Swallows Attack Lawn Dart Teams

What’s more fun when families get together than some friendly rivalry? Our most recent gathering enjoyed some spirited lawn dart competition where daughter proved she could aim and hit the mark every bit as well as her dad, uncle, and husband could. Her victories weren’t the only surprise during this adrenalin generating family feud. A nearby swallow nest packed to the brim with fledgling young flew right into the middle of their game.

When the participants set up the perimeter lines and target zones, they considered the swallow nest situated on a pole high above our fence. After some discussion, players decided their activity wouldn’t disturb the young family. Their play extended far beyond the area where mom or dad traditionally flew out of the nest, scolding trespassers.

During the first game or two, this distance appeared satisfactory. However, as noise levels increased, the tuxedoed parents grew ever more agitated and flew closer and closer to those carefully lining up their darts with the target.

  

Those of us sitting in the observation seats on the patio had a clear view of the increasingly irritated birds. At first, they swooped above our players’ heads by a good foot. When the focused team members ignored their shrill cries and frantic flutterings, the birds’ trajectory dropped til they cruised inches above the competitors’ hair or scalp, depending on which player they targeted.

In a further effort to appease angry swallows, the players moved their field of play over as far as they could without being in the busy street. Unfortunately, hostilities had escalated to the point that nothing the humans did satisfied the birds. The black and white torpedoes plunged right above my mom’s head, riffling silver hairs when she walked out with a water pitcher to refill their birdbath—something they’d accepted all summer long.

By the second night, we thought the birds’ emotions had settled and they’d gotten used to having extra humans in the yard. Nope! They ordered a backup crew. Instead of the two swallows who’d dive-bombed the games the night before, six birds performed acrobatics directly above the players as they focused their concentration to place weighted darts inside a yellow ring on their opponents’ end line.

Players and audience tried to figure out where these extra attackers came from. We had only one swallow nest in the yard though we had seen other birds flying about the neighborhood. While we puzzled this mystery, lawn dart competition continued til we celebrated a victor.

After our guests left the following day, we noted they weren’t the only ones absent. Our swallow family had exited as well. That offered a huge hint as to the source of the extra attackers.

We knew the babies were nearly grown. We’d seen them peeking out the bird house opening and then making awkward, short flights as their parents taught them to hunt nearby insects. They must have been more mature than we realized and emerged from the nest fully capable of joining the parents’ attacks on nearby humans.

As family gatherings go, this was a good one. It was great to see one another and to see a nearby bird household in action as well.

When Faking It Isn't a Bad Thing

When Faking It Isn’t a Bad Thing

All of us have attended weddings and marveled at beautiful bouquets a bride and her attendants carried down the aisle. Those of us who enjoy flowers appreciate well-designed arrangements that brighten the sanctuary. Then our roaming eyes note the corsages and boutonnieres that mothers, fathers, grandparents, and groomsmen wear. In the past, brides were at the mercy of their mother’s garden or a savvy florist for these bridal necessities. Every blossom was freshly cut and arranged  just before the wedding. Nowadays, wives-to-be visit hobby stores to select realistic silk flowers that hold color and shape before and after their nuptials.

Like all new trends, this one got off to a slow start and guaranteed a bit of snooty commentary among guests with old-fashioned sensibilities. However, manufacturers realized the potential for these everlasting blossoms and tweaked their product until it’s impossible to tell whether you’re looking at someone’s garden glory or a fake. Who hasn’t slyly fondled a silk plant or arrangement to see if it’s the real deal? It doesn’t take much imagination to see why this market succeeded while others didn’t.

I’ve discovered that weddings aren’t the only place silk flowers are lovely to look at and affordable. Folks who live in deer country are discovering they can design colorful flowerbeds that brighten their yards and last all summer for the same price they’d pay for garden shop plants.

For readers who’ve never dealt with a determined doe or buck with an acquired a taste for tulips, daffodils, geraniums, and daisies, the gardener fights a losing battle. Those wily critters can leap high fences, gobble tender leaves and blooms, and exit before you can ask “Whitetail or muley?”

This summer, I’ve watched several does mow neighbors’ and my healthy plants to stubble, so I’m familiar with their sneaky strategies. Nothing frustrates a green-thumbed dreamer more than going to bed knowing their prized plant is about to flower and coming outside the next morning to find sheared  stumps it its place.

A nearby resident figured out how to deceive the local herd and still enjoy a colorful yard. As I walked past their waist-high fence week after week, I noted delicate iris, hyacinths, tulips, daisies, and daffodils. After seeing these always perfect flowers, I wondered why their blooms lasted so long. Curiosity overcame me until I wandered close enough to examine their garden more closely. Yep, they’d torn a page out of a bridal magazine and loaded their bordered beds with silk plants. Apparently, they didn’t buy cheap stuff because this greenery looks real.

I’d loved to have seen the face of the deer that bounded over that fence to sample that first fibrous petal. If I didn’t relish the act of potting tiny sprouts  and nurturing them as they grow into lush, leafy foliage filled with swelling buds, I’d be the silk plant aisle’s best customer. Those deer would need a mineral oil dosing to clean their systems out after they’d invaded my fake jungle.

