What's so Fascinating about a Weed?

It turns out, a whole lot!  I won't even get into identification, which is certainly not so fascinating for everyone, but what prompts me to write today is not simply the interesting story the weed itself holds, but rather what happens on the weed.  But first, a little descriptive painting of the place I am lucky enough to go to school in:

The Autumnal Equinox doesn't arrive for another two weeks, but here in Maine, Autumn restlessly advances.  It has been my daily pleasure to stroll up Runnals Hill each afternoon after classes to see the garden vegetables and wild fall blooms that make home of this windy, exposed location.  Cherry tomatoes--red, purple, yellow and orange--fall into the hand at the slightest nudge and the winter squashes and rainbow kales add color to the brown hillside as they await the harvest.  Queen Anne's lace, yarrows, purple clover and chicory show their delicate blooms among the spent dandelions and drying grasses of the almost-fall landscape.   Milkweed, stunted by the exposure on the hillside, half heartedly relent their tightly closed pods to the cajoling breeze, as if they have forgotten their long-prepared-for cue to release their seeds.

Rainbow kale is almost too pretty to eat

Despite an overgrowth of weeds and choking vines, the tomatoes
 are abundant and immensely flavorful

The ants constantly tend the aphids
and check for droplets of honeydew

On my walks, I like to inspect leaves and stems of various weeds and wildflowers for aphids, for often one can observe the interesting dynamic of trophobiosis between several species.  One day, on a lovely warm afternoon, I noticed quite a few honeydew aphids, with their  stylets deeply imbedded in the phloem of a nondescript weed at the edge of my path.  These fat, soft bodied insects encrusted every section of stem and the upper- and undersides of many of the leaves.  They looked like ducks, simultaneously bottom-up in a pond.  They twitched and squirmed here and there, and a few wriggled out of an old skin.  The skins still stuck to to the flesh of the plant by the mouthparts, as if they hadn't quite got the memo that their owners had abandoned them, and that sucking plant sap would now neither be necesary nor possible.

I was lucky enough to witness a very vicious response on the part of the ants when this earwig accidentally stumbled upon the aphid/ant scene.  Though it had no interests in the aphids, and was merely looking for a dark, damp spot to hide out in during the light of day, the ants seemed to take no risk and set about altering its course by crawling all over and around it.  It was only after the earwig had slipped beneath the leaf out of sight that the ants were satisfied.

My gaze traveled up the plant, and I took note of the busy honeydew ants, which make their living by harvesting the honeydew produced by the bottom side of aphids in tiny droplets each time they stab their stylets into the flesh of a host plant.  In so doing, they unwittingly provide a complete source of nourishment to the ants which vigorously protect their stock from such animals which make it their sole business to prey on aphids, namely, Lady beetles and others in the coccinelidae family.  Thus, these two unlike species, aphids and ants, exist through a persistent mutualistic relationship which provides protection for one and food for the other.

Ladybirds are invaluable to us gardeners, as they routinely feed on the aphids that plague our precious plants, but honeydew ants vigorously protect their aphid "farm" forcing this ladybird to find another source of aphids nearby

So The next you see a weed, and you are not really inclined to grab your Newcomb's and try and identify it, then just peak between the leaves and at the stem and see if you can spot a terrific example of some awesome natural phenomenon!  I encourage readers to leave their own experiences in a comment below.

Midsummer Ramblings

It seems just a little while ago that exciting, new and strange, repIaced all I knew—or once thought I knew. The day I left my home for college was the day I put my younger self in a little box for safe keeping, and took what they call an adult out of a drawer where it had been hiding—or I had hidden it—and tried it on. It didnt fit well. It was too loose there, too tight here, WAY too baggy on that side and just looked funky in the mirror, as I looked at myself that first night, looked a stranger in the eye. Who am I? Who was I? Who will I become?

