The belief that Jewelweed helps to stop the effects of Poison Ivy is nearly as prevalent as the plant itself.  In case of the ivy itches, so goes the saying, crumple up a bunch of Jewelweed leaves and briskly rub the affected spot to relieve the rash.  It is a nice idea, but baseless. The juicy leaves do provide some moist towelet action, but the weed offers no real chemical anti-dote to the ivy.

  The Spotted Jewelweed has no need of any such false properties to make it worthy of attention. This late summer/autumn bloomer is an eye-catcher – especially on dewy mornings.  Jewel-like beads of water adorn every leaf (a possible reason behind the name) and the orange flowers glow in the low angled rays of the sunrise.

  Jewelweed flowers are shaped something like upside down elf shoes, with tubular openings and long spurs at the “toe.”  Hummingbirds and long-tongued bees are the primary pollinators. These critters are able to reach way back to the nectar reserve which is located in the spur. As they do so, they brush past the anthers and distribute the pollen. A few sneaky minded bees, however, have learned to chew holes in the spurs and bypass what nature intended.

  One wonders if these sneaky nectar thieves are ever struck down by lightening for perpetrating crimes against the natural order?  I doubt they are, because these flowers are not the primary reproductive means of this plant.  It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature but, then again, she is not easily fooled.

  Hidden in plain view among the showy flowers are dozens of tiny flowers without petals (see here). These micro blooms never open and are, in fact, the primary seed production sites. They are not subject to thievery or admiration. Like plain, but smart, sisters they go about their job in relative obscurity while their showy siblings get all the glory and only half the work done.

  Regardless of who actually makes the seeds, the single most spectacular thing about the Spotted Jewelweed is it’s method of getting rid of them. The seed pods are touch-sensitive and when ripe they explode upon contact. A swollen pod (see here) looks something like a green peanut by the time it is ready to ‘blow.” All it takes is a gentle brushing or touch to set the explosive reaction off in which the skin splits and the central core curls back like a spring. In the process, two or three large seeds are sent flying (see here).  There is little wonder that these plants are often called “Touch-Me-Nots.”

  By the way, the next time you set off one of these little pods you should grab a few of the seeds and pop ‘em in your mouth. Then, while you’re at it, roll naked in a patch of Poison Ivy and bath yourself in jewelweed stems. The end result of this activity will be that you’ll discover that the seeds have a nice nutty taste and that Mother Nature has no mercy for stupidity.

        I’ve never heard it before, but there is apparently an old saying that goes something like: “if there is dew on the lawn webs in the morning, it will be a beautiful day.”  This is basically true. It is a meteorological fact that a heavy morning dew is a good indication that it will not rain during the coming day. The reference to lawn webs has apparently been eliminated over the years due to the arachnophobic tendencies of suburban folk (this is not a fact, mind you, only a conjecture on my part).

  Dew on the grass is certainly enough to provide the day’s forecast, but it is hard to see the droplets without close examination. I would like to suggest that the spider webs should be brought back into the picture. Wet websites can be seen from a good distance away and can provide the immediacy of a forecast much better than a dry internet weather web site can. Still, we’ve got to get over our fear of the webmaster in this case.

  This bit of weather wisdom refers to the flat sheet-like weavings of funnel weaver spiders – a.k.a. “grass spiders.” What fall morning would be complete without the sight of several shimmering dew laden webs laid out on the grass like so many doilies? Funnel Weavers create a thick mat-like web which funnels down into a retreat chamber off the one side. They create their weavings over the surface of the grass, thick shrubbery, fence rails, and window ledges as a means to capture insect prey. Unlike other spiders, they do not destroy their web each evening, but repair or add to it every day. Hidden inside this tunnel lair (see above), or perched patiently at the entrance, the spider itself awaits breakfast in the form of a small stumbling creature.