                                                                                                                                               

The Battle Is On

The Battle Is On

Those who’ve read my column for years know I love hummingbirds. Those miniature bodies with needle-like beaks that zip through air emitting the spirited hum of an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine mesmerize me. Usually, I hear before I see their torpedo-shaped torsos flitting by at supersonic speeds. I love watching them dart to and from their feeders or from blossoms dangling over the edges of hanging baskets. What’s not to love, right?

The answer is ants! If you attract hummers, these insects soon follow. Since they are social by nature, they arrive in droves. You never get one or two. An endless parade of narrow- waisted, strong-jawed pheromone -using communicator s from every colony in the vicinity troops up tree, wall, pole, or whatever supports that bright bottle of sugar solution.

Usually, birds and bugs co-exist, eating sweet syrup daintily like red hat ladies enjoying a tea party. However, the other day, an iridescent broadtail swooped to the red plastic blossom inviting it to dinner. Upon arriving, it swiftly backed off and hovered before racing away.

I watched, thinking it would return. When it didn’t, I inspected the feeder hanging from a shepherd’s hook. I soon realized why my little buddy’s appetite vanished.

Miniscule ants by the thousands had marched up that pole and found their way into the mixture. Like desperate drunks, they drowned their sorrows and themselves before floating to the top of the bottle. Still-living relatives escaped out yellow and red flower-shaped feeding stations. That little hummer must have thought the Invasion of the Body Snatchers had arrived.

If that green fellow had lingered longer, he’d have reported to his friends that an awkwardly acrobatic older woman was doing a hootchie-cootchie dance. I couldn’t find a finger hold on that feeder that wasn’t covered two or three layers deep in ants. Every time I touched glass, plastic, or metal, eight-legged Huns raced up my hand onto my arm.

This emergency called for desperate action. A scum of dead creatures requiring disposal drifted at the top of the bottle, so I went for the big gun: a water hose with power sprayer. Taking enough time enough to douse myself from head to toe and muddy the soil beneath my feet, I drove the invaders from their castle. At last, I could antlessly lift feeder from hook.

Hundreds of carcasses washed down the drain as I cleaned the bottle before refilling it. I had to think of a way to discourage the families of these dead creatures from repeating the behavior that destroyed their companions. Thankfully, Necessity is the Mother of Invention.

I scrounged until found a lid built something like an angel food cake pan. I filled the top with water to discourage future sugar-crazed kamikazes from polluting my hummers’ carb supply.

So far so good--the sugar solution remains bugless. However, I worry that the natives swarming about my feet as I refresh the bottle are plotting to overthrow the crazily gyrating gramma who thwarted their feast.

A Good Thing Turned Monster

Wallace Stegner suggests specific landscapes speak to a person’s heart, and he’s right. Many have a favorite place that roots the spirit. Plants have a similar effect, and that preference is genetic at my house. Mom and I love clematis blossoms. We can’t grow too many or take enough photos of those blooming in our flowerbeds.

We’ve found we can cultivate them in western Kansas if we nurture them tenderly. That says volumes because this plant succumbs easily to heat and drought, natural elements of Kansas summers. Ironically, a wild species thrives in Wyoming’s cool mountain air and takes on kudzu-like characteristics, wrapping prolific tendrils around fences, trees, and anything else that holds still a moment too long.

Four Easters ago, I gave my mom two plants, one purple and one white. She tucked them in soil east of her front door and watched them twine up metal porch poles. That first summer, blossoms were sparse and plants stunted. The next season, they decided to showoff and bloomed prolifically as they advanced toward her guttering. Despite the resulting fuzzy seeds, sometimes called old man’s beard, her plants didn’t spread. In fact, the opposite occurred.

The third year, only the white vine re-sprouted. Her purple variety didn’t survive. Despite our disappointment at losing the deeper-hued plant, its companion compensated. At one point, Mom had 50 saucer-sized, white blooms climbing toward heaven. To support the extra weight, she added a chicken wire frame.

After watching her success, I planted clematis near my back porch. This year it flowered for the first time so I can expect hordes of blossoms next spring. Like mom’s plant, the seeds haven’t spread. Until I visited Wyoming during the summer, I thought this was unfortunate. After seeing what happens with unchecked clematis growth, I’m delighted our plants haven’t reproduced.

In central Wyoming’s Wind River Range, wild clematis fills river bottoms and takes over yards of anyone naïve enough to try to domesticate it. When I view the acres of green vines climbing logs, trees, bushes, fences, and bridge foundations, I see how it got its folk name--virgin’s bower. I might not understand the virgin part, but left to its own devices, this plant forms shady tunnels big enough provide napping space for several classrooms full of students. Less lethargic children could play hide-n-seek for days in these green grottoes and not find all their playmates.

In one familiar yard, previous owners turned this wild vine with delicate yellow blossoms loose along their fence. Once they realized its capacity to overtake everything in its path, they wrenched woody stems loose from metal fencing and considered that a closed episode. Imagine their surprise to discover  hairy seedpods had blown about their lawn and took root the next spring. Instead of an orderly row of trailing creepers clinging tightly to chain link, baby vines sprouted and spread across two lots.

Once I saw this favorite plant growing unchecked, I was glad the cultured clematis growing in mom’s flowerbed and mine hadn’t reproduced. Despite having lovely flowers that succor bees, this plant growing out of control is a monster that becomes too much of a good thing.