Mother Nature’s Trick on Fall Lovers

Mother Nature must’ve guffawed til her sides ached as she read scores of first day of fall memes flooding the internet. How ironic that fellow lovers of colorful leaves, cozy sweaters, pumpkin patches, and simmering soups wiped dripping sweat from brows in 90 plus temps on the cusp of our favorite season. For folks who’ve eagerly awaited brisk mornings and hoodies, last week’s sultry heat didn’t just set us back; it wilted spirits. Don’t worry, though. We’ll recover as soon as morning thermometers hover in the thirties or low forties.

It’s interesting to read friends’ posts during this hinge between summer and autumn. It doesn’t take long to know who loves frosty winters, pastel springs, simmering beach-weather summers, and my favorite-- fall. When I scan Facebook, I see clearly why some of my friends and I connect. We love this time of year that others see as a harbinger of doom.

We love nature’s colors as foliage morphs from green to yellow, orange, bronze, and crimson. We love gunmetal grays that dominate skies this time of year. We love native grass hues as they switch off chlorophyll production and turn on dormant mode. We love watching birds stage in voracious hordes in preparation to migrate. We love those crazy cricket serenades that foretell dropping temperatures. We love high school football games with its scent of freshly buttered popcorn.

We love knowing hunting seasons have begun so our freezers will soon be full of freshly harvested game. We love standing over the stove to stir soups that smell of onion, garlic, tomatoes, basil, oregano  as they simmer and perfume our homes. We love kneading flour, yeast, eggs, oil, and water into crusty breads we’ll bake, slice, and toast with cheese to eat with our soup or chili. We love others who understand our quirky fixation with this time of year.

I understand why some dread this season. Daylight shortens. Calendars mark the beginning of regimented activities, the end of lazy days at the pool, the last days of garden production, and the beginning of paying a rising winter heat bill. Despite recognizing others’ distress, I can’t help but wake up smiling when the autumnal equinox tells me summer is over. It means my favorite birds, sandhill cranes, will soon return, winging and singing their song across russet and golden fields on their way to New Mexico’s playas. I’ll hear their ancient cry and imagine elk bugling in the background though I know that hasn’t happened across our state for nearly a century.

My fellow autumn lovers are nesters, folks who love snuggling tight at homes with loved ones. This season appeals to those who savor each diminishing sound as cooling nights shut down summer’s harsh decibels. This begins a time of introspection and contemplation. Summer will return for those in mourning. For those of us celebrating its end, ignore the heat and brew a pot of cider. Raise your mug to toast golden days ahead.

April May Not Be the Cruelest Month

Decades ago, the poet T.S. Eliot told us April was the cruelest month. For years, I’ve accepted his word on this without question. After all, her weather is a bit more than schizophrenic, switching from balmy spring breezes to stinging ice pellets in a matter of hours.

After this past Saturday, I’m thinking September may beat my birth month out for this title. How do we go from stunning 90 degree temps one week, late summer blooms, happy butterflies and jewel-toned hummingbirds fattening themselves on autumn –tinged nectar to curled and blackened leaves and no lovely creatures flitting from one blossom to another overnight?

In less than a fortnight during early September, Mother Nature switched gears on her big and little darlings. Humans replaced shorts and t-shirts with slacks and sweaters. Some turned on furnaces to burn off that early morning chill caused by temperatures in the 30s. Unfortunately, birds and insects caught mid-migration didn’t have the same options people had to adapt to this harsh change.

Within 24 hours, weather that had provided a lush fall banquet for flying creatures sent any still moving to fly south as fast as their wings could carry them. Unfortunately, some were either too busy eating to pay attention to the shift in the barometer, or they just didn’t get going fast enough. I don’t know the answer. However, after that tomato-killing frost, I saw monarchs with wings like stained glass windows frozen to death, their bodies flattened on the ground beneath their last perches.  