  I admit this leggy beast can look frightening – even dangerous. They can be up to ¾inch long (you always measure spider body length without the additional leg span) and even somewhat Buick-like if seen in the right circumstance. Grass spiders are brown, boldly striped, and typically endowed with long bristle covered legs.  Their spinnerets, the organs responsible for laying down the silk, extend like long stubby fingers from their back ends and, of course, there’s the thing about having eight eyes.  Even so equipped, Funnel weavers have poor eyesight and rely on touch sensitivity to tell them when “the first course” has arrived.

  Their web is a fascinating structure.  Apart from the funnel, the most distinctive thing about these structures is the tight interconnected knitting of the threads. The silk used in this design is non-sticky and is laid out to function as a foot tangler. Anything that steps onto the mat telegraphs a vibration back to the spider. The weaver then pounces with lightening speed on its victim, injects it with venom, and carries it back to the webmaster home site deep within the funnel. 

  Normally, these shy critters scurry back into their dens at the passing of our shadow and are not aggressive or dangerous to people. Sure they’re venomous, but only to the extent that they can immobilize their tiny prey and that’s it.

  I was puzzled by the sight of an apparently un-fazed Funnel Weaver the other day. Given their skittish nature, I found it odd that this individual didn’t flee as I approached it. This individual stood in the hallway at the junction of the floor and wall and even appeared to be raising a leg in a threatening manner. Closer approach revealed that it was in an interesting predicament, however. This guy was caught in a web. Yes, I said “caught” in a web. It was thoroughly entangled by one leg and was partially hanging from this appendage (see here).

  In an ordered world, spiders aren’t supposed to get caught in webs. This one was a male (you can tell by the two pedipalps that look like an extra set of small legs next to the mouth). Male Weavers tend to wander about looking for, you guessed it, female Weavers and so they frequently are seen away from their own Teflon webs. This one pounced on the original small spider occupant of this house web, sucked it dry (look at the crumpled mass beneath it), and inadvertently got hung up in the tangle of sticky fibers. 

  Noting that he was already missing two out of his normal complement of eight legs, I figured that this wasn’t the first time he’s found himself so situated.  He probably ripped them off while satisfying his particular love of spider juice at an earlier date.  

  It took another half an hour, but the beast finally freed itself. It did so with some loss of dignity, but without loosing a third leg. There must be an old adage among funnel weavers that says something about not getting a leg up on the competition!

  Have you ever been ticked off?  I mean, really ticked to the point where you couldn’t get back to normal for hours afterward?  Well, I have.  After a nice morning meadow walk recently, I found myself getting so ticked that I was still left de-ticking the following morning. Why, I was still feeling effects of the incident days afterward. No, I’m not talking about getting mad, I’m talking about getting evenly covered by the hitch-hiking seeds of the Tick Trefoil plant.  When these seeds grab on for a ride, they are on for the full fare (see the pant leg above).

  During the early summer months Tick Trefoils, grassland members of the Pea family, express their family ties with rich magenta and pink blossoms that look much like those found on their garden variety cousins. Different species have different sized flowers but all produce very un-gardenlike hairy seed pods (see here). As the plants mature they begin to lean over and gradually bend closer and closer to the ground (something like people in this regard, eh?). The intention -if you can say that a growth habit implies a motive – is for some hairy beast to come along, rub against the seed pods, carry off a few of the seeds, and take them for a long distance ride. This transport service is expected to be provided free of charge or at little cost.

  When the Trefoils were developing their ingenious seed distribution scheme long ago, they did so with the idea that creatures such as woodchucks, deer, and rabbits would provide the taxi ride.  Hitch-hiking is a proven tactic for plants wishing to spread their ways. Burdock, Agrimony, and Enchanter’s Nightshade are a few other plants that have gone the four-legged delivery route. Humans were not part of the original plot, but their clothing proved to be the perfect transporting medium.    If my pant leg is any indication, this is a terribly effective method.

  I counted an average density of about 12 seeds per square inch on my pant legs below the knee. After further careful calculations, I came up with the total figure of around 1,023 ½ attached seeds – O.K., I didn’t actually take my calculations that far.  Perhaps you can do the math and let me know how many square inches of pant leg there are on a pair of Size…wait a minute, this is getting too personal.  Never mind, let’s just say I harvested several handfuls of seeds – including a few located in deeply private locations which I discovered later. It’s really hard to explain exactly what you are doing when standing in line at Meijer’s while de-ticking!

