Friday, October 06, 2006
"No other animal is more typical of a healthy environment, nor more susceptible to change, than a butterfly" (Feltwell 1986).
I recently spent the better part of an afternoon chasing butterflies with my kids. A few years ago, we found a monarch caterpillar and were, happily, able to witness its emergence as a butterfly from the chrysalis it encased itself in. So, equipped with our pleasant memories and eagerness for new experience, we traipsed off to find some treasure.
We didn’t have a net on our recent expedition, but rather, decided upon the bare hand and jar approach. I think we knew deep down that the journey, itself, is often more valuable than the treasure sought, and so, we had very few expectations of grandeur to have to live up to.
After all, it was a sparklingly clear, crisp and sunny day, and warm, sunny days are cherished all the more in the fall, since winter can drop upon us suddenly and without warning. I was happy just to be outside enjoying the warmth and the company.
We noticed many winged creatures scattered along our path. Small birds glided just above and dipped into the low brush around us; there were bees of every size and type, many white, yellow and copper butterflies, and a few large dragonflies circling overhead.
But, the illusive monarch was what we were after that day. After closely inspecting all of the milkweed we found, we concluded that any caterpillars must have already transformed. Every so often, while taking in the deep, rich tones and colors stippled with late afternoon highlights around us, we would catch sight of one alighting on the goldenrod.
At first, we would approach with caution. Just when we would get close enough to almost touch one (and occasionally snap a quick photo) it would lift off and flutter away into the smiling eyes of the sun. What amazing aerial acrobatics these small, slight creatures could perform! In fact, monarch butterfly flight speeds have been measured at up to 30 miles per hour; that’s pretty swift.
So, our Plan A was a bust. Plan B was to run at full-force toward one as soon as we caught sight of it. The butterflies were well aware of the wake we created in the air as we moved toward them, however, and were gone long before we ever reached them. Highly perceptive and super-aware, they are, indeed. Butterflies use their senses of sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste to survive in the world, find food and mates, lay eggs in an appropriate place, migrate, and avoid hungry predators. Caterpillars can sense touch, taste, smell, sound, and light. Setae (sensory hairs) on the insect's entire body (including the antennae) can feel the environment. They also give the insect information about the wind while it is flying.
Next, we tried a round-up approach where the kids would shoo the potential specimen toward me as I waited downhill a ways. The first time, I was so shocked that one was actually flying right at me, I didn’t know what to do and completely choked. I let it fly right into my head and up, up and away. Sly, smart, daring, and courageous, that one got me good.
Finally, we decided we enjoyed the chase so much we actually wanted to return empty handed (and empty-jarred.) As it turns out, we would save that moment and look forward to continuing it at another time. The memory was perfect as it was.
A while later, I noticed, while sitting at my computer monitor, downloading the photos I had taken, and dreamily gazing out the window, that monarchs were flying right past me at fairly regular intervals. After watching them fly by for a while, I realized they were moving in a southwesterly direction – migrating down to Central Mexico, to the Oyamel forests, no doubt. It is known that the monarchs fly east of the Great Lakes and south-southwest in areas west of the Great Lakes, but their exact migratory path is still being plotted, today.
What is it that guides them, I wondered? Do they follow the sun? Do they sense the ebbing of the summer warmth? Apparently, what the monarch butterflies sense is the changing amount of light present and the variability of day and nighttime temperatures. With the change of seasons from fall to winter comes the inevitable shortening of the days, longer nights, and also colder nighttime temperatures. When these characteristics show up, the monarchs leave for their overwintering sites as much as thousands of miles away.
Unfortunately, the monarchs are becoming more and more vulnerable in their overwintering sites in the high-altitude fir forests of the Transvolcanic Range of Mexico; only two of the eleven known roosting sites are well protected from logging. The oyamel trees on which the monarchs cluster are valuable lumber sources, and local people need additional sources of income. If the roost sites are destroyed, monarch populations are likely to decline drastically. Protecting the roost sites is difficult because preservation of the sites and the monarch butterfly will conflict with the increasing needs and changing priorities of a growing Mexican population Continued development may mean that a winter may soon come when the monarchs no longer have a place to rest.
