The obscured environment of this morning’s fog provided an opportunity for me to see some things more clearly.  A soupy fog does turn the familiar into the unfamiliar and substance into shadow, but it also sharpens our concentration and demands full use of our senses. When the edge of the road becomes the edge of the known earth and when faith dictates that the pavement ahead of you is still there, the need for a new opportunity may not be immediately obvious.  If we didn’t have to drive in it, chances are fog would become a thing of beauty. With this idealistic thought in mind, I found that web browsing is a great fog day activity.

I’m not talking about the World Wide variety of web when I mention browsing. No, I’m talking about spider webs. I realize that half of you probably just had a knee jerk negative reaction to the word “spider” while the other half just thought “what is he talking about.” Since there are probably only two of you out there reading this, allow me to take you on a brief web photo safari. You’ll need to go to my photo link to see the “web cam” shots I took this morning. Let’s take a look at a few webs and focus on one skillful little web maker.

Each and every spider web in the landscape was bedecked with jewel-like droplets of dew this morning.  They say there are over a million spiders in every acre of land (there you go again with that knee thing) and this would be the day to prove it. I stopped at 152 1/2, but I’m sure there were a lot more. Of course not all spiders weave webs, so I can only refer to the net spinners.

In the filtered sunlight of dawn, hundreds of classic orb webs were suspended from the upright stems of the cat-tails (see Orb Weaver Web detail).  All were facing in a northeast/southwest direction – something I’ve never noted before. The Orb weavers in this case were probably Shamrock Spiders (‘top of the morning to ‘ya). The makers were hidden away among the stems after a long night of hanging around. From the look of the webs, there weren’t too many catches last night.  A close up look at each thread within each web reveals multiple strings of watery pearls (See Strings of Pearls). Several of these sticky threads are joined together to form roman numerals. I’m willing to bet that these numbers might add up to 1 million should one care to count them, although I have the feeling they would actually add up to 42.

As beautiful as orb webs are, the innovation award goes to the modest little Bowl & Doily Spider. Her works are largely unknown. Known as Frontinella communis by her Roman buddies, this spider creates a masterful three-part web. Today’s conditions brought out this detail in stunning clarity (see Bowl & Doily Spiderweb). 

The name of the Bowl & Doily refers to the unique construction of the web which appears as a rounded bowl over a doily. The “bowl” is only four or five inches across and it sits beneath a tangle of threads. The doily layer is a flat sheet web spread out beneath the bowl, but it does not touch it.  The tiny spider (see Bowl and Doily in Position) hangs from the bottom of the bowl and waits for her prey.When insect prey comes along, it bungles into the non-sticky silk tangle and falls down into the bowl. Our spider then bites the hapless victim through the bowl bottom and eventually wraps it in a silk burrito for later snacking.  Realizing that the predator often becomes the prey, the 3-4 mm arachnid insures her protection by residing in the space between the doily and the bottom of the bowl – preventing birds from picking her off the web.

Finally, take a look at the portrait of one of these marvelous silk smiths (see Showing Her Stripes).  Her boldly striped abdomen is an impressive feature lost on miniscule size.  Often both male and female spiders can be found in these webs, but I didn’t see any of the smaller males today.

By mid morning, the fog had lifted and the sun soon evaporated the dew pearls. Like the rest of the webs, the work of the Bowl & Doily Spiders was returned to obscurity.   

According to one dubious internet study, 6 % of Americans fear attacks from Barn Swallows. Alfred Hitchcock might have had something to do with this, but in his movie he employed gulls and ravens for the nasty cinematic work – not swallows. I suppose “Hitch” could have imperiled Tippi Hedren with thousands of chortling swallows, but these birds have tiny beaks and would not have been able to peck out her eyes. The fork-tailed hordes would plaster her with mud pellets instead.  Such is not the stuff of horror films.

Since a majority of swallow-fearing people probably have not even seen “The Birds,” I guess the explanation lies in a simple misunderstanding.  Barn Swallows are graceful masters of the air, proficient insect eaters, and expert mud masons. They use all these abilities for the forces of good – not evil.  These 7 ½ in. blue and orange birds have long pointed wings and delicate bifurcated tails which allow them to acrobatically pursue insects on the wing. Though unable to peck out eyes, they actually have huge mouths with which they engulf insects in flight and carry mud. Swallowphobes mistakenly believe that these mouths are large enough to enable the bird to swallow a barn – thus the name.  If that’s the case, it would be more productive to worry about Cliff Swallows.