  Each Trefoil pod consists of a series of weakly linked segments that easily break apart on contact into separate triangular seeds (see here). They are covered with a fine coating of bristles which insures a Velcro-like adhesion to any rough surface. They cling tenaciously once attached. The common plant name, as well as the alternate names of “Tick Clover” or “Beggar Lice,” refers to this trait.

  In nature, the unwilling animal seed carrier is supposed to gradually shed these seeds as they rub up against other plants or groom them off. Either way, there is a significant distance laid between the pick-up and drop-off sites and the plant has “done some travel’n” to new potential grounds. With fuel prices the way they are, this ride-sharing is an admirable idea.

? I thought that you might like to know. That?s why I returned to that Ruby-throated Hummingbird nest once again ? you know the one I showed you last month. It was a late brooding female in a Sycamore Tree and I was curious about her success.

? In case you don?t know what I?m talking about you: A) are completely typical of ?my? reader base or B) you didn?t read the earlier ?Priceless Little Gem? entries. If you are an ?A?, please hold on for a moment while I advise the ?B?s? that they might want to catch up on things and look at the earlier August entries. Anyway, I thought you both would like to know that the little hummers have hatched and they appear to be in good shape. The ?gem? has produced a pair of ?gems.?

? I find nearly everything about these micro creatures fascinating, but I have to admit that this particular nest has been a pain in the neck. It?s cryptic location and height requires the observer to stand in one particular place and gaze skyward for an extended period of time. I managed to watch the nest for about 45 minutes but found that my fascination factor was gradually taken over by my fractured neck factor. ?I had to quit observing before I really wanted to and devote the rest of the day to the intent study of ground fauna. ?I couldn?t review my pictures until the next day.

? Well, my photo record is less than spectacular, but I?ve selected a few.? Apart from the above shot, where you can see the better part of one nestling and the beak of the other, I took a few more (here with one visible?and here with two beaks in view).? Based on apparent age of these birdlets, it seems that the female may have been sitting on young when we first encountered her.? It takes 8-12 days after hatching before baby hummers can maintain their own temperatures. These guys were without motherly attendance for about 20 minutes at a time, so it is apparent they were well into self-regulation.

? Another thing that marks them as ?well along? is that they could poop on their own.? For those of us who have experienced the joy of parenting, this is a big step for any species. One of the few highlights of watching this hummingbird nest was the occasional ?moon-rise? in which a tiny feathered butt rose up over the nest edge and forcibly shot a white stream of doo a foot or so from the edge.

? ?Earlier in their nestling careers, their mom had to physically grab a little white packet (called a fecal sac?) from the southern region of each chick and take it off to the dump. In one case ?not this one -a female was observed placing these little packets in a line on a branch immediately above the nest as a fecal form of d?cor!? Others have been known to eat these poo packets (without salt or sweetener I might add).

? This Sycamore tree female returned to the nest to feed her little ones only twice during the time I was there. This would put her squarely in the average hummingbird range of about 3 feedings per hour. Her time at the nest side was brief and active.? She clung to the side and directed her beak down the throat of each young while pumping in a slurry of nectar and insect juice ? pulling her head back at a sinuous angle to pull her bill out of the gaping infant mouths. She briefly paused once the feeding was done and appraised the general surroundings before buzzing off (see here). ?

? If all goes well, and my calculations are correct, these infant hummingbirds will be ready to leave the nest in about a week and half. It takes all that time and more for the nestlings to attain their full complement of iridescent feathers. I have seen it written that hummingbirds possess more feathers per square inch than any other bird. Considering that they barely qualify for a square inch of skin to hold those feathers, I guess I?ll have to pass on the accuracy of that statement. You can?t believe everything you read ? except here in ?Naturespeak? of course.