Recent autumns have spoiled me into believing the first frost wouldn’t come until after the beginning of October. Though I’d noticed a slow-down and smaller sizes in tomato production, I assumed we had at least a month before we had to worry about Jack Frost swooping into our yard with his chilling crystals. I was sure the Weather Channel frost advisories were just apocalyptic hype sometimes promoted by the media because it draws ratings. Even my husband, who reads weather better than most, thought the meteorologists were crying wolf. 

While covering my tomatoes might have lengthened their season by a couple of weeks, nothing I could have done would have saved either the two little hummers frequenting our plastic feeders or the butterflies still flitting from one zinnia or cosmos blossom to another where they extended their curling tongues to taste one last bit of Kansas summer.

Fall is a still my favorite season, but  Mother Nature has put me on notice that I can’t count on enjoying weeks and weeks of bird and butterfly watching. I’m wondering how long we have before we see only stark skeletons of once fully dressed trees. She may also be telling me that this winter will be a bit rougher than those in the past were. Perhaps I better prepare better for this and stock up on sunflower seeds and suet blocks to feed overwintering birds.  

Late Season Cow Dipping

While calendars tell us summer is over and fall has begun, hordes of giant dragonflies ride still-warm breezes and wasps hover over ripe fruits. Summer birdsong tricks us into believing there’s plenty of time for a second round of ripe tomatoes and okra or many late season dips in a lake or pond. The reality is that frosty mornings are not far off. It won’t be long before summer tunes are silent, insects and birds will vanish, green leaves will turn to dry husks, and ice will crust ponds and lakes.

Driving to school in the shadow of a setting harvest moon on the final day of summer reminded me that morning sunrises would soon silhouette bare branches instead of peep through foliage. Currently, on my morning route, gold tones tint cottonwood leaves. Flocks of vultures congregate on elevators and tall antennae but no longer stretch wings to welcome sunrise. It’s too chilly. Mist or low lying clouds rise and float just above stubble fields and farm ponds, telling me ground and water temperatures differ from those of morning air. 

Despite signs that we are on the cusp of seasonal change, most of us enjoy the moment and postpone thoughts of icy roads and water tanks, snow covered driveways and sidewalks, and winter heat bills. We turn our faces to capture last warm rays and savor final cicada serenades. Some creatures literally immerse themselves in these last moments.

While cool temperatures created a smoke-on-the-water effect over a big pond on my morning path, by the time of my late afternoon return, those mists were long gone. The sun’s reflections glittered on the steel blue water as a heron stood sentinel on a dead tree branch. It was so pretty I stopped to take pictures.

Backlit by fall’s bright yellow sun, a herd of black cows crowded the water’s edge, mucking about in mud. Suddenly, one stepped into the pond and continued heading west. In the way that only cows know, the rest chose to follow their leader.

At first, the train of bovines waded in knee (do cows have knees?) deep. Slowly, water covered those ungainly bodies to the point I saw only ears and noses moving forward. Several times, even those dipped below the surface until I wondered who saved drowning cattle. Although I had been a lifeguard decades ago, I knew these huge beasts were beyond my rescue abilities.

Despite my concern, V’s of ripples continued moving across the pond until two black ovals and a big black squared reappeared from each. A bit at a time, the rest of those cumbersome forms emerged, shaking water droplets from their hides. Each spray reflected sunlight until it looked as if diamonds splintered off the black shapes.

I only watched the first members of the herd complete their swim across the deep pond before I drove off, smiling. It won’t be long before that water is too cold or too frozen for even thick hided Angus to cross. Watching cow dipping was a great way to enjoy my last day of summer 2013. 

Hummingbird Saved from Praying Mantis Ambush

Despite the hot temperatures that scorched yards and fields up until a few days ago, autumn is in the air. One reason for that involves behaviors of birds and insects. 

While more bees hover over late-blooming plants to gather end of season nectar, cicadas sing louder each evening, trying to squeeze last notes out of their noisy carcasses. Cricket choruses are also more evident inside and outside the house. Vultures gather in ever-larger groups to prepare for autumn journeys south. Birds we normally don’t see in this region wing through. One of those migrating species is the humming bird. Those with feeders out are seeing action for the first time.