No, Barn Swallows are just simple builder folk who make their nests out of adobe. Adobe is a mixture of clay, sand & fiber used to make unfired bricks. Such technology has long been used to build human structures in Central America and the desert Southwest. Since there is no logical reason to fear people from the Southwest (unless they try to serve you green hot sauce) there is no reason to fear swallows. As a matter of fact, current “Green Building” trends promote adobe structures throughout the world, so Barn Swallows are on the cutting edge.

I recently watched a colony of swallows collect their adobe building ingredients.  The first destination for each shopping trip was a patch of dead grass along the edge of a parking lot. Each bird would land and waddle among the grass stems to find one suitable for the job. With a few twists of the head, the brittle stems were snapped off and held crossways in the mouth like a buccaneer holding a dagger.  After a few stems were gathered, a brief flight brought the builder to the muddy edge of a large puddle. With the grass firmly wedged crosswise, the swallows then reached down to grab several pellets of mud with their bills agape.  They sunk in their tiny beaks and pinched off bits of chocolaty soil.  Once the short material list was satisfied, the birds launched into the air and returned directly to the construction site (under a dock in this case).

The grass and mud mixture was palpitated onto the rim of the nest in a motion reflecting that of a potter building a vessel of clay. These vessels were taking on the form of a wall pocket adhered to the dock beams (the nests will be about the size of a pair of cupped hands when completed). Each mouthful adds a new wrinkle of texture to the wall, and provides a record of material gathering trips. The grass fibers add strength to the structure and even out the drying process – just like the straw in adobe bricks.

By mid-morning, my birds were slowing down a bit. Instead of returning to the “pits”, they dipped their open mouths into the water to wash the mud out, and twirled around to immerse their heads for a healthy spray of bath water.  Clean of mouth and deserving of a rest, they then perched along the dock and preened.

The next to last step in nest construction will be to line the dried mud cup with a layer of fine grass and a few feathers. The feathers are a swallow thing – they have to be large, soft, and white.  Gull feathers are the plume of choice for the Barn Swallows in this colony.  The large white birds, and their feathers, are everywhere around here. Once the feathers are in, the nest is ready for use.

As I left the contented little swallow village, I had the distinct impression that the gulls were beginning to gather over my head. For a brief second I felt like a large French fry sitting out in the middle of a fast food lot – alone.  It was time to go.   

Diogenes was definitely one of the weirdest of the Greek philosophers. Living up to his nickname, “The Cynic,” he was known for wandering the streets during the day with a illuminated lantern searching in vain for “an honest man.” When Alexander the Great stood by his side and questioned him, all Diogenes said in return was “get out of my sun”. He modeled much of his life on that of a dog and therefore owned nothing, begged for food, and used the streets as his toilet. Even his chosen home was a huge clay pot or tub.

Look up Diogenes on the internet and you’ll hit on the site of the Diogenes Naturist Sun Club – a group of nudists living outside London, England who claim a membership of all ages from “nappies to nineties.” Their philosophy is to “take off your clothes and live in harmony with the natural environment.”
 

Now that I am responsible for your present mental picture of a naked septuagenarian playing vollyball and a crazy Greek guy lifting his leg next to an ancient fire hydrant, I must explain myself. You see, I was doing some research on crayfish. Crayfish do not wear clothes and they do live in harmony with the natural environment, but the particular one that led me down this naked path was the Chimney Crayfish. The scientific name of this species is Cambarus diogenes – he is named after Diogenes. I was only trying to follow a scholarly lead.
Chimney Crayfish earn their common name because they excavate tunnels and pile up chimney-like towers of mud around the burrow entrance. Like the rest of the crayfish clan, they are gill breathers that need to be in the water, but unlike the others, they do not live in open water. They choose instead to dig down to the water table and soak themselves in privacy. Wet yards, open fields, and other non-crayfish type places are home to this unique crustacean, although they also build right next to ponds and marshes. Hauling up pea-sized pellets of wet soil, the Chimney Crayfish deposit them in a ring which builds up around the surface entrance. These clay pebble towers can reach a nose-bleed height of 12 inches in the springtime, but eventually wash away under the punishment of heavy rains (although the burrows remain).