  I thought that you might like to know. That’s why I returned to that Ruby-throated Hummingbird nest once again – you know the one I showed you last month. It was a late brooding female in a Sycamore Tree and I was curious about her success.

  In case you don’t know what I’m talking about you: A) are completely typical of “my” reader base or B) you didn’t read the earlier “Priceless Little Gem” entries. If you are an “A”, please hold on for a moment while I advise the “B’s” that they might want to catch up on things and look at the earlier August entries. Anyway, I thought you both would like to know that the little hummers have hatched and they appear to be in good shape. The “gem” has produced a pair of “gems.”

  I find nearly everything about these micro creatures fascinating, but I have to admit that this particular nest has been a pain in the neck. It’s cryptic location and height requires the observer to stand in one particular place and gaze skyward for an extended period of time. I managed to watch the nest for about 45 minutes but found that my fascination factor was gradually taken over by my fractured neck factor.  I had to quit observing before I really wanted to and devote the rest of the day to the intent study of ground fauna.  I couldn’t review my pictures until the next day.

  Well, my photo record is less than spectacular, but I’ve selected a few.  Apart from the above shot, where you can see the better part of one nestling and the beak of the other, I took a few more (here with one visible and here with two beaks in view).  Based on apparent age of these birdlets, it seems that the female may have been sitting on young when we first encountered her.  It takes 8-12 days after hatching before baby hummers can maintain their own temperatures. These guys were without motherly attendance for about 20 minutes at a time, so it is apparent they were well into self-regulation.

  Another thing that marks them as “well along” is that they could poop on their own.  For those of us who have experienced the joy of parenting, this is a big step for any species. One of the few highlights of watching this hummingbird nest was the occasional “moon-rise” in which a tiny feathered butt rose up over the nest edge and forcibly shot a white stream of doo a foot or so from the edge.

   Earlier in their nestling careers, their mom had to physically grab a little white packet (called a fecal sac”) from the southern region of each chick and take it off to the dump. In one case –not this one -a female was observed placing these little packets in a line on a branch immediately above the nest as a fecal form of décor!  Others have been known to eat these poo packets (without salt or sweetener I might add).

  This Sycamore tree female returned to the nest to feed her little ones only twice during the time I was there. This would put her squarely in the average hummingbird range of about 3 feedings per hour. Her time at the nest side was brief and active.  She clung to the side and directed her beak down the throat of each young while pumping in a slurry of nectar and insect juice – pulling her head back at a sinuous angle to pull her bill out of the gaping infant mouths. She briefly paused once the feeding was done and appraised the general surroundings before buzzing off (see here).  

  If all goes well, and my calculations are correct, these infant hummingbirds will be ready to leave the nest in about a week and half. It takes all that time and more for the nestlings to attain their full complement of iridescent feathers. I have seen it written that hummingbirds possess more feathers per square inch than any other bird. Considering that they barely qualify for a square inch of skin to hold those feathers, I guess I’ll have to pass on the accuracy of that statement. You can’t believe everything you read – except here in “Naturespeak’ of course.

  Over the years, many creatures have been turned into the stuff of horror movie plots. Spiders, sharks, crocodiles, and even rats (remember Willard?) have been cast as evil forces of nature that only attack stupid people. Usually, for the sake of dramatic flare, these things have to either become gigantic or gather themselves into hordes of unimaginable proportion before they can go about their dastardly deeds. Birds of a different feather, for instance, had to flock together before Tippi Hedren considered them a threat in “The Birds.”

  In the B horror movie hey day of the 1950’s someone came to the conclusion that shrews were an untapped source of villainy. Apparently, someone read a book that said shrews had ravenous appetites and murderous ways. Such horrific promise certainly could not be overlooked.  From that kernel of an idea came a kernel of a movie called “The Killer Shrews.” The movie was released in 1959. It featured dogs dressed up as the “shrews”, a professor, a beautiful foreign chick and a crew of “other people” (you know, the ones you know will not make it to the end) who were trapped on an island full of ravenous genetically altered shrews. The two most memorable lines from that movie were “Senior, there ess a shrew in de basement,” and “don’t you even want to know about my accent?”