Once the butterflies reach their roosting site, they cluster in large numbers in the branches and trunks of oyamel trees. While clustering they stay relatively still and maintain low metabolic rates. In mid-February, the monarchs at the roost sites become more active and mating behavior begins. By the end of February, some of the monarchs begin moving northward, and by mid-March the roost is usually depleted. This begins the spring migration. The spring migration starts out with only about half of the original roosting population. Forty to sixty percent of the monarchs die during their stay in Mexico. During the spring migration, the monarch butterflies return to their homes in Canada and the northern most parts of the United States. Along the way, they roost and reproduce, giving rise to new butterflies that will continue the spring flight back.
In Australia and New Zealand the monarch is known as the Wanderer Butterfly. It is now believed that the butterfly has evolved to follow the pattern of the growth of its larvae’s food source: milkweed.
Milkweed, the host plant of the monarch, has also become a serious concern. In Canada, milkweed has been declared a noxious weed. This means that the plant is considered illegal and cannot be allowed to grow on private or public lands in Canada. Although not labeled noxious in the states, farmers consider the plant a nuisance to crops and often use herbicides to control it along with other weeds. More and more roadsides are being planted in grass instead of being allowed to overgrow with wildflowers and weeds. The result is that butterflies have fewer places in the wild to find nectar and lay their eggs. The place the monarchs once knew as “the land of milkweed and nectar,” alas, is changing and now offers them an uncertain future, at best.
A few days after the big expedition, as I was walking to the mailbox to retrieve the day’s delivery, I noticed a monarch butterfly directly in front of me on a patch of newly blossoming asters. Instinctively, I knew this butterfly would not fly away as I approached it and held out my finger. As I suspected, it got right on and allowed me a moment to appreciate it before it flew away, joining other wanderers on their annual quest. No one really knows, for sure, what next year’s migration will bring. Will the monarchs find the winter sanctuary they seek and will they return, again, next spring? Their fate is uncertain, at best, so I remind myself to cherish the bright, warm memories that were created while the moments were allowed to unfold freely – without restrictions, conditions or expectations.
We didn’t have a net on our recent expedition, but rather, decided upon the bare hand and jar approach. I think we knew deep down that the journey, itself, is often more valuable than the treasure sought, and so, we had very few expectations of grandeur to have to live up to.
After all, it was a sparklingly clear, crisp and sunny day, and warm, sunny days are cherished all the more in the fall, since winter can drop upon us suddenly and without warning. I was happy just to be outside enjoying the warmth and the company.
We noticed many winged creatures scattered along our path. Small birds glided just above and dipped into the low brush around us; there were bees of every size and type, many white, yellow and copper butterflies, and a few large dragonflies circling overhead.
But, the illusive monarch was what we were after that day. After closely inspecting all of the milkweed we found, we concluded that any caterpillars must have already transformed. Every so often, while taking in the deep, rich tones and colors stippled with late afternoon highlights around us, we would catch sight of one alighting on the goldenrod.
At first, we would approach with caution. Just when we would get close enough to almost touch one (and occasionally snap a quick photo) it would lift off and flutter away into the smiling eyes of the sun. What amazing aerial acrobatics these small, slight creatures could perform! In fact, monarch butterfly flight speeds have been measured at up to 30 miles per hour; that’s pretty swift.
So, our Plan A was a bust. Plan B was to run at full-force toward one as soon as we caught sight of it. The butterflies were well aware of the wake we created in the air as we moved toward them, however, and were gone long before we ever reached them. Highly perceptive and super-aware, they are, indeed. Butterflies use their senses of sight, touch, hearing, smell, and taste to survive in the world, find food and mates, lay eggs in an appropriate place, migrate, and avoid hungry predators. Caterpillars can sense touch, taste, smell, sound, and light. Setae (sensory hairs) on the insect's entire body (including the antennae) can feel the environment. They also give the insect information about the wind while it is flying.
Next, we tried a round-up approach where the kids would shoo the potential specimen toward me as I waited downhill a ways. The first time, I was so shocked that one was actually flying right at me, I didn’t know what to do and completely choked. I let it fly right into my head and up, up and away. Sly, smart, daring, and courageous, that one got me good.
Finally, we decided we enjoyed the chase so much we actually wanted to return empty handed (and empty-jarred.) As it turns out, we would save that moment and look forward to continuing it at another time. The memory was perfect as it was.
