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 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.

? 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.

  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.

  I discovered that there is at least one good thing about painting your house. It provides an excuse to take down the shutters and see what has been living behind them all these years. Our shutters are as fake as the day is long, but they still need to receive a real coat of the new trim color in order to retain their pseudo woodness.  As I released each one from its mooring and peeled it back, it was sorta like opening a Pandora’s Box of wonders. There among the jumble of old paper wasp nests, masses of spider webs, piles of bat droppings, and columns of mud dauber nests, I found one small architectural jewel plastered to the siding. It was the perfectly made mud nest of the Potter Wasp (see above).

  Solitary Wasps of the Eumenes clan are famous for making precise little clay pots for housing their young. The marble sized pots are not thrown on the wheel, but are built up layer by circular layer with loving doses of soil and spit. Female wasps gather mouthfuls of dry soil and macerate the mass into mortar with the addition of saliva. They carefully lay down the building material with a 9/16 inch foundation ring, gently curve up the sides and gradually restrict the neck of the vessel before finishing it off with a dramatic rim flare. 

  The finished structure looks more like a Sake Bottle (see here) than the maggot repository it is. There is a fascinating bit of artistry in the construction of this thing.  You’ll note the regular bumps, or globs, that give the surface an art pottery surface. There appears to be no other reason for this other than “that’s the way it’s always been done”- a familiar tradition among human potters. 

  This is a brood chamber, not an art statement, however. Once the container is done, it is filled with paralyzed caterpillars and sealed off.  There were 11 inchworm caterpillars packed into this one (heck, one more and there would have been a perfect foot of worms!).  I discovered this fact by accident as the delicate structure broke open when I attempted to remove it from the siding.  Take a look here, and you can see the caterpillar content laid out for viewing.

  At the time of its discovery, the pot was not yet full. The fact that the mouth of the jar remained open indicated that more ingredients were due (up to 14 caterpillars can be crammed into a single pot).  Oddly enough, the ‘pillers in this pile were only partially paralyzed by the female’s sting. They were helpless to be sure, but still thrashed around wildly when touched.  This brings up an interesting point about what would have been the last stage in the process when the egg was laid.

  Rather than laying her egg in the center of this active pile and risking injury to her charge, the female Potter Wasp takes an extraordinary step. She suspends her egg from a thread connected to the upper wall of the pot. In this way, the egg is kept away from the mass until hatching. Even upon hatching, the larvae can feed on the fresh caterpillar meat and then withdraw back up the safety line if the zombie ‘pillars start to get feisty. Eventually it gets big enough to handle them without risk and jumps into the fray.

  The story ended on this little pot of horrors when it busted open, but a few shutters down I found two more Potter Wasp creations. These were older structures that had successfully produced their wasps. Each had a large hole in the side where the newly emerged wasps chewed their way to freedom. While these two creatures came from behind forest green shutters, all the future potters around my house will enter the world from behind a burgundy façade.

  Apart from those “Back to School” ads in the newspapers and the “better get to Cedar Point before it’s all over” spots on the tube, nothing highlights the end of the season more than the sight of a ragged swallowtail butterfly. These crepe-winged creatures are not built of the same stuff as the tough migratory monarchs or durable cold weather anglewings. Every summer day takes a heavy toll on their appearance. Take this shop worn Giant Swallowtail as an example (see above). She definitely has that late August look and bears the marks of one whose life’s work is now complete.

  Earlier in the summer, fresh out of a second brood chrysalis, she was a crisp new beauty with chocolate features and precise yellow make-up (see here). Her underwing pattern was mostly yellow and black with blue and orange highlights (see here). True to their name, Giants are one of the largest of our regional butterflies and females can have a 6 inch plus wingspan. Their species name, Papilio cresphontes appropriately refers to one of the Greek characters who descended directly from Hercules.

  After mating with an equally dashing male, she carefully laid her eggs on the leaves of a local representative of the Citrus family called the Prickly Ash. Her action has guaranteed that her young will keep up the Herculean lineage.

  She, on the other hand, will spend the remaining days of her brief life flitting about from flower to flower. The deep purple blooms of the New York Ironweed and the Magenta tufts of the Bull Thistle (as seen above) seem to be the primary nectaring targets of this species. Eventually she will either run out of gas and fall to the ground among the dry leaves or get eaten.

  As a member of the Swallowtail family, she once sported a pair of hind wing tails.  You’ll note that these are now long gone on this gal. Her back wings have been roughly shortened. These tails were not worn off, however. They were bitten off by an unsuccessful predator – note the term “unsuccessful.”

  Although beautiful, beauty is not the main purpose for these swallowtail appendages. They are meant to be decoy heads (complete with a fake eye spot at the base) to convince hungry birds into biting at the wrong end of the body.  This ploy works at least 50% of the time and gives the victim a fair chance to escape with its real head intact.

  Our female has already cashed in on her life insurance policy by sacrificing her fake head tails. Only time will tell if she keeps her real head until that last chilly morning of natural life.