One enterprising little digger in my yard has built himself a 4 1/2 in. structure. They are active only at night, so I haven’t been able to spot him yet. A couple of flash light trips to the backyard to catch a glimpse of this honest crayfish have proved fruitless. He added a 1/4 inch of mud to his chimney last night while I was dreaming about a stupid joke I just read in which one snake was complaining to another about the fact that he ‘didn’t have a pot to hiss in.’ Chimney Crayfish are mostly scavengers so, besides chimney building, the usual night-time activity involves searching for dead earthworms and rotten vegetation. They retain water within their body cavities on these dry land forays and breath with internal gills. Of course, being crayfish, they have a substantial pair of pincers which are equally qualified for handling mud or food bits.

Taking all this into consideration, I really don’t have any idea why the specific name was given. A naturalist named Girard was responsible for this, but he did it back in 1859. He is either dead or currently the oldest member of the Diogenes Naturist Sun Club, so we can’t ask him. The fact that Chimney Crayfish hole themselves up within clay “containers”, seems to be the only relation they have to philosophers in clay pots.

In the long run, it doesn’t matter. To the average Jill or Joe, this crayfish has plenty of names. “Burrowing Crayfish” is both appropriate and descriptive. In some parts they are known as “Meadow Crayfish.” “Devil Crayfish” is one of the dumber names – probably in reference to the reddish highlights on the body. To one elderly Monroe county farmer, the familiar little mud chimneys were known as “Frog Towers.”

I’d like to leave this discussion with a word of philosophical wisdom regarding Chimney Crayfish and their burrows. Enjoy them for what they are and leave it at that. Perhaps you can try and spot one some night or read up on their life history. Do not, however, attempt to find out how deep their burrows go. Be happy in knowing that they go down to the water table and the tunnels basically spiral down through the earth. Last year I decided to find out for myself and poured Plaster of Paris down a small Chimney Crayfish tunnel not far from my front door. I wanted to make a cast of the burrow. With an emphasis on the word “small”, this small hole seemed to be bottomless. After pumping in at least 50 gallons of Plaster (perhaps I exaggerate a bit) the top finally overflowed. I started to dig it out a few hours later and found myself excavating a four foot hole that took the better half (actually the worst half) of the afternoon. The spiral hole ended in a sharp turn well below the foundation of the house. While extended head down in the expansive cavity, I heard strange voices down there – sounding like a variant of the Greek tongue. I soon realized that these phrases were issuing from my own mouth. I was inventing new names for this crayfish, but they weren’t nice ones.

In the end, I ended up with a nice cast of a crayfish burrow, a dead crayfish (let’s not talk about that) and one more thing checked off my life list.  In retrospect, Diogenes would have been proud of my dog-like digging ability.

  In the gossamer light of an oval moon the invasion begins. The quiet invitation to assemble is triggered by the breath of a warm spring night and the near full lunar light. The siren call – integrated within the fabric of the air – broadcasts throughout the forest landscape and vibrates tiny cells within the primal brains of those living there. It awakens an urge that has slumbered for a year. It prompts their four legged owners to move out from under stone and log and to hop, waddle, and crawl to the ancestral water places.

  The low steady inner mantra pulsates louder with each step and reaches a tribal frenzy by the time the pond edge is achieved.  Immersing in the moon speckled elixir, the beckoned are overtaken by their inner chant and give it voice. Instantly the mantra is translated into a loud mechanical “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” that announces to the world that the toad mating season has begun.

  Perhaps I am being a bit overdramatic here, but the annual American Toad migration/mating season is a fascinating thing to witness.  For a very short time each spring – night and day – the warty amphibians make their way to local marshes, ponds and watered ditches to sing, mate and lay eggs. For the balance of the year, toads are solitary land dwelling creatures as likely to be found in your garden as beneath a rotten log. As far as we know, their thoughts are strictly on food and shelter for most of the year (perhaps this is the reason behind their permanent scowl). When the gentle winds of spring awaken their romantic instincts, however, they head for the singles bars.

  A toad gathering place needs to be shallow, wet and weedy.  As long as it doesn’t dry up before mid summer, it can even be temporary in nature. At any rate it should be someplace where there are no fish predators that could eat the kids. For the most part these are ancestral places remembered like a salmon’s home stream. Beckoned to assemble at the mutually common watering holes, the guys and gals can get together and do what nature hath demanded they do.