  I’ll give some credit to the writers of this movie. First of all, they showed remarkable restraint by supersizing these things to dog-size rather than elephant-size proportion– after all, shrews are among the tiniest of mammals, so Fido-sized is massive when that fact is considered. Secondly, when the professor explained that the escaped creatures will soon turn on each other and that all they had to do was hole up until they killed each other off, he was merely parroting scientific literature.  One such authoritative source states “if (the shrews) are not able to find food within about a 2 hour period, (they) will attack and eat each other.”  Another confidently says that shrews “are in a permanent state of raging.”  It is true that shrews can eat as much as 3 times their body weight in food every day.  They have tremendously high metabolisms. No wonder the writers felt confident with their plot line. It is very believable that a roaming band of killer shrews would still be hungry after eating everyone on the island and the horse.

  It was only a few weeks after I watched “The Killer Shrews” that a certain person in my house, who doesn’t want to be mentioned by name, was accosted by a Short-tailed Shrew (“Senior, there ees a shrew in de living room”). The tiny creature ran over her foot and thus condemned itself to death.  This certain person saw it earlier in the day and was willing to entertain my plea to let it slip quietly out the back porch door, which was left open. Unfortunately the creature failed to take the hint, performed the above act of personal space violation, and thus had to be caught in the jaws of death. 

  I introduce to you, ladies and gentlemen, that killer shrew (see above).  Short-tailed Shrews can get to be about 4 inches long, so among shrews they are relative giants (see here). Still, they are quite small and get mistaken for mice all the time.  They differ from these rodents in many ways, however.  First of all, they have pointy little snouts with pin-prick eyes and no obvious external ears.  Their short-cropped fur is velvety gray and, despite their name, their tail is quite short in comparison to the body.  Perhaps the biggest difference is their teeth. Mice have buck teeth and flat grinding molars while shrews are carnivores with 32 sharp little teeth and fang-like incisors.

  Pull down the lower lip of a dead shrew (they are much more co-operative that way) and you’ll see a hefty pair of lower incisors (see here). This type of shrew is in a group called the “red-toothed shrews” which possess colored teeth that make them look ominous. This shade is not the result of a bloody meal, it is only pigmented enamel.   There is a groove that runs between these incisors which acts as a conduit for injecting venomous saliva into their prey. Yes, short-tails are venomous.

  Located in the lower jaw, toxin glands exude a paralyzing agent that is employed to immobilize or kill prey outright. This type of shrew has been known to attack large prey such as mice, but their stock in trade is small invertebrate fare like worms, crickets and snails. A single bite from a Short-tail can immobilize a mealworm for up to 15 days. Whoa! This paralyzed food is stored for later consumption. Imagine the silent horror of seeing a pile of paralyzed snails. Those movie guys missed out on a great plot twist when they overlooked this little fact.

  Another fascinating shrew fact worth noting is that they have the ability to echo-locate.  Equipped with extremely poor vision and sense of smell, shrews send out ultra-sonic clicks to sense their environment. It’s too bad my little victim couldn’t have located the back door before it became a specimen.

  There are a good number of mammals on the planet that can echolocate, such as bats and whales, but only the European Water Shrew can share the claim to deadly spit. I definitely can see movie sequel potential here, perhaps “Taming of the Water Shrew.”

  Insect music is everywhere this time of year. I could say that “the hills are alive with the sound of music,” but here on the flatlands near the Erie shore we have no real hills.  We have a few fake ones, but they don’t count. It’s more accurate to say that “the fields, trees, and bushes are alive with the sound of crickets.” I doubt that the Hollywood version of Maria Von Trapp would have been caught dead singing those words as she ran through a tangled scrub thicket.  The camera would have lost sight of her and the crickets would have stopped calling. That’s no way to start a musical. This is probably one reason that “The Sound of Crickets” never made it to the big screen. The other reason is that cricket music isn’t all that musical to our ears.