While mountain residents enjoy hummers all summer long, Western Kansans enjoy a short visit sometimes in the spring and often in the fall as the tiny birds make their way to and from nesting territory. I’ve maintained a feeder all season in hopes I’d see these little migrants. Changing that sugar nectar finally paid off. Two or three iridescent green tornadoes have drained the feeder fluid levels the past few days.

The first day I saw my flitting visitors, I also noted a praying mantis. It posed solemnly along the edge of the clear container full of sweetened water that I offered to lure in long awaited guests. If I hadn’t seen a photo on the internet showing how these large, Martian-looking bugs kill and eat hummingbirds, I wouldn’t have given its presence a second thought. However, I’d read the headlines even though I hadn’t viewed the gruesome photos. I also observed the tiny calliope hummingbird hesitating before it approached the plastic flowers at the base of the bottle.

Time for Grandma to intervene. A thunk of a broom handle sent that brown, 5-inch long predator tumbling to the ground, scurrying for cover. I added a few whacks with the bristle end of my weapon to make sure he didn’t want to set up c amp again on my hummingbird feeder.

Normally, I encourage these garden sentries who protect my veggies from damaging insects. Just looking at that triangular head with those strong jaws lets you know this guy means business when it comes to devouring prey. A close look at its legs to see how the mantis uses them to spear or confine its dinner reveals sophisticated abilities to disable victims. This is one powerful insect. It’s understandable why a tribe in Africa deified such a critter.

According to the internet site where I first saw these common garden protectors threatening hummingbirds, the mantis waits patiently for the hummer to come close. The insect then spears the small bird with a powerful foreleg. After killing the hummer, it dines on its soft belly side. Someone videotaped this predator vs. prey incident and posted it on YouTube. I couldn’t bear to watch the entire video, but I saw enough to know I wanted that big, ol’, ugly bug back in the cabbage patch.

Over decades, I’ve learned autumn is the time of year when I’ll see insects, birds, and animals most focused on their own survival. They don’t have long to store ample reserves to make it through winter’s dark, cold months. Despite knowing this, I say hummingbirds are off limits. Their visits are too infrequent to allow a predator make a meal of one.

Swagger and Blink

If junior high dances are anything like they used to be, on the way inside, you walk past noisy boys jostling one another for dominancy.  You hear snippets of saucy trash talk, see manly posturing with exaggerated shoulders and aggressive chins, as well as smell a mixture of colognes designed to tantalize the fairer sex awaiting that evening’s Prince Charming.  When a particularly desirable young woman arrives, those waiting Romeos amp their preening and posing until they catch her attention.

Once inside the door, one notices young ladies dressed to catch the eye of the toughs shoving one another around outside, listens to decidedly feminine voices discussing outfits, hair, make-up, and the charms of their dream boat, and inhales a second barrage of scents selected to enchant male objects-of- affection.

Once the music begins, dominant lads stride across the room to tag the girl of their dreams for a dance.  Every now and then, competition gets in the way, and a stare-down begins first as the two assert their authority.  If that doesn’t work, a hefty shoulder shove gets the message across that the lady is taken.  Some wannabe sweethearts just don’t get it, and a fight ensues.  Whenever I observe these adolescent activities, it reminds me of the annual deer equivalent of this junior high social function.

 Not long ago, we spent the evening at Cedar Bluff where we watched the white tail version of this rite of passage. A group of does arranged themselves on a green field below our picnic area and began to nibble daintily.  I wondered how long  it would take before a buck arrived, and sure enough one followed the females only minutes after they appeared.  He was not particularly big, so I expected what came next. 

A much larger male strode onto the scene.  He didn’t amble; he strutted. He was every bit the cocky adolescent male strutting his stuff to show off for the girls.   It was clear he saw the ladies as his and the other buck as an intruder.

Beginning the challenge, the two locked eyes. For several minutes, they stared and feinted forward and back.  When that didn’t cause the other to budge, there was some head tossing enhanced with pawing of dust.  I guess that’s the deer equivalent of a little sand in the eyes.