  The basic routine is this.  The guys sing until the gals eventually show up to listen to the show. A female selects a personal favorite and makes eyes at him. Without the need for further prompting, the guy leaps at her and grabs her tightly from behind – a position known as amplexus. He hangs on for dear life and refuses to let go until she lays her eggs.  (I recall one news story from 25 years ago that showed a picture of a “two headed toad” which was obviously a male amplexing with a female. Imagine the wonder when this creature miraculously separated into two complete individuals).

  When the Misses begins laying her gelatinous string of eggs, Mr. fertilizes them as they come out. The eggs kinda look like those old fashioned dot candies that you used to get – you know the ones on the paper strip (except these dot candies are black and covered with snot).  Once the laying is complete, he releases his grip and is gone to find another love interest.  She does the same (when you hold it in for a year at a time, I guess that’s the way it goes!). Neither text messages the other for the remainder of the year.

  This is the way it’s supposed to happen, but there are some mighty embarrassing moments at the toad pond before the gals show up.

  Today I watched a dozen male toads perform their ancient ritual at a stag affair.  To begin each call, air is taken in through the caller’s nostrils and the body is inflated with a few rapid pulses of the throat.  The air is then re-directed into the throat pouch which inflates into a hard round balloon. The “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” call, an alien spacecraft type sound, is created by passing the air through the vocal chords. While in mid call, the water touching the side of the caller vibrates like a sonic cleaner.  After 5 seconds or so the sound trails off and preparations begin for another call.

  As each male calls, others join in until the air is ripe with deafening vibrations. Each toad eyes the nearby water for any movement that would indicate an adoring female. Any movement will elicit a leap and grab response. Unfortunately, in this group of males, other males are the only ones moving.  Time after time, I witnessed an overzealous male singer grab onto another overzealous male singer.  The grabber, lost in the passion of the moment, expects a loving embrace while the one being amplexed reacts with a harsh indignant “Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww” call.

  This “Ewwwwwwwwwww” call immediately informs the first of the errors of his ways.  It is a verbal slap on the back of the head that says “Back off Jack- I’m a guy too.” The first releases his hold and the two look away as if it never happened.  Soon the girls will come and all will be forgotten. Until that time, all resume their “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee be guys” chant.

April 25, 2007

  It was 48 degrees, raining, windy and terminally gray, but this was my second chance to board the good ship “Sentinel” and I was determined to make it a good day. The fact that the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service crew allowed me on board the research vessel again is testament to the fact that I didn’t mess up too much last time. Fisheries biologist Jim Boase, the crew director, appreciates any help he can get in manning the nets and hook lines.  The work is hard, but Jim knows that the promise of seeing sturgeon is a powerful lure.  Last time I was aboard we only caught one, so I was anxious to see a few more before the spring run is over (see “It Ain’t Over before the Fat Sturgeon Sings” for details of my first trip).

 Today we are joined by Dr. Bruce Manny, who has done extensive work on the Great Lakes Sturgeon, and a young man who we’ll call “Remee” – it’s something like that. I’m not good with names, but can tell you that he was born in Ottawa, Canada, raised in Holland and jokes about the French Canadians drinking Pepsi for breakfast.

 Jim felt it was good to have a Canadian citizen aboard – just in case the O.P.P.(Ontario Provincial Police)  pulled the boat over – again. Apparently they pulled the Sentinel over earlier in the week for violating unknown “No Wake” rules. “They were waiting for us,” declared Jim,” we were out in the middle of the channel and they nabbed us.”  The whole affair was let off with only a warning.  Remee assured us that he could handle the situation next time with a “How ‘ya doing, eh” greeting next time. Perhaps a Pepsi offered as a bribe would be in order.

 Our rain-drenched mission was to take us around the vicinity of Fighting Island and the Canadian waters of the Detroit, so Jim held the throttle low for most of the time.

  As usual, the first part of the morning task entailed hauling several gill nets set for Walleye. The first haul was biblical – for lack of a better description.  As the net was hauled to the surface and over the gunwale, it was choked with walleyes. It took the efforts of all of us to pull the heavy net in. The net was fairly bursting at the seams (a net doesn’t have seams, but that’s the only term I can think of at the moment). About 75 fish were piled onto the deck before the entire length of mesh was accounted for.  Twenty minutes of fish extraction followed.

  Since gill nets ensnare the fish behind their gill flap, it takes some delicate push & pull work to get them out.  Continual rain insured an ample supply of aquatic environment for those fish awaiting release. A huge Bowfin and a Short-nose Redhorse Sucker were also mixed in with the lot.