A while later, I noticed, while sitting at my computer monitor, downloading the photos I had taken, and dreamily gazing out the window, that monarchs were flying right past me at fairly regular intervals. After watching them fly by for a while, I realized they were moving in a southwesterly direction – migrating down to Central Mexico, to the Oyamel forests, no doubt. It is known that the monarchs fly east of the Great Lakes and south-southwest in areas west of the Great Lakes, but their exact migratory path is still being plotted, today.
What is it that guides them, I wondered? Do they follow the sun? Do they sense the ebbing of the summer warmth? Apparently, what the monarch butterflies sense is the changing amount of light present and the variability of day and nighttime temperatures. With the change of seasons from fall to winter comes the inevitable shortening of the days, longer nights, and also colder nighttime temperatures. When these characteristics show up, the monarchs leave for their overwintering sites as much as thousands of miles away.
Unfortunately, the monarchs are becoming more and more vulnerable in their overwintering sites in the high-altitude fir forests of the Transvolcanic Range of Mexico; only two of the eleven known roosting sites are well protected from logging. The oyamel trees on which the monarchs cluster are valuable lumber sources, and local people need additional sources of income. If the roost sites are destroyed, monarch populations are likely to decline drastically. Protecting the roost sites is difficult because preservation of the sites and the monarch butterfly will conflict with the increasing needs and changing priorities of a growing Mexican population Continued development may mean that a winter may soon come when the monarchs no longer have a place to rest.
Once the butterflies reach their roosting site, they cluster in large numbers in the branches and trunks of oyamel trees. While clustering they stay relatively still and maintain low metabolic rates. In mid-February, the monarchs at the roost sites become more active and mating behavior begins. By the end of February, some of the monarchs begin moving northward, and by mid-March the roost is usually depleted. This begins the spring migration. The spring migration starts out with only about half of the original roosting population. Forty to sixty percent of the monarchs die during their stay in Mexico. During the spring migration, the monarch butterflies return to their homes in Canada and the northern most parts of the United States. Along the way, they roost and reproduce, giving rise to new butterflies that will continue the spring flight back.
In Australia and New Zealand the monarch is known as the Wanderer Butterfly. It is now believed that the butterfly has evolved to follow the pattern of the growth of its larvae’s food source: milkweed.
Milkweed, the host plant of the monarch, has also become a serious concern. In Canada, milkweed has been declared a noxious weed. This means that the plant is considered illegal and cannot be allowed to grow on private or public lands in Canada. Although not labeled noxious in the states, farmers consider the plant a nuisance to crops and often use herbicides to control it along with other weeds. More and more roadsides are being planted in grass instead of being allowed to overgrow with wildflowers and weeds. The result is that butterflies have fewer places in the wild to find nectar and lay their eggs. The place the monarchs once knew as “the land of milkweed and nectar,” alas, is changing and now offers them an uncertain future, at best.
A few days after the big expedition, as I was walking to the mailbox to retrieve the day’s delivery, I noticed a monarch butterfly directly in front of me on a patch of newly blossoming asters. Instinctively, I knew this butterfly would not fly away as I approached it and held out my finger. As I suspected, it got right on and allowed me a moment to appreciate it before it flew away, joining other wanderers on their annual quest. No one really knows, for sure, what next year’s migration will bring. Will the monarchs find the winter sanctuary they seek and will they return, again, next spring? Their fate is uncertain, at best, so I remind myself to cherish the bright, warm memories that were created while the moments were allowed to unfold freely – without restrictions, conditions or expectations.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
I Remember Spinach
The Benefits/Disadvantages of Being A Lazy Gardener
It’s early autumn, the sun is shining, and the temperature is mild: an ideal time to walk through the garden, take stock of what worked and what didn’t, collect seeds, plant an experimental fall crop or two and make plans for the seasons ahead.
I love gardening, but I will admit, I’m sloppy and lazy. Most dedicated and seasoned gardeners adhere to a strict schedule. They start their seeds at the same time each year, in order to be able to plant them outdoors in carefully prepared beds, at precisely the optimal time for healthy growth.
My method is a bit more casual. Each year, I start my seeds indoors whenever I get around to it (depending on how tired I am of winter and how seriously affected by Spring Fever I am). Sometimes I start as early as February – sometimes as late as April. This past year, I started some broccoli seeds in late March. I don’t know what I was thinking except, “If they grow, they grow.” I wasn’t really looking into the future and wasn’t really planning on planting them outside at any specific time. As it turned out, it wasn’t until late June/early July before I got around to transplanting the small, leggy and anemic seedlings outside in the garden. I didn’t think they would make it, and even considered putting them right into the compost pile, but somehow they persevered and stuck it out through a pretty rough season.
