Blog

Insects

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.

My youngest granddaughter is an absolute ball of fire. She has boundless energy, endless curiosity and the attention span of a gnat. She seems to be everywhere at once, talking a blue streak, except when we are in the garden and the butterflies flutter in. Then she is mesmerized, standing quiet and still as a statue hoping a butterfly will land on her like it did at the butterfly house ages ago. Watching the expression on her face as she patiently stands, wishing for one to find her, makes me determined to create a butterfly paradise so, just maybe, she might get that wish. 

I had an eye opening experience yesterday. 

Every day I sit by a huge window overlooking my back garden to drink my morning tea. While I sat enjoying the view, a bevy of butterflies swooped into the yard to begin their daily feeding frenzy. They come almost every morning at about the same time for an extended meal and then pop in and out the rest of the day. 

The great cicada Armageddon is about to unfold here in mid Missouri. The recent showers we’ve had have begun to loosen the dry, crusty surface soil, allowing the entombed critters to wiggle free and begin their upward climb from their burrows where, as nymphs, they have been sucking sap from tree roots for as long as 17 years. Within days they will begin what can be thought of as their relentless assault on the quiet life as we know it.