Normally all the fish would be kept for later lab work, but seeing that our buckets would be overloaded, Jim started to measure and toss as quickly as we coaxed the fish out of the fine mesh.  A few were kept as specimens – their first three dorsal fin rays clipped for aging purposes.

  With the aluminum deck patterns permanently impressed into my knees and my fingers numb with cold, I was glad to see the last fish freed from the twine. In reviewing the entire catch, it appeared that most of them were “spent males” This is a polite way of saying that the egg-laying party was over and these guys had performed their – um, “manly duties.” The spawning run had peaked.

  Of the next two nets, one sported an enormous Carp, a Silver Red-horse Sucker, and a few Walleye. The third was completely empty of fish. Noting the accumulated debris in the last net, Dr. Manny shared with us a story from many years ago when the Canadian shoreline nearby was “littered with turds.” Although sure that the gunk on the net was just plant matter this time, I smelled my gloves just to make sure. 

  On the way to the sturgeon lines, we passed a huge bald eagle nest on Fighting Island.  One of the eagles flew up from the waters edge and joined his mate near the nest. There are two such nests along this stretch of the river and the birds are now a regular sight (as opposed to “turdy” years ago).

  Although most of the hooks pulled up from the three sturgeon sets were empty, three of them yielded our desired quarry – “Mishename – the King of Fishes” (to quote “Hiawatha”). When one of these giants is in tow, the line becomes heavy and moves about.  Emerging from the depths, a yellowish outline clarifies into a shark-like visage and an explosion of spray as the fish clears the water via a landing net.

  Sturgeons are extremely slimy and very strong.  Add to this the fact that they are also very heavy and you’ll see why it took all my energy just to hold the slippery behemoths still.  Jim showed me how to grab the large pectoral (side) fin and muscle one 50- pounder over to expose its mouth and remove the hook.  As we wrestled with it, the fish exhaled a sound akin to a bellow. The explosion of air was probably from an air bubble trapped in the gill chamber, but I was impressed none-the-less.

  Once the hook was removed, the fish are cradled in a net supported across the bow of the boat. The first order of business is to weight them by hefting the net from a scale (the other two were in the 40-50 lb. neighborhood as well). Measurements of total length yielded results ranging in the 50-58 inch range and girths around 23 inches. Next, a section of the left pectoral fin ray is removed (for aging). This thick cartilaginous ray has to be cut with a hacksaw, but this doesn’t harm the fish. A PIT (Passive Integrated Transponder) radio tag was inserted beneath the skin just behind the head and an orange Floy identity tag secured through the base of the dorsal fin.

  The bellowing fish did not take to any of these procedures kindly.  He fought the entire process and could only be calmed by placing our gloved hands over his eyes. Lamprey scars – red raw circle scars left by the feeding activity of fluid sucking lampreys – marked his left side.  They looked raw and un-healed, so he was probably in no mood for any more poking or prodding.  He was returned to his element in short order and disappeared into the depths with an indignant swish of the tail.

  While all three fish were impressive, the last was the best looking.  This one was distinctly bi-colored.  His upper half was a shade of deep mocha and his lower half was light cream hazel grading to pure white at the belly. A row of imbedded bony plates formed the midline that divided the color shades.  These plates themselves were a third shade of darker brown, so they imparted a distinct repeating pattern down the side.

  We grinned at each other and commented on the beauty as it was lowered back into the water. I think it was Reemy that said “That was a pretty fish” as it slipped away. We all nodded in agreement.  “Yup, pretty fish.  Let’s go home.” 

  Because the rain was relentless, I could only sneak out my camera for a few pictures of the sturgeon procedure. If you take a look at them through this link, you’ll notice that two of the shots are from my earlier fair weather excursion.  The middle shots are of the second rainy day sturgeon – the one that neither bellowed nor looked especially pretty.

  Catching a Dandelion in the process of waking up should not be a terribly demanding task, so I set myself up to achieve this simple task.  Among the many names for Dandelion that have entered the books, “Clock Flower” is one of them. On that note, one of the books indicated that they are so reliable as to “close against the dews of night by 5:30 pm and open by 7:00 am the next day.”  In other words, they are as reliable as clocks.

  The great Swedish biologist Linnaeus once planted a clock garden about his house in which, it is said, based on the opening and closing of different species, one could tell the time of day.  Four ‘O Clock flowers, for instance, are supposed to open up around 4:00 in the afternoon.  History doesn’t record the fact, but it is very likely that Linnaeus was always late for his appointments – or early.

