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Grasshopper Plague

Jul16
On midday grasshopper patrol…

Morning, noon, and evening, neither rain nor hail nor fire nor smoke can keep me from doing grasshopper patrol around the patio and through the garden. Sometimes I use the hose and sometimes I just sweep with my hands. I’m grateful I’ve managed them as well as I have, despite not starting quite early enough; now they’re big I have some strategies in mind but I was waiting for the grasshopper webinar today to decide my next step.

They’ve once again demolished all the rabbitbrush in the yarden, stripping the leaves of what little grew back on this massive bush this year, after they completely denuded it last summer, killing the lower half.

The beautiful little rose bush I nursed along and finally potted up last month was thriving on the patio table, alongside three tiny citrus trees. I checked them several times a day for the slightest sign of grasshopper predation, intending to bring them inside at the first bite.

I failed miserably with the tiny trees: one afternoon I noticed a single leaf damaged, so I set the tray near the door to bring inside—but I forgot, left it out overnight, and the rock squirrel who haunts the patio ate all three down to a toothpick. The rose continued to thrive—until yesterday. Midday it was fine. Evening rounds it was missing three-quarters of its foliage. So I whisked it inside to the sunroom table and administered first aid.

I was relieved to sit down for an hour at lunchtime, amidst heavy smoke outside, to a PPAN (People and Pollinators Action Network) zoom webinar called “Pollinators Meet Grasshopper and Mormon Cricket Management.” Sharon Selvaggio, a pesticide reduction specialist with The Xerces Society, gave a riveting presentation on the complex relationship between grasshoppers, pollinators, and ecosystem health. The Xerces Society, a conservation organization working to protect the natural world through the conservation of invertebrates, educates about the unintended consequences of widespread pesticide use.

Ever wonder why honeybee populations are in steep decline? They’re a canary in the coal mine for native bees and other pollinators like butterflies and moths. APHIS aerial spraying of pesticides to control Orthoptera (grasshoppers, crickets, and katydids) in the Midwest and western states is a contributing factor in the decline of many pollinators. Sharon leads Xerces’ work in seeking sustainable solutions for grasshopper and Mormon cricket management, especially on public lands. She offered some alternatives to pesticides for the home gardener.

Great news! Having a low tolerance for snapping their little heads off, lacking chloroform as my zoo friends use, and not (yet) interested in freezing and frying them, she gave the answer to what to do with them if I choose to pluck or vacuum them off plants in the cool hours while they’re sluggish: drop them into bucket of soapy water! (Ack. I still hate the idea of killing them. Which do I hate more? Killing insects or losing the fruits of my labors? Probably losing my garden.)

Speaking of the garden… I made the onion greens pesto finally, with the chopped greens, some parsley, garlic, lemon juice, pecans, and parmesan cheese. So simple, so delicious!

I was grateful it was cloudy and a little cooler today, so I could also make “Vichyssoise light.” I’d been putting it off because I didn’t want to heat up the house, but you can’t make cold Vichyssoise without first cooking it. I sautéed the onions in butter, added a chopped potato, chicken broth, salt and pepper, and simmered for half an hour. Then I took it off the heat and stirred in a couple tablespoons of yogurt and a big splash of milk and blended til it was smooth and creamy. By then I was too hot to eat hot soup so it went into the fridge for tomorrow. But I did lick the spoon and it’s delicious!

The wind shifted to the west this evening and blew in some fresh air. I was able to cool off outside without a mask and leave the doors open to get a cross breeze through the house for a few hours. I took the opportunity to pick the rest of the un- or less-damaged apricots and harvested more than expected. Another garden success in a scant year!

A screenshot from the Watch Duty app yesterday showing the South Rim fire perimeter, evacuation zones, and the two planes and one helicopter working it at the time. The blue dot near the top is where I live, nine miles as the crow flies from the fire. I’ve been relying on it so much in the past week that I felt compelled to pay their reasonable membership fee; getting the little purple aircraft moving in real time was an unexpected bonus.

I’m grateful for the nonprofits that make the world better, like Watch Duty, PPAN and Xerces, and for endangered government agencies, like APHIS and the National Weather Service, that use science to serve diverse human needs; and I’m grateful for the technology that puts warnings, forecasts, and other helpful data at our fingertips.