Luckily, my neighbors generously donated some of their extra broccoli seedlings, and since theirs were a lot larger and healthier than mine, they didn’t seem to mind sitting around for a couple of weeks waiting to be planted, and now, I’m happy to report, they are doing fine. Of course, it took the entire season for them to catch up and while more prudent gardeners were enjoying their broccoli, mine was still struggling for survival. Now that summer is over, they have just started to produce. My seed-started broccoli is a few weeks behind the (late) broccoli my neighbors supplied. I wasn’t sure mine would make it to the end of the season, but, incredibly, they are still going and will probably be ready for picking in the next few weeks.
So, what I have ended up doing, unwittingly, is to extend the season and while most are cleaning out their gardens and throwing their spent broccoli plants into the compost, I’m getting ready to pick and enjoy the florets just being produced -- all this, with no effort on my part at all. I didn’t work or fortify the soil, in fact, the soil is pretty hard and clay-like. I didn’t mulch around the plants. I didn’t pick off the cabbage loopers and I didn’t water the plants at all -- even when we went weeks without significant rainfall. I just sat back and waited and watched.
Another thing that happened while I fiddled and frolicked this summer, was that I totally neglected the early crop of swiss chard I grew. I let a couple of the plants go to seed, (these actually happened to be plants that overwintered in my garden), wondering if the seeds would be viable, and now, much to my surprise, I have a whole patch of baby swiss chard that will be ready for picking, most likely, by mid-fall. Sweet.
And I’ll not forget the radishes – I planted some seeds two seasons ago and have found that this plant loves to reproduce. I also left a couple of radishes in over winter just to see what would happen and found that I didn’t have to plant any seeds at all this year. A whole patch of radishes grew from the seeds (some still attached to the original radish plants,) and subsequently self-sowed themselves yet again -- awesome (if you like radishes.)
So, for this season’s fall crop, I am once again a bit late, and actually wasn’t even planning a fall crop until I was prompted by my neighbors. They remembered me, once again, and graciously donated some of the seeds that their arugala plants had just produced. I scattered them haphazardly September 1st, in a small patch where I had just dug up some potatoes, and much to my surprise, they sprouted within a couple of days. They are now doing fine and ready to be picked as baby greens.
Two things I did get an early start on last season were spinach and lettuce. I made my own baby greens mix which consisted of Oakleaf and Buttercrunch lettuce and Melody spinach. I fashioned a simple, small, cold frame out of an old shelving unit and some plastic wrap that kept the crop warm and moist. I was enjoying my baby greens as early as early May. Unfortunately, I let them bolt and didn’t think about them again, at all, until the first recent E.coli situation with spinach came about. If I had been on the ball, I would have planted a successive crop that would be ready right about now.
If I can’t confidently buy spinach in my local supermarket (the last time I tried was a few days before the recalls, and I have to admit, none of it looked very appealing to me), I’d much rather grow it, myself. Something about bagged greens just seems wrong, anyway, and how many times over the past few years has the FDA issued warnings about bagged salad? So much so that a special lettuce safety initiative was set up.
According to the FDA’s website: “The FDA developed the Lettuce Safety Initiative www.cfsan.fda.gov/~dms/lettsafe.html in response to recurring outbreaks of E. coli O157:H7 in lettuce. As a result of this recent outbreak, the initiative has been expanded to cover spinach.
Foodborne illnesses happen more frequently than I feel comfortable with, I’ll tell you. Even if the greens are washed thoroughly and contaminant free when they leave the processing plant, when you consider the distances they have to travel and the length of time they sit around, it’s no wonder they look wilted and damaged by the time they reach local grocery stores. Even the organic mesclun mixes available are less than attractive to me now, especially since I have found how easy it is to grow my own salad greens.
Getting back on the gardening ball, I decided to plant a fall crop of Buttercrunch lettuce and Melody spinach. Baby spinach is delicious and can be picked and eaten as early as leaves begin to form. This batch just might be ready before the first frost hits, and with the recent shortage of spinach, it will certainly be a welcome salad green around here.
There’s a wide variety of salad greens that can be grown together to make your own personalized mix and they can even be grown in pots that can be taken indoors or covered when the temperature drops too low.
