The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

I could. I had to have this gift of the moment—this great gift of the new century—to myself for one more minute, a few more precious seconds, before the bustle and shouts and tracks of the others shattered it forever. Gathering up my gown, I ran down the curved drive as fast as I could, lurching and slipping and filled with joy. I knew I looked crazed but I didn’t care. I ran to the street, which was unmarked by any wagon wheel, then veered off and ran through the pristine brush toward the river. Here I came across a pecan tree downed by the snow, its raw, flesh-tinted core the only color in the otherwise black-and-white landscape.

I saw a few skittery tracks left by birds and other small creatures, no doubt as confused by this silent white world as I was. Of course they were confused; the last snow had been decades ago. If a finch lived for only two years, how could it pass along the idea of something it had never seen to the next generation? Did the word disappear from the finch language, from finch society? How could any species survive the snow if the word for it died out? The finch race, all the other races, would be unprepared. I would have to put out quantities of seed and suet, hay and ham, and in this way provide for all the links along the food chain.

My feet were turning into blocks of ice, and I realized I was exhausted. I turned and walked back toward the house. It was the first morning of the first day of the new century. Snow blanketed the ground. Anything was possible.

The house was beginning to show its usual signs of morning life. I saw my grandfather watching me from his upstairs window. He raised one hand to me in salute. I replied in kind. We stood that way for a moment. Then I ran for the warmth of our home.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I have, for the sake of fiction, taken some small liberties with Texas history, and I apologize to any reader who spots those places where I have played fast and loose with the facts. Also for the sake of fiction, I have taken liberties with the blooming season of certain plants and the taxonomy of the Vicia genus. I beg forgiveness of those botanists and horticulturists who know better. Any errors concerning scientific matters are entirely my fault.

Thanks to the following entities for their encouragement and support along the way: The Mississippi Review; the Texas Commission for the Arts; the Writers’ League of Texas; the Dallas Museum of Art.

Thanks to Barbara French of the Bat Conservancy, to Dr. Diana Sanchez-Bushong of Westlake United Methodist Church, and to Dr. Spencer Behmer of Texas A&M University for their expertise.

Special thanks to Lou Ann and Jim Bradley for the use of their cabin when I needed it; thanks to Professor Roberta Walker of the University of Texas at El Paso, who could teach a rock to write; to Lee K. Abbott and Grace Paley; to Shelley Williams Austin, Dr. Michael Glasscock, Karen Stolz, Roberta Preston Pazdral, Gerry Beckman, Robin Allen, and Katherine Tanney; thanks to Mike Robinson and his daughter Callie, and to Phil and Jeannie Tate for the name of our heroine. Thanks to the Fabulous Writers of Austin for their boundless support: Pansy Flick, Graciela Fleming, Nancy Gore, Gaylon Greer, Jim Haws, Cecilia Jones, Kim Kronzer, Laura van Landuyt, Diane Owens, and Lottie Shapiro. To Houston White, Dian Donnell, and Charlie Prichard for introducing me to the Old House; to the late John “Sandy” Lockett for the bat tale, which he swore actually happened to him at Scholz’s Garden in Austin (an unlikely story, yes, but he never gave me any reason to doubt him). To my early readers, Joe Kulhavy, Wayne Price, Roxanne Hale Drolet, Carol Jarvis, and Noeleen Thompson for their encouragement, along with my comadre, Val Brown, who teaches piano with kindness and encouragement and in no way resembles Miss Brown. To my agent, Marcy Posner, for plucking me from the hopper. To Laura Godwin, Noa Wheeler, Ana Deboo, Marianne Cohen, and everyone at Holt for making this a better book.

And, of course, extra special thanks to Gwen Moore Erwin. After all these years.