On Aug. 15, my daughters and I found a monarch caterpillar feasting on a milkweed plant in the field behind our garden. Unbeknownst to me, I had nearly run it down with the rototiller when preparing ground for next year. Just before the tiller was about to consume the earth around the milkweed, I spotted the rotund black, white and yellow striped caterpillar busily doing what caterpillars do best. We crouched down near the plant and watched the remarkable creature voraciously consume the thick milkweed leaves.

Although we had seen plump green chrysalises around the garden we had never seen a caterpillar turn into a monarch butterfly. So, in the name of science (and in an attempt to make my eldest daughter more comfortable with all things “creepy crawly”), we found a gallon-sized glass jar and placed some grass in the bottom. We put the caterpillar and two milkweed leaves in the jar and took it to the kitchen, where “Wilma” was destined to live on our countertop and under our scrutiny for 15 days.

We placed an old strainer – which amounted to a transparent dome to prevent Wilma from escaping – over the top of the jar. Although we had left the lone milkweed plant standing in the event that our critter needed more food, it turned out that she only required the one leaf. That afternoon Wilma crawled to the inside rim of the jar and stayed motionless in place until the next morning.

Fearing she had died (or rather, that we’d killed her) we watched vigilantly for any changes. In classic 5-year-old fashion my youngest daughter stated confidently, “Mommy, if she was dead I think she’d fall off the side of the jar. I don’t think she’d stick to it anymore.”

As it turned out, she was right. Wilma wasn’t dead. The next morning she wiggled to the center of the strainer, and hung upside-down in the shape of the letter J. We found out later that she used a special gland in her mouth to weave a silk “button” on the strainer. Then she attached her rear “claspers” to the silk. Out in our garden she most likely would have attached herself to the underside of a milkweed leaf.

We checked in on Wilma every few hours, but she remained static and seemed to be preparing for the amazing metamorphosis her body was about to undergo. The next morning – still hanging in the J formation – her white stripes seemed to be taking on a greenish tinge. At 11 a.m. we had to leave for the day. When we returned at 5 p.m., Wilma had turned into a beautiful chartreuse chrysalis dotted with golden specks here and there.

Missing her transformation was very disappointing. A caterpillar actually forces the skin on its back to split open and then takes several hours to shed its outer coat, we later discovered when reading about monarchs. When the old skin is shed, the insect takes the form of a large green water droplet – the chrysalis.

We knew that Wilma would hatch into a butterfly precisely 14 days after taking the form of a chrysalis. We marked her expected birthday on the calendar and resolved to be home the whole day so we could keep careful watch. Two days before her birthday, the chrysalis appeared grayish. The day before she hatched, it became even darker and we discovered that her black and orange butterfly wings were causing the change in hue.

By the morning of her birthday, the outer coating of the chrysalis was completely clear and Wilma seemed to be pressing on the thin cellophane-like material. We took her outside with us while we worked and checked on her every five minutes. Although we were vigilant, once again, we missed that moment when she burst out of her home at about noon. When we found her, she was hanging from the remnants of her chrysalis, her wings floppy and heavy, as though they were made of satin.

We placed our Wilma on a chrysanthemum flower and watched her grasp the petals and leaves with her many legs. For two hours, she worked her way to the top of the plant, slowly dried her wings and flew away.

A monarch is an insect that undergoes four stages of metamorphosis: egg, larva, pupa and adult. We commonly refer to its larval stage as a caterpillar, and its pupa stage as a chrysalis.

The monarch butterfly, in all stages of its life, is reliant upon the milkweed plant, Asclepias syriaca, for its nectar and habitat.

Although the butterfly feeds on the nectar of other plants, milkweed is the cornerstone of its survival.

One resource we checked said that the monarch mother lays only one egg per plant so there will be plenty of food for each caterpillar when the egg hatches. The egg is no larger than the head of a pin. The mother lays her eggs one by one, locating milkweed as she goes. When all is said and done, she will lay about 400 eggs.

If milkweed is critical to this beautiful butterfly’s survival, so too, then, is farmland. The plant most commonly grows along the edges of open fields. It is a successional plant in the ecological scheme of things, and doesn’t compete well against encroaching trees.

In short, if we want to enjoy the beauty of this elegant butterfly in our yards and gardens we should be careful to protect its habitat by ensuring the survival of working farmland in our communities. Surely, if farmers were no longer able to farm profitably, and if trees – or worse, a crop of houses – were to sprout up over those precious stands of milkweed, we would see the monarch disappear.

There are millions of different butterflies in the world. Our monarch Wilma is out there among them. As with anything else in life, taking time to witness the animal’s secrets firsthand gave my family a better understanding, a more compassionate view of another living creature’s role on this planet.

That understanding is enriching and has truly changed and improved the course of our lives.

Diana George Chapin is the NEWS garden columnist. Send horticulture questions to Gardening Questions, RR1, Box 2120, Montville 04941, or e-mail them to dianagc@ctel.net. Selected questions will be answered in future columns. Include name, address and telephone number.