Certain greens like spinach and chard are not at all bothered by a light frost and actually do better in the crisp, cool, fall weather -- as opposed to the warmer spring and summer weather -- so this fall crop just might have a chance and I just might be enjoying fresh spinach again soon. If not, I suppose, there’s always next year!
It’s early autumn, the sun is shining, and the temperature is mild: an ideal time to walk through the garden, take stock of what worked and what didn’t, collect seeds, plant an experimental fall crop or two and make plans for the seasons ahead.
I love gardening, but I will admit, I’m sloppy and lazy. Most dedicated and seasoned gardeners adhere to a strict schedule. They start their seeds at the same time each year, in order to be able to plant them outdoors in carefully prepared beds, at precisely the optimal time for healthy growth.
My method is a bit more casual. Each year, I start my seeds indoors whenever I get around to it (depending on how tired I am of winter and how seriously affected by Spring Fever I am). Sometimes I start as early as February – sometimes as late as April. This past year, I started some broccoli seeds in late March. I don’t know what I was thinking except, “If they grow, they grow.” I wasn’t really looking into the future and wasn’t really planning on planting them outside at any specific time. As it turned out, it wasn’t until late June/early July before I got around to transplanting the small, leggy and anemic seedlings outside in the garden. I didn’t think they would make it, and even considered putting them right into the compost pile, but somehow they persevered and stuck it out through a pretty rough season.
Luckily, my neighbors generously donated some of their extra broccoli seedlings, and since theirs were a lot larger and healthier than mine, they didn’t seem to mind sitting around for a couple of weeks waiting to be planted, and now, I’m happy to report, they are doing fine. Of course, it took the entire season for them to catch up and while more prudent gardeners were enjoying their broccoli, mine was still struggling for survival. Now that summer is over, they have just started to produce. My seed-started broccoli is a few weeks behind the (late) broccoli my neighbors supplied. I wasn’t sure mine would make it to the end of the season, but, incredibly, they are still going and will probably be ready for picking in the next few weeks.
So, what I have ended up doing, unwittingly, is to extend the season and while most are cleaning out their gardens and throwing their spent broccoli plants into the compost, I’m getting ready to pick and enjoy the florets just being produced -- all this, with no effort on my part at all. I didn’t work or fortify the soil, in fact, the soil is pretty hard and clay-like. I didn’t mulch around the plants. I didn’t pick off the cabbage loopers and I didn’t water the plants at all -- even when we went weeks without significant rainfall. I just sat back and waited and watched.
Another thing that happened while I fiddled and frolicked this summer, was that I totally neglected the early crop of swiss chard I grew. I let a couple of the plants go to seed, (these actually happened to be plants that overwintered in my garden), wondering if the seeds would be viable, and now, much to my surprise, I have a whole patch of baby swiss chard that will be ready for picking, most likely, by mid-fall. Sweet.
And I’ll not forget the radishes – I planted some seeds two seasons ago and have found that this plant loves to reproduce. I also left a couple of radishes in over winter just to see what would happen and found that I didn’t have to plant any seeds at all this year. A whole patch of radishes grew from the seeds (some still attached to the original radish plants,) and subsequently self-sowed themselves yet again -- awesome (if you like radishes.)
So, for this season’s fall crop, I am once again a bit late, and actually wasn’t even planning a fall crop until I was prompted by my neighbors. They remembered me, once again, and graciously donated some of the seeds that their arugala plants had just produced. I scattered them haphazardly September 1st, in a small patch where I had just dug up some potatoes, and much to my surprise, they sprouted within a couple of days. They are now doing fine and ready to be picked as baby greens.
Two things I did get an early start on last season were spinach and lettuce. I made my own baby greens mix which consisted of Oakleaf and Buttercrunch lettuce and Melody spinach. I fashioned a simple, small, cold frame out of an old shelving unit and some plastic wrap that kept the crop warm and moist. I was enjoying my baby greens as early as early May. Unfortunately, I let them bolt and didn’t think about them again, at all, until the first recent E.coli situation with spinach came about. If I had been on the ball, I would have planted a successive crop that would be ready right about now.
If I can’t confidently buy spinach in my local supermarket (the last time I tried was a few days before the recalls, and I have to admit, none of it looked very appealing to me), I’d much rather grow it, myself. Something about bagged greens just seems wrong, anyway, and how many times over the past few years has the FDA issued warnings about bagged salad? So much so that a special lettuce safety initiative was set up.