  Sure, cricket chirps can be soothing at times, or even informative (see Naturespeak: Crickemometer), but for the most part they are rather annoying. To prove my point, listen to this recording and see how long you can take it (listen to Black-horned Tree Cricket– on full volume). This is the call of the Black-horned Tree Cricket.  Although this creature is in the same family as the soothing-toned Snowy Tree Cricket, his call is more migraine inspiring than mesmerizing.

  The Black-horned head driller, er…Tree Cricket, is only about a half inch in length. Like all tree crickets he is slender and relatively pale (see picture above).  They are a secretive lot that go about their daily lives in obscurity – that is until summer is nearly extinct. Then the males begin to perform their calls with machine-like precision in order to attract potential mates. Wings lifted high up off their abdomen, the guys rub a file on one wing against a ridge on the other to create their pulsating version of a love siren.

  Just for your own edification, you might like knowing that this call is produced at a numbing rate of about 35-45 pulses per second at a level of around 4 kHz (kilohertz that hurt). Because Black-horned Tree Crickets prefer lower vegetation, they are more frequently seen than their arboreal relatives. Still, they are not easy to find.

  It took me about ten minutes to locate this male (see here) even though my ears were beginning to bleed. He stopped calling immediately upon being discovered and froze into position.  His orientation at the base of the grape leaf apparently was not accidental, however.  As he was, the curl of the leaf formed a natural sound dish that amplified his manly tones. I found another individual a few minutes later and he was situated in the same exact kind of spot (see here). This little bit of acoustical posturing makes for better projection. Projection is the way to get the babes.

  Female Tree Crickets are lured in from afar by the sound of this music.  Once the gals are close in, the males have to switch from music to food in order to keep them around.  Underneath those musical wings lies a pair of cavities filled with sweet secretions.  So-called “Honey Pots” by keen tongued entomologists, these syrup dispensers are actually called metanotal glands. They exude a high protein brew which acts as a courtship gift.  The females are induced to crawl up onto the male’s back and imbibe in the nectar.  While she laps up the ambrosia (often lingering for up to an hour), the male successfully does his “reproductive thing.”

  Ah, Music and food – the stuff of annoying romance.

    Labor Day is often hailed as the last day of summer, but the actual calendar end doesn’t arrive until much later in the month. There’s no denying the presence of school supplies on the store shelves, but we’ve got plenty of “summer” left. The winds of seasonal change are blowing in from the north, however. Migrant birds are already stirring and some of the long distance travelers, such as Osprey and warblers, are already on the move.  

  One of these world travelers, a shorebird known as the Red Knot, arrived in our neck of the woods just last week (see above). It was feeding among the accumulated water plants cast upon the shore of Lake Erie at Lake Erie Metropark. The appearance of this weary traveler in S.E. Michigan is an occasion knot to be overlooked. They are rarely seen here. Knots breed in the high Arctic at such top-of-the-world places as Ellesmere Island and Siberia. The species migrates all the way to the bottom of the world to Patagonia and the Straits of Magellan and usually does so via an east coast route. Michigan is knot in this migrant’s travel guide. 

  By the way, in case you are attempting to calculate the mileage between the Arctic and the northern suburbs of the Antarctic, this is a distance of some 9,000 miles one way. Knot all of them go all the way to the end of South America, but most do.  By flying 18,000 miles annually, they can be considered as one of the champion migrants found on the planet. 

  Who knows why this bird showed up here (shoulda took a left at Moosejaw, perhaps?), but one explanation lies in the fact that it appears to be a young, and perhaps inexperienced, individual.  Counting this sighting, I have seen exactly one Red Knot in my lifetime so I can-knot make any deep comparative identification judgments. It does appear to match the guidebooks as a juvenile bird rather than a typical winter phase adult. This time of year the adults have an even gray back while this one has scalloping on the back (here, look at another view). I should also add that I did knot originally find the bird. It was spotted by an alert and very experienced birder who knows a good thing when he sees it.