I’m grateful for the Weather Underground app, with all the bells and whistles selected: radar, cloud cover, fronts, heat, hail, severe storms… and for knowing where I stand in the midst of it all, once again that little blue dot near the top.

Communication

Jun7

I spent a lot of time in the garden today, spraying vinegar on the ground to kill grass and weeds popping up through the chips we put down to mitigate grasshoppers; pulling weeds, spraying a neem/soap mix on the cabbages, onions, potatoes, carrots and more to drive grasshoppers away; and burning some scrap wood since it was finally calm enough and damp enough to not pose a wildfire risk. And I also found time to take Husband Camera for a few strolls around the yarden to capture the love between flowers and their pollinators.

The little orchard bee first caught my eye in the top picture, and as she moved down the Gaillardia blossom I saw the spider. But she did not.

I serendipitously caught the moment when the two insects communicated: as though the spider said “I am here” by gently reaching a leg toward the bee’s antenna.

Then the bee courteously said “Pardon me!” and flew back to the top of the flower. And the spider smiled her thanks with her eyes.

I’m grateful for this gorgeous day, for the communication I witnessed among many beings, for communication with several friends, for the health, energy, and stamina to spend the day working and playing in the yarden.

Lilac Therapy

May12

There’ve been years when I didn’t spend a moment with the lilac patch; when I was too busy moving too fast from one thing to another to do more than snip a flower cluster to bring inside once or twice during the fleeting bloom season. One year the weather was cold, wet, muddy and the season was so short I missed it completely. What was I thinking? All that time I wasted…

This year, I’ve been grateful to be able to spend hours a day for days in a row doing Lilac Therapy. This is a scientifically proven approach to calming the fuck down. I move the folding chair into whatever patch of shade is available for the time of day, and sit. I read a little, write a little, text someone now and then, do a Wordle… get up now and then and move a sprinkler, refill my water bottle, return to the chair. Mostly, though, I just spend a lot of time breathing. I wish I could smell on the exhale as well as the inhale.

When I hear a big enough buzz I’ll pick up the Husband Camera and capture a few high speed shots. The Holy Grail for the Husband Camera is a hummingbird sipping lilac nectar, but I’m happy for a butterfly, or even a bumblebee. I reflect on my sadness that I’ve seen only one or two honeybees, that there’s a paucity of bumblebees as well, but comfort myself that there are lots of smaller native bees. I try not to be attached to outcome. That’s not the point of Lilac Therapy.

Resting in open awareness of senses is the point. Mindful of breath, scent, sound, colors, textures, shapes, warm sun, cool shade, the caress of the breeze, cool fine powdery clay under my soles, frogs calling down at the pond, jays cawing, finches singing, and swallows silently zipping overhead; clouds streaming, gathering, spreading in bluebird sky and bluebirds dropping to the ground for bugs. Breathing. Aware of thoughts, feelings, sensations arising, flowing, ceasing. Resting.

Wren digs herself a spot in the sunshine and rests there. Then she gets up and digs a little spot in the shade and rests there. Then she moves back to the sun. We are constantly thermoregulating. Sometimes she hears or smells something and leaves the fenced enclosure to chase it down, then returns when she’s ready.

Topaz slips through the spaces between wires, coming and going as the mood moves her, also moving from shade to sun to shade; mostly shade. There’s an occasional frisson when she wants on my lap, but Wren’s envy response is calming after three years so Topaz sneaks in some lap time.

As a culture, we do not value true relaxation. (Not the way cats do.) We value vacations, adventures, competing, fun, collecting experiences of the world, but we don’t really value doing nothing, simply being. The more I sit in the ephemeral scent of these flowers, the deeper the layers of tension slowly melt. I repeatedly give myself permission to stay here.

A clearwing hummingbird moth vies for the blooms with various bees, beeflies, and flies.

Just when I think Okay, I guess I’ll go inside and wash some dishes, another waft of sweet scent washes over me, or a tiger swallowtail flits by so close to landing, that I decide to stay just a little while longer. Surely she will land on her next pass.

An orchard bee buzzes a digger bee. There’s more excitement than one might expect, sitting with lilacs; more attacks, near misses, and midair collisions. Every now and then the Husband Camera catches one.

