.E.O. Program for Continuing Education in memory of Stanley Joseph Masoner.

This gift will help the P.E.O. Sisterhood provide educational opportunities for women through scholarships, grants, awards and loans. Through the generosity of our supporters, P.E.O. can continue to promote achievements by women in higher education.

On Monday this week, I was looking back through emails I have saved. Because of my anger, I never read two of Stan’s emails. Here is what he said:

November 19, 2021

Do you remember when you  and I were fishing together at the pond [in the early 1970s]? We were catching some really nice channel cats. You were so beautiful, and I will never forget that day.

When I bought the rifle in Springfield at a pawnshop, I admired the ivory inlay. Pretty cool. One early morning I went deer hunting with Snipper, and we sat in a brush pile. Snipper was laying on my feet and a group of deer came out down hill about 450 yards. I nailed him. Dad and I drove over and loaded  the deer into the truck. I wish had had the hide tanned. Oh well. Thanks again for all the time and work on getting the rifle back to me. I love you and wish you the best.

And so, this iMovie eulogy will make sense, particularly with the first song.

–Kimberly B. Gray. Santa Fe, New Mexico. All Rights Reserved.