   You are probably wondering at this point why this thing is called a Red Knot. If you’re knot, you should be.  Take the “red” part of the name, for instance. This bird does knot have a speck of red on it. As it turns out, both sexes of this species have robin red breasts during the breeding season (see here). They shed the fancy stuff during the off season.

  The “knot” part, now, that’s a different beast.  To be perfectly honest, I don’t think anyone really knows where that name comes from. One of the explanations states that “knot” is derived from “Knut.”  The species name, Caladris canutus, was given by Karl Linnaeus in honor of King Canutus the king of Denmark.  This guy once had the gall (or is it Gaul?) to “command the tide to keep back and not approach him.”  The sea said “not!” and the king was forced to “retire there from” to keep from getting wet.  Because this is a bird of the tide line, this seems an appropriate title.  The thing becomes strained when it is explained that Canutus’s nick-name was Knut and that it was corrupted to “Knot.”  Like the sea, I say “Knot!”

  The other likely, although still hard to accept explanation, is that the bird’s call sounds like “knot, knot, knot.”  Go to this web page (here) and click on the part that says “listen to the bird’s call” and decide for yourself.

  Unfortunately, all of this name stuff fades into obscurity when you consider that this bird has fallen onto hard times as of late. Once one of the most abundant of shorebirds, the North American population of Knots has plummeted within the past few decades. No one is sure exactly why.  Some blame this on a reduced number of horseshoe crabs upon whose eggs these migrates depend.  Fortunately, elsewhere in the world they appear to be holding their own.

  Let’s hope this youthful migrant will complete his southbound journey by summer’s true end. We wish him luck when he returns to the arctic next spring, ties the knot, and has a family of little knotlets who inherit their directional skills from their mother.

? If you are one of those late summer hay fever sufferers, I can take one thing off your mind. Goldenrod is not to blame for your condition. Sure, the yellow G ?rod flower begins to bloom about the same time your nose starts to run, but it?s a matter of coincidence. The real culprit is ragweed. The Giant Ragweed is the biggest offender- as you might have guessed by the name.

? It?s all about the pollen, you see.? Goldenrod has big sticky pollen. It takes an insect to move big sticky pollen around. Assuming you don?t let insects to fly up your nose, you are safe from any reaction to goldenrod pollen. ?Giant ragweed has dinky dry drifty pollen. It only takes a puff of wind to move it into your nose. Ragweed itty bitty bad, Goldenrod sticky big good. That?s about it.

? O.K., I see that I have a few more paragraphs to go here. I?d better give you a little bit more. This is supposed to be a nature blog with ?facts? and ?explanations,? isn?t it? Well, let me better introduce you to your enemy and mine, the Giant Ragweed. You can see the picture above and here.

? The G ?rag is easy to identify. ?It?s a big annual plant that can get up to 17 feet high. It has large three to five lobed leaves that look something like maple leaves. They don?t really look like maple leaves, but I couldn?t think of another leaf to compare it to off hand. ?The floral parts, you know those nasty things responsible for the pollen, are born on spikes. Even a close up look at the flowers (see here) reveals that they are without petals, sepals, or beauty.? The individual flowers are best described as nodding and un-noticable.

? Somebody figured out that an individual Giant Ragweed plant can produce some 10 million pollen grains daily and more than a billion during its complete blooming cycle.? That?s a lot of drifting pollen even if you cut those numbers in half and then divide by three. ?Remember, every one of those pollen grains are easily carried aloft and a-sneezing.

? At this point, you might expect me to say that this is an alien weed from someplace in Central Europe. Actually, this plant is an indigenous species? which means it is native!? Yes, it belongs here just like buffalos, bald eagles, and black bears. The only thing foreign about this plant is its scientific name which happens to be Ambrosia trifida. Believe it or not, that means ?three parted leaf plant which is food for the gods.?? That is a god awful name, if you ask me.