The tiger swallowtail never lands, but a checkerspot shows up and leads me on a merry pursuit around the patch, wanting to land high in the center where it’s hard to catch her. But we do. Even with the help of Audubon, Kaufman, iNaturalist, and the World Wide Web, I can’t determine whether she is a Variable Checkerspot or Edith’s Checkerspot. It doesn’t matter. Either way it’s a great way to wrap up an exciting, restful day.

Courage and Resilience

Mar30

The apricot tree is popping! In just three days since her haircut she’s bursting with spring blossoms. I’ve made sure to savor this ephemeral sight today. Though there are plenty more buds on each twig, winter weather is returning over the next week starting tonight when it could dip below freezing. A few days later snow is predicted and lows in the mid-20s. Fingers crossed enough flowers hang on through freezes to bring a healthy crop this year.

Though I’m thrilled there is also sadness. I have only seen a few honeybees so far this year. There are black flies hatching everywhere, but where I should have seen bees all over the crocuses and mini irises, I didn’t see more than a couple. Each time I checked the weather app today I thought, Where will we get our weather forecasts if they shut down NOAA? The stupidity and cruelty of the regime have seeped into every conversation and simmer beneath every conscious thought. I have moments of peace and flickers of joy, and I work hard for every one of them.

Almost everyone I know is doing something to resist the abuse of this incompetent, incomprehensible administration. Garden Buddy bought a bunch of sunflower packets to take with her to the HANDS OFF! demonstration next Saturday. Find one near you here! If you’re not doing anything yet, you can start by paying attention: You are being gaslighted. Everything we counted on about America is getting torn apart. This is really happening. We have got to fight back.

Given the already overloaded interdependent systems on our fragile earth, this full frontal assault on American democracy and human decency feels like the total collapse of our species is imminent. I’m too tired to enumerate all the unraveling threads, but I feel especially dedicated to staying physically healthy right now. The US was a keystone in public health across the globe, and every agency that held infectious disease at bay has been crippled or dismantled. Whether it’s mosquitoes, or measles, or a mutant AIDS strain, an Avian flu or some other crossover event, the elimination of US research, scientists, and health professionals on the ground around the world makes every human on the planet more susceptible to the next pandemic. I’m going to get my spring Covid shot next week because who knows if there will be another one? Cuts to Medicaid alone would decimate rural hospital and clinic systems, hampering healthcare in my county, and yours too if you live anywhere in rural America.

Some things I’m grateful for besides apricot blossoms, my strange little creature, learning how to knit cables, and red tulips, are that I got my hip replaced last fall (knowing that Medicare might collapse), that I started taking Social Security as soon as I was eligible (knowing that Social Security might collapse), and that I’ve had a good run this lifetime.

I’m also grateful for comic relief wherever I can find it, as in this musical message from the Marsh Family. They have a slew of great parodies on Youtube, doing their part to speak out and make a difference. Sadly, their Bohemian Rhapsody parody about J6 didn’t swing the electorate, but it was a smashing effort and well worth six minutes of your time. Their creativity, Garden Buddy’s sunflowers, our local Indivisible chapter’s dedication and companionship, my good neighbors, and my irate friends around the country all keep me from just hiding my head under a blanket.

My words for the year are Courage and Resilience. Because why not? As the Dalai Lama says, “Be optimistic. It feels better.” As W.S. Merwin wrote, “On the last day of the world, I would want to plant a tree.” And as Mary Oliver wrote, “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” From that love you will find the courage to act, and the resilience to wake up and start over again each day.

Desperate S’More

Jun16
Native bees and tiny beetles enjoy the uncommon native thistle, Cirsium perplexans.
I’m grateful for my neighbor who came down this morning with cake and coffee to give me a hug.

Deb brought Prosecco to go with my Aperol, and we sat in the garden this evening with Aperol Spritzes while the two little dogs snoofed around together getting better acquainted. A perfect summer evening beverage, as we shared tender grieving about lost mentors. My dear Cindy died on Thursday, after a rapid decline over the past two weeks. I am just coming to terms with the felt sense of the loss, a loss that will resonate for a long time. I’m grateful that she was surrounded by love and support throughout her cancer journey, and especially well-cared for in her last weeks. Though I couldn’t be there, I’m grateful I was able to help and support in many ways from afar. As I find my way into this new life without her, I will eventually share more about this amazing person I’m so grateful to have known.