  Plants are very sensitive to sunlight angle, humidity, and the needs of their pollinators, so are rather type A when it comes to regularity. Of course, that sensitivity to a range of conditions also causes them to heed climate conditions before considering the hands of a clock. I should have taken immediate heed when reading a source that mentioned “Four ‘O Clocks in Florida often don’t open until 8 pm.”  Next to that text was picture of one of the plants still fast asleep at 6 pm. 

  The dandelion was supposed to have been one of those time keeper flowers in Mr. Linnaeus’ garden.  So, I decided to test the 7 am wake-up time theory.  Indeed, yesterday morning I was up by 7 am, stumbled out to check on the dandelion just outside my back door, and found it still sleeping. It was still asleep by 8:05 am. It was open by 9:15 am, but I couldn’t tell you exactly when it spread its buttery face.  Already – even given daylight savings time – the dandelion was exhibiting weekend teenager behavior and not “up and adam” cheeriness.

  The other end of the day was no better.  At 5:30 pm, the flower was still at full spread and dancing in the puffs of wind that swirled around it.  At 6 pm, it was the same story. I checked it at 7, 8, and 9, but still it was wide-eyed and perky.  By 9:30 pm, I should have given up, but I was determined to see this thing through.  I grabbed a flashlight and saw it still laughing at me. I thought I detected a wink, a few bags under the florets, but this thing was definitely not hitting the sack. 

  By 10 pm, it was becoming an obsession.  I stormed out, directed the beam at the mocking bloom and noticed it was starting to fold.  Ten minutes later, it was the same.  Five minutes later, no change – just a slight folding.  By 10:45 pm, it was what I would optimistically call “3/4 closed.”  This assumed that it would “full close” soon.  At 11:15 pm. it hadn’t progressed.  It was time for me to fold up for the night.  I resisted the urge to pluck it and send it into permanent sleep, just to prove my evolutionary superiority. No, I’d see it in the morning.

  Upon rising the next day, I expected that the flower closed overnight (probably seconds after I abandoned it for bed). No, this morning it was full open at 7:00 am.  I don’t think it ever fully closed.

  As a result of this totally unscientific research, I conclude that Dandelions do what they do when they want to do it. They sometimes close on dewy nights, perhaps, but stay open on warm balmy nights like last night.  Right now I don’t really care.  One night of not fitting a pattern is good enough negative evidence for me.  When a clock starts giving you the wrong time, it becomes unreliable and needs fixing. Oddly enough, our main living room clock did go on the fritz yesterday.

  Now that I have eliminated the “Clock Flower” idea, I turn to another dead European science guy for something else.  17^th century physician Nicholas Culpepper was aware of the many medical properties of Dandelion. The second part of this plants scientific name, Taraxicum officinale refers to its role in the official herbal medicine texts of the day. I know that the plant can cause sleeplessness, but am fascinated to read Culpepper’s statement that the plant “hath many virtues, which is why the French and Dutch eat them in the Spring.”  He goes on to say that this common herb possesses an “opening quality.”

  Aside from wondering why the Germans don’t eat them in the spring, you are probably wondering what “opening quality” means.  It doesn’t refer to the literal opening of the flower, but instead to- and I quote: “it openeth the passages of the urine in both young and old.”  In other words it makes you go to the bathroom.  This explains the second of the two French words referring to our familiar little weed.

 The first French word is “Dent-de-lion” or literally “Lion’s Teeth.”  This is, of course, the origin of the common name and it refers to the toothed edge of the leaf (although there is some controversy here which I won’t get into). The second is “Pissenlit.”  Yes, this means pretty much what you think it does – it causes you to wet the bed! Ah, so that’s why the Germans were so careful.

  Personally, I’d like to leave this discussion with a few other intriguing Dandelion names such as Milk Witch, Priest’s Crown, Pig Snout, and Blowball. Perhaps I’ll get back to these in a later column. For now, I am eying another Dandelion experiment. This one might prove to be more worthwhile than the sleep endeavor.

  I once found a hand-written recipe for Dandelion Wine tucked within the pages of a commercial fisherman’s journal from 1921. There sandwiched between catches of Bullhead, Carp & Mullett (Suckers) is a recipe just begging to be tried.

  You start with two quarts of flowers (packed), add a one lemon……  This could take a while.