? With all the wonderful delights in the universe, I find it hard to believe that any but the lesser ?gods? would consider this plant a delicacy. Deities apparently don?t get hayfever do they? This is not to say that the G ?rag hasn?t proven useful for us earthbound human types. Depending on the tribal affiliation, it has been used as a disinfectant, lung treatment, anti-diarrheal, and even a psychological aide by Native Americans. The directive for this latter category was to ?chew the root in order to drive away fear of the night.? ?

? Do you want to know another strange fact?? Apparently night crawlers are responsible for spreading the Giant Ragweed. ?Your average worm buries 127 seeds over a 500 square foot area, according to one study.? It looks like the lowly are responsible for the spreading of giants. Perhaps the ultimate irony is that night crawlers are originally from Europe.

? Now don?t you feel bad for ragg?n on the harmless little goldenrod all these years when you shoulda been directing those negative vibes elsewhere? The only right thing to do is to chew on a ragweed root, go out into the night without fear, find a crawler, and chew him out. It?s time to place your hayfever blame where it really belongs.

  If you are one of those late summer hay fever sufferers, I can take one thing off your mind. Goldenrod is not to blame for your condition. Sure, the yellow G ‘rod flower begins to bloom about the same time your nose starts to run, but it’s a matter of coincidence. The real culprit is ragweed. The Giant Ragweed is the biggest offender- as you might have guessed by the name.

  It’s all about the pollen, you see.  Goldenrod has big sticky pollen. It takes an insect to move big sticky pollen around. Assuming you don’t let insects to fly up your nose, you are safe from any reaction to goldenrod pollen.  Giant ragweed has dinky dry drifty pollen. It only takes a puff of wind to move it into your nose. Ragweed itty bitty bad, Goldenrod sticky big good. That’s about it.

  O.K., I see that I have a few more paragraphs to go here. I’d better give you a little bit more. This is supposed to be a nature blog with “facts” and “explanations,” isn’t it? Well, let me better introduce you to your enemy and mine, the Giant Ragweed. You can see the picture above and here.

  The G ‘rag is easy to identify.  It’s a big annual plant that can get up to 17 feet high. It has large three to five lobed leaves that look something like maple leaves. They don’t really look like maple leaves, but I couldn’t think of another leaf to compare it to off hand.  The floral parts, you know those nasty things responsible for the pollen, are born on spikes. Even a close up look at the flowers (see here) reveals that they are without petals, sepals, or beauty.  The individual flowers are best described as nodding and un-noticable.

  Somebody figured out that an individual Giant Ragweed plant can produce some 10 million pollen grains daily and more than a billion during its complete blooming cycle.  That’s a lot of drifting pollen even if you cut those numbers in half and then divide by three.  Remember, every one of those pollen grains are easily carried aloft and a-sneezing.

  At this point, you might expect me to say that this is an alien weed from someplace in Central Europe. Actually, this plant is an indigenous species– which means it is native!  Yes, it belongs here just like buffalos, bald eagles, and black bears. The only thing foreign about this plant is its scientific name which happens to be Ambrosia trifida. Believe it or not, that means “three parted leaf plant which is food for the gods.”  That is a god awful name, if you ask me.

  With all the wonderful delights in the universe, I find it hard to believe that any but the lesser “gods” would consider this plant a delicacy. Deities apparently don’t get hayfever do they? This is not to say that the G ‘rag hasn’t proven useful for us earthbound human types. Depending on the tribal affiliation, it has been used as a disinfectant, lung treatment, anti-diarrheal, and even a psychological aide by Native Americans. The directive for this latter category was to “chew the root in order to drive away fear of the night.”  

  Do you want to know another strange fact?  Apparently night crawlers are responsible for spreading the Giant Ragweed.  Your average worm buries 127 seeds over a 500 square foot area, according to one study.  It looks like the lowly are responsible for the spreading of giants. Perhaps the ultimate irony is that night crawlers are originally from Europe.

  Now don’t you feel bad for ragg’n on the harmless little goldenrod all these years when you shoulda been directing those negative vibes elsewhere? The only right thing to do is to chew on a ragweed root, go out into the night without fear, find a crawler, and chew him out. It’s time to place your hayfever blame where it really belongs.