According to the FDA’s website: “The FDA developed the Lettuce Safety Initiative www.cfsan.fda.gov/~dms/lettsafe.html in response to recurring outbreaks of E. coli O157:H7 in lettuce. As a result of this recent outbreak, the initiative has been expanded to cover spinach.
Foodborne illnesses happen more frequently than I feel comfortable with, I’ll tell you. Even if the greens are washed thoroughly and contaminant free when they leave the processing plant, when you consider the distances they have to travel and the length of time they sit around, it’s no wonder they look wilted and damaged by the time they reach local grocery stores. Even the organic mesclun mixes available are less than attractive to me now, especially since I have found how easy it is to grow my own salad greens.
Getting back on the gardening ball, I decided to plant a fall crop of Buttercrunch lettuce and Melody spinach. Baby spinach is delicious and can be picked and eaten as early as leaves begin to form. This batch just might be ready before the first frost hits, and with the recent shortage of spinach, it will certainly be a welcome salad green around here.
There’s a wide variety of salad greens that can be grown together to make your own personalized mix and they can even be grown in pots that can be taken indoors or covered when the temperature drops too low.
Certain greens like spinach and chard are not at all bothered by a light frost and actually do better in the crisp, cool, fall weather -- as opposed to the warmer spring and summer weather -- so this fall crop just might have a chance and I just might be enjoying fresh spinach again soon. If not, I suppose, there’s always next year!
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Feeding the Beasts
After too many years of destruction and devastation I have finally decided it just might be a simple case of keeping the beasts fed. Maybe if they are fed somewhere else, they won’t come looking for it over here or maybe my garden is their Field of Gastronomic Dreams. If we grow it they will come.
Case in point: those wascally wabbits. This year, Momma “C” (Cottontail) decided to transfer her youngens from a location of almost complete exposure to a more concealed location where there just so happens to be an abundant assortment of tasty, nourishing treats. There are berries galore, flowers and grasses and clover of every different variety, and leafy greens that are downright delectable – well, to a rabbit anyway – all because (much to the dismay of my parents and others) we are not avid lawn mowers.
Yes, it can be perceived as being a touch on the sloppy side. Our backyard may look like a scene from Wild Kingdom but we do enjoy the diversity of native plant life (weeds to some are wildflowers and herbs to us) that grows when allowed to and we do enjoy the wildlife it attracts -- as long as they respect the boundaries.
The young rabbits seem satisfied (for the time being) not having to venture out into the open too frequently; what’s more, they are surrounded by choice cuisine they seem to enjoy.
The question is: how long will this bliss state last? My little kitchen garden is growing fairly well with little or no major damage thus far. Everything is small, but intact, for the most part.
But what if the litter of young cottontails I’ve been avidly protecting from my natural born mutant killer cat turn on me and decide to invade? I LOVE the baby bunnies. I want to hold them and pet them and name them George, but summer is normally a time of consistent cottontail carnage wrought at the fangs and polydactyled (six-toed) claws of my cat. This year, I decided to keep her indoors rather than have to subject myself, yet again, to those terrible, haunting, pathetic bunny screams in the night.
So, what if the rabbits become curiouser and curiouser and start venturing out of their hole beneath the thicket as they grow and expand the perimeters of their awareness and hopping abilities?
Will I be ready for a surprise attack? Given my sloth-like nature, I seriously doubt it. The law of least effort is one that pretty much rules my life. I could start fencing in the whole garden, of course, but I won’t. At least, not this lifetime, er, I mean year. So, what’s this poor girl to do?
What if I just let the grass and “weeds” keep growing? Lord have mercy, she didn’t really mean that, did she? Yeah, I did. Unmowed grass to the slightly squewed observer looks like natural fencing. The grass is long, higher than they can jump right now, and the stalks are thick and tough, since they’ve been growing for a while. (Sorry, Mom.)
The grass also conceals the veggies growing there. If they do somehow manage to envision what dreamy pleasures might lie before them, it will still take a good deal of time and effort on their parts to chew their way through. So, quite frankly, if they do get in, they kinda deserve at least some of the spoils, right? But, for the love of god, just, please, not the broccoli, NOT THE BROCCOLI! (I hope.)