Maine is a beautiful state. Purple mist straggles behind as wild trees keep it tangled in their branches for an extra photographic moment each morning. Monday mornings bring frost, because I stumble out of bed early enough to see it. Looking down into the Kenebec Valley from the very top of Mayflower Hill, on the library steps (a view I saw for the first time on the tour more than a year ago) I think of why I am here. College, I have come to see, is most importantly a time and place set aside to learn about yourself. Who are you, whom do you want to become? What are your aspirations, your passions, your needs and your joys. Though all of these things haven't changed in name (I still want to be a scientist, I love animals, I want to raise a family) they do change in quality as I grow and learn.

Since that first day, I had grown inside tremendously, not changing who I am but, learning more so as to be wiser than before, and in this way, I am different in how I approach each problem and each joy alike, in my life.  I look forward to the coming years.

These are just some ramblings which flow from mind to paper as I take time to reflect back on my first year of college.

A Midmorning's Pondering

The following is a Post that never seemed to have gotten posted.  It is from just about this time last year.


I sit on a sun-warmed stone amongst garden flowers that hum with the sound of busy aviators and whisper with the delicate wings of such dignitaries as sport iridescent green coats and ruby neckties and powdery laces that flutter flower to flower. Summer is here, and the thistle family makes no small effort to be noticed by the commoners and aristocrats of the neighborhood alike, for, from the unweeded patch at the bottom of the yard their purple heads bob about in the gentle breeze, trying to outcompete the nearby wisteria I thought I eradicated last fall.

Orioles and finches, Robins and Doves, in faint hints of mockery to Merlin's simplistic explanation for the meanings of their calls, twitter and sing elaborately in the same tree above my head, conducting an organized, aural joust in the great Maple's acoustic canopy at as competitive a level as can be peacefully possible. I listen attentively for a breathless moment, trying to sort out their multitudinous syllables and define their intentions, but I leave it to the breeze that carries their voices aloft and settle simply on the usual explanation of primordial urges to defend territory and summon a mate.

Mr. McGregor would envy the thick radish patch untouched by furry things that ought to be turned into meat pie. Perhaps I planted them too close together, but they will soon be pulled to give the corn, that just now peaks above the tops of the radish greens, some elbow room. Double planting thus far seems to be a brilliant endeavor, especially for a plant enthusiast that has (very) limited cultivating space and an over exuberance when confronted with a catalog of seeds!

Camera in hand, I watch all sorts of colorful and monochromatic insects utilize the thistle plant--as egg-laying substrates for the Cabbage White, nectar source for the Fritillaries, stomping grounds for any number of the Formicidae family--and imagine the interesting variety of Coleoptera, that by sheer hinderance of their incapacitating larval stage, will not be arriving until later this summer.

My ponderings bring me back to my very organic and natural garden (live and let live is strictly enforced and so all sorts of things sprout up without my having anything to do with it) and I happen to notice a small rustle in what used to be a thick lettuce patch, but has recently been mysteriously disappearing. Since the lettuce went to seed a few weeks ago, I have given no thought to catching the thief and so I casually glance over the hot stone wall. Not surprised in the least to see it, and hardly phased to see me, I take a video of a young groundhog caught red-handed—well, green handed—eating my lettuce. Unlike an actual gardener, I can't say I care in the least that I have been sharing my yields with something that ought to end up in a meat pie, and since Mr. McGregor is unable to scold me, I stick to my principles and live and let live (rather happy on the side that I have a cute video to share).

A Ground Hog Enjoys Some of My Crops

A Fritillary (Great Spangled?) harvests nectar from a thistle flower

Returning

Dear readers,

So much has changed, and my life is now completely different from when I last posted.  In the next few weeks, I will share with you my recent happenings and stores of the exciting road that lead me to the present.  Please come back and read often, as I will be sharing some of the highlights of the past year.  Below are some teasers of stories to come:

A Stag Beetle I Happened Upon in a most Unusual Manner

I pin hundreds of Chrysalises a Week at Work!

One of the Highlights of my week is feeding the baby Cottontails

I think it is fascinating to study the differences and similarities of similar species

~The Naturalist

In January, we had a bit of snow. But it hasn't been much. I wonder at what effect this mild winter will have on the wildlife this coming spring.