Blog

Insects

After discovering so many new varieties of milkweed, my newest obsession for the spring season is to start a butterfly garden in my front yard that features a variety of milkweed plants. I think that it would not only be a great stopover site for migratory monarchs but would also nurture dozens of other pollinators as well. As an added bonus, it will blend perfectly with the “little patch of prairie” we put in a few years ago. 

Last Saturday, I spent the afternoon reading picture books with my granddaughters. One we read was called  Home Is Calling by Katherine Pryor,  about the migration patterns of monarch butterflies. (It’s a beautiful book filled with gorgeous illustrations and factual information woven together in lilting prose. The teacher in me was impressed!) Ironically, the very next day I happened upon a report from the World Wildlife Fund in Mexico stating that the eastern monarch population in central Mexico has nearly doubled this year, occupying twice as much forest land as last year. According to researchers' estimates, that means that approximately 28 million monarch butterflies are currently overwintering on about four acres of forest. (A number to celebrate, but nowhere near numbers from the late 90s when butterflies covered over 45 acres of forest.) While the number of butterflies in Mexico may not seem pertinent to us here in the United States, it actually is encouraging news for us too. It could be a sign that we can still save this iconic species from extinction  –  if we understand them and purposely work to help them..

Yesterday, while I was browsing the web, I ran across a relatively obscure article that started me on an unexpected tangent. The headline read: California’s monarch butterfly population plummets; fire wipes out Topanga habitat. The destruction of a prime butterfly habitat, to me, just added another victim to the life-changing tragedy that so many Californians have suffered. 

We have a nearby neighbor whom we affectionately call “Blower Man.”  We don’t actually know him – he lives directly across the quarry from us – but we definitely know when he’s outside doing yard work. The deafening sound of his enormous leaf blower drones on hour after hour, often chasing us inside until he finishes. As annoying as it is to be sent into retreat mode on a picture-perfect fall day, I find it heartbreaking to think about the environmental impacts of stripping a property bare of every fallen leaf. Autumn leaves are, I believe, Mother Nature's gift to the earth. 

While cliff golden rods and rough blazing stars are vying for attention in my front garden, my third, and unexpectedly new fall favorite, quietly fills a shady corner of my backyard with tall stems covered in soft rose-purple flowers. At a first, quick glance, the plants could be snapdragons revived after the heat of summer or digitalis giving one last burst of color, but a closer look reveals an entirely different plant, rose turtlehead, or more precisely Chelone oblique.   It’s a plant whose blossoms bring to mind dozens of small turtles raising their heads to see if anyone is looking for them and whose name recalls a long-ago story. 

I know I’m in the minority, but I’m just not a fan of mums anymore. They're great for huge swaths of  temporary color especially in commercial properties, but I'll pass in my own front yard.  I think it’s simply a case of being tired of being tired of planting essentially the same plant year after year, only in a different color or size. I've also noticed that I am veering away from the precise, formal plantings that are typical of beds of mums. Instead, I am beginning to prefer a much more casual, natural look with its unusual twists and its unexpected delights. 

I have six granddaughters. Four of them are drama queens; Holly is not. She is the most matter-of-fact eight year old that I have ever met. So, when I heard blood-curdling screams coming from the back yard I knew something terrible had happened. Had she been attacked by wasps…or accidentally stepped on our resident black snake and been bitten …or  fallen off the side of the cliff (She is a climber!)?  Racing to the back garden, I found her standing upright with no apparent damage anywhere, having a terrified face-off with a spider lounging in its web.

The cicada Armageddon has ended here. The endless droning has subsided.  I can now walk across my yard without being attacked by miniature flying torpedoes or crunching a plethora of brown carcasses with each step.

I have definitely been enjoying the quiet and have been looking forward to a time of peace in the garden.  And then my son-in-law, the arborist, stopped by and announced, “The Japanese beetles are here, and it looks like a bad year.”  I really wanted him to be wrong, but, as usual, it appears that he was right.  They are here  –  and they are hungry.