After Deb left, it felt right to finally sit down and burn some of the yard trimmings and scrap wood, starting to clear clutter inside and out. The wind had settled down, and the sprinkler moistened the downwind garden, with a hose ready to turn on any sparks.

Burning dross with Prosecco… in my special mourning glass.

I let the fire burn down, saving some scraps for another evening. Why, I wondered, do I not do this every night, sit out with the stars and moon, crickets, nighthawks, a little fire to keep mosquitoes at bay? I don’t have an answer. In the nights since Cindy’s death I have stayed out late and only come in when the mosquitoes begin to buzz. I’ve always thought that if I knew this would be my last day, I’d spend every possible minute outside; maybe it’s the reminder of mortality nudging me out of complacent habits.

Suddenly, the coals were perfect for marshmallows. I went inside to scavenge supplies: I found a few desiccated marshmallows leftover from a Christmas package Garden Buddy gave me (not last Christmas!) and an open package of stale and anyway second-rate graham crackers, along with a fine dark chocolate bar and an extendable fork (the right tool for the job). The first marshmallow shattered when I speared it with the fork. The second melted just enough on the outside to squish onto the chocolate which I sandwiched between two broken bits of graham cracker, but the center was like chewing gum. The final marshmallow I toasted farther away from the coals, for much longer, and it was almost restored to perfect S’more texture by the time I put it between two bits of chocolate and squeezed until everything was just melty enough. It was better than nothing, and as I nibbled I imagined how Cindy would have laughed at my desperate S’more.

Lilacs, Again

May20
Six different native bees — a taste of images to come…

I’m grateful I’ve found time to sit with the lilacs again as they wind down. Grateful for rain all day yesterday though it kept me inside, and grateful for meaningful work that kept me in most of today; but especially grateful for an hour on Monday simply sitting with lilacs full of native bees. At times there was a veritable traffic jam, and I actually witnessed a couple of collisions. Who doesn’t love a lilac? Apparently all of Crawford does: there are so many that driving through town last Saturday, even on the highway, the breeze carried the sweet scent of lilacs through my open windows.

Today in Pollinators

Apr24

I stood under the wild plum for an hour as petals rained down in the breeze, amid the flutter of butterflies and the buzz of bees.

And then I stood awhile under the peach tree whose tender pink blossoms are just now opening.

Native Bees

Jun3
Last week before the lilacs began to fade, I caught this lovely big Bombus nevadensis (I think) enjoying the blossoms.

I’m grateful to have captured some native bees today, and this one above last week, with the husband-camera. It’s been awhile since I’ve spent much time with either, in part because of the dearth of native bees in the yard for the past few years, which has made me too sad to go out and chase them. But there were so many bees on the perennial onion blooms this morning that I felt inspired to get out the big camera, and grateful to attend to them.

It was busy on the onions this morning, which is one reason I love these amazing plants that just keep on going, and seeding profusely every year. Above, a mining bee (genus Andrena), and below, what I think is Bombus huntii.

Above, another Bombus nevadensis, if I’m not mistaken, and the bright black spot on her back suggests a female. There were also a few honeybees, a small butterfly, and a digger bee among the onion flowers, but I didn’t get good enough pictures to share. Then with the last few images available on the camera, I attended to the pink honeysuckle, which was buzzing with honeybees. This one was being carefully watched by someone besides me…

Pollen

May29

I’m grateful for the pollen packed on this bumblebee’s legs. It signifies a vibrant, healthy ecosystem somewhere in the midst of climate chaos; it represents resilience and survival of pollinators. I’m grateful for the bees of all ilks, and for these perennial onions just now opening their papery shells to feed so many native insects.

Pink Flowers

May20

I’m grateful that everyone in my household woke up alive this morning, and we got to enjoy coffee in the garden before getting to work. Topaz doesn’t often consent to a lap, so it was special to have her relax on mine for awhile as I sat among the raised beds where I planted onions and some leeks last night.

After coffee we walked the Breakfast Loop, feeling gratitude for abundant May wildflowers, and especially the wild pink phlox. It’s a good year for the wildflowers, even though it’s also a good year for the weeds.

The little yellow flowers are weeds, but the pink ones are natives, astragalus in the foreground and phlox in the middle.

And I’m making sure to spend some time each day with the crabapple tree, bursting with gorgeous pink flowers attended by bees. I’m grateful for pink flowers.