Just how long will this last ditch non-effort keep the beasts at bay? We shall see, dear friends, we shall see. I’ve counted at least five rabbits of various sizes and ages total, so far, positioned in strategic locations around me, but I sense there may be a whole faction I don’t see. Not yet. But, the sun is beginning to set, and I hear cottontails love the smell of parsley in the evening.
Case in point: those wascally wabbits. This year, Momma “C” (Cottontail) decided to transfer her youngens from a location of almost complete exposure to a more concealed location where there just so happens to be an abundant assortment of tasty, nourishing treats. There are berries galore, flowers and grasses and clover of every different variety, and leafy greens that are downright delectable – well, to a rabbit anyway – all because (much to the dismay of my parents and others) we are not avid lawn mowers.
Yes, it can be perceived as being a touch on the sloppy side. Our backyard may look like a scene from Wild Kingdom but we do enjoy the diversity of native plant life (weeds to some are wildflowers and herbs to us) that grows when allowed to and we do enjoy the wildlife it attracts -- as long as they respect the boundaries.
The young rabbits seem satisfied (for the time being) not having to venture out into the open too frequently; what’s more, they are surrounded by choice cuisine they seem to enjoy.
The question is: how long will this bliss state last? My little kitchen garden is growing fairly well with little or no major damage thus far. Everything is small, but intact, for the most part.
But what if the litter of young cottontails I’ve been avidly protecting from my natural born mutant killer cat turn on me and decide to invade? I LOVE the baby bunnies. I want to hold them and pet them and name them George, but summer is normally a time of consistent cottontail carnage wrought at the fangs and polydactyled (six-toed) claws of my cat. This year, I decided to keep her indoors rather than have to subject myself, yet again, to those terrible, haunting, pathetic bunny screams in the night.
So, what if the rabbits become curiouser and curiouser and start venturing out of their hole beneath the thicket as they grow and expand the perimeters of their awareness and hopping abilities?
Will I be ready for a surprise attack? Given my sloth-like nature, I seriously doubt it. The law of least effort is one that pretty much rules my life. I could start fencing in the whole garden, of course, but I won’t. At least, not this lifetime, er, I mean year. So, what’s this poor girl to do?
What if I just let the grass and “weeds” keep growing? Lord have mercy, she didn’t really mean that, did she? Yeah, I did. Unmowed grass to the slightly squewed observer looks like natural fencing. The grass is long, higher than they can jump right now, and the stalks are thick and tough, since they’ve been growing for a while. (Sorry, Mom.)
The grass also conceals the veggies growing there. If they do somehow manage to envision what dreamy pleasures might lie before them, it will still take a good deal of time and effort on their parts to chew their way through. So, quite frankly, if they do get in, they kinda deserve at least some of the spoils, right? But, for the love of god, just, please, not the broccoli, NOT THE BROCCOLI! (I hope.)
Just how long will this last ditch non-effort keep the beasts at bay? We shall see, dear friends, we shall see. I’ve counted at least five rabbits of various sizes and ages total, so far, positioned in strategic locations around me, but I sense there may be a whole faction I don’t see. Not yet. But, the sun is beginning to set, and I hear cottontails love the smell of parsley in the evening.
Friday, June 23, 2006
SPIDERS vs. EARWIGS
I’m a little obsessive about bugs. I’m not ashamed to say it. For example, something that just landed on my keyboard made me jump literally out of my seat. What might it have been? A spider? I like spiders. But, I still don’t like when one lands on me unexpectedly. I don’t like thinking for one second that it has the upper hand over me. It has successfully invaded my private space. It has neglected to respect my higher status in the natural order. My world – the universe – has been turned upside down. I must accept and concede defeat. I’m not a good loser.
Irony has molded my life experience in this way. Summer is my favorite season. It is also a tough time for me due to the ongoing epic battle between my bug-phobic self and my dreaded nemeses – earwigs. I don’t know. I just hate ‘em. And somewhere early on in life I decided they were the vilest of vile insects, topping even cockroaches and grubs who came in at sloppy second and third.
Maybe it’s because they are insulting to my aesthetic sense. Those pincer tails raised and curled - eeeewwww…or the fact that they move so fast they virtually disappear before the eyes as they scurry and scamper away from daylight like shrunken mutated nosferatu. In this sense, perfectly repulsive as they are, they are indelibly etched in my psyche and cause me considerable emotional anguish.
So, maybe there is a great lesson to be learned.
Earwigs are basically decomposers in the food chain. And no, contrary to the early European belief, they do not crawl into the ears of sleeping people and bore into their brains. They do provide a necessary and good service in the overall scheme of things, I suppose. But sometimes there are entirely too many of them around for my own personal sense of security and comfort. I don’t like thinking they might be crawling all over me at night trying to get to a crumb that fell into my tee-shirt, or that they might scurry out of a dishtowel and up my arm one morning before I’ve had my first cup of coffee…I don’t react well to those types of surprises. I entirely lose it, scream, cry -- it’s not a pretty sight.
Spiders, on the other hand, have earned my respect and admiration. Unlike the scavenging, plundering, intrusive earwig, the spider is a selective hunter, an artisan, a crafter. And it's not an insect at all. It's an arachnid. An ally. For someone who abhors many bugs, the way I do, the spider provides a particularly valuable service, and one at little or no charge, since I would be tempted to hire a professional exterminator, had they not been quite so efficient and plentiful.
So, what I’ve found, in the ultimate battle of the bugs is that I’ve had to do very little, myself, but refrain from squashing the spiders. They are terrific earwig exterminators and as far as I’ve been able to observe, they always win.
Irony has molded my life experience in this way. Summer is my favorite season. It is also a tough time for me due to the ongoing epic battle between my bug-phobic self and my dreaded nemeses – earwigs. I don’t know. I just hate ‘em. And somewhere early on in life I decided they were the vilest of vile insects, topping even cockroaches and grubs who came in at sloppy second and third.
Maybe it’s because they are insulting to my aesthetic sense. Those pincer tails raised and curled - eeeewwww…or the fact that they move so fast they virtually disappear before the eyes as they scurry and scamper away from daylight like shrunken mutated nosferatu. In this sense, perfectly repulsive as they are, they are indelibly etched in my psyche and cause me considerable emotional anguish.
So, maybe there is a great lesson to be learned.
Earwigs are basically decomposers in the food chain. And no, contrary to the early European belief, they do not crawl into the ears of sleeping people and bore into their brains. They do provide a necessary and good service in the overall scheme of things, I suppose. But sometimes there are entirely too many of them around for my own personal sense of security and comfort. I don’t like thinking they might be crawling all over me at night trying to get to a crumb that fell into my tee-shirt, or that they might scurry out of a dishtowel and up my arm one morning before I’ve had my first cup of coffee…I don’t react well to those types of surprises. I entirely lose it, scream, cry -- it’s not a pretty sight.
Spiders, on the other hand, have earned my respect and admiration. Unlike the scavenging, plundering, intrusive earwig, the spider is a selective hunter, an artisan, a crafter. And it's not an insect at all. It's an arachnid. An ally. For someone who abhors many bugs, the way I do, the spider provides a particularly valuable service, and one at little or no charge, since I would be tempted to hire a professional exterminator, had they not been quite so efficient and plentiful.
So, what I’ve found, in the ultimate battle of the bugs is that I’ve had to do very little, myself, but refrain from squashing the spiders. They are terrific earwig exterminators and as far as I’ve been able to observe, they always win.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Toad and Dragonfly
Toad was busily occupied snatching carpenter ants from a rotting piece of spruce.
He amazed himself time and time again with his own accuracy and speed.
Just as his mind began to be carried off by the thoughts of his many great accomplishments,
Dragonfly landed promptly on his head.
Her eyes looked him up-side-down and she smiled “Hello.”
He gagged on a leg or antenna and started to belch “What the…”
when his eyes were drawn to her wings,
barely visible,
but catching all of the colors of the rainbow
in the early evening light.
He tried, but just could not find the words to express just how tasty she seemed to him.
Carpenter ants were sweet little snacks; she, on the other hand, was an entire meal -- and then some!
But, there was something about her.
She was beautiful
and did not look away as those who are beautiful often do.
She wasn’t even afraid that he might eat her. She didn’t seem to have a care in the world. And she wanted to be his friend.
“What?” he blurped out when she asked.
“Would you like to be my friend?” she repeated, still smiling, her wide dark eyes reflecting his puzzled expression back to him.
“Well, I, er, sure, OK, fine then” he squeaked and hastily bounced away.
She was still attached to his head when she asked, “Where are we going, friend?”
“Anywhere we want to?” he asked back.
“Sure, OK, fine then.” she smiled.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