For a moment, I thought the little guy was going to give in and leave.  The big deer thought so too, but it was a ruse.  The challenger was playing with Mr. Macho.  After his little deceit, he charged his opponent.  

Tensions escalated considerably.  You’d have thought the human observers were cheering on a favorite football team with all the jumping up and down and hollering going on.  Fans evenly divided their support for the bucks, so emotions heightened on the hilltop as the battle raged.

The warring deer clashed antlers and thunked shoulders, snorting and grunting through the ordeal.  Ironically, the fought over four-legged maidens, kept eating. They’d glance up every now and then at a particularly loud assault or at a cheer from the audience, but, in general, they didn’t pay much attention to their Lotharios. 

 

Eventually, the larger creature dispersed his challenger, who wandered into the brush to hide his shame.  Several of the hilltop cheering section groaned as their favorite left the battlefield under the flag of defeat.  Despite the winner’s exertions, he didn’t seek a prize that evening.  He contented himself with joining the gals for dinner. 

I was left mulling the similarities between humans and deer and how entertaining it is to watch either species’ courtship rituals.

Die Fly

If curses and death wishes worked, a fly couldn’t survive, let alone buzz in anyone’s ear or crawl on their flesh, near my house. In the last two weeks, I’ve thought or said, “Die fly,” at least a 10,000 times. Unfortunately, wishing these creepy crawlers into the afterworld has had absolutely no effect.  It’s time for a serious attack plan.

You’d think with cooler temperatures slowing the little buggers down that I’d  successfully pop them one by one.  However, if you were a fly on my wall or ceiling, you’d laugh until you fell off watching me trying to smack your relatives into tomorrow. Rolled up magazines, letters, empty paper towel tubes, plastic made-in-foreign places swatters , and good old-fashioned palms are weapons of choice as these autumn irritants sneak into my well-screened home.

Instead of dead insects lying about, crushed paper goods and cheaply made plastic tools accent each room my decor.  Magazines and newspapers are crinkled.  Cardboard cylinders, crushed in the middle, flop to the point they are useless as armament. To top it off, I have bruises where I slapped myself trying to kill these germ-delivery agents.  Adding insult to injury, I have to run around spraying disinfectant everywhere flies land to eradicate their microscopic slobbers and poopers. Fly patrol in the fall is an endless, thankless job.

Fortunately, common houseflies don’t live long—about 21 days.  Unfortunately, they are champion breeders.  Under optimal conditions, a single pair of flies and their progressive generations could spawn nearly 200 quintillion family members in a single reproductive season.  Knowing ample food supplies, either feces or garbage, initiate breeding behavior in these miniscule monstrosities inspires me to be an ultra-tidy housekeeper. Don’t wanna feed those bugs and have them . . . you know . . . around our place.

As nasty as disease carrying flies are, they are also aeronautical wonders.  This explains the destroyed, paper products  and bruises. To help me on my mission of destruction, I did learn that flies can only flap their two wings as long as their feet are free to move.  Successful pest catchers also understand these guys leap up and backward upon take-off.  This explains why those in the know catch so many more flies than less informed folk. 

Today, scientists, probably individuals who grew up successfully trapping and  smacking flies, analyze these creatures’ flight technology.  According to Michael Dickinson of the University of California, Berkley, ``Flies are the most accomplished fliers on the planet in terms of aerodynamics. They can do things no other animal can, like land on ceilings or inclined surfaces,'' he added. ``And they are especially deft at takeoffs and landings -- their skill far exceeds that of any other insect or bird.'' 

What these researchers learned in their study was that fly eyes, possessing 4000 lenses, are directly connected to their wing muscles.  The minute they perceive stimuli, their body responds. Don’t act surprised when you find out someone created a futuristic robot with fly-like eyes and flight properties to discover the secrets of outer space or spy behind enemy lines. 

I don’t feel so bad about missing all my shots knowing that when that nefarious pest sees me putting the whammy on it, its little wing muscles automatically respond to save it to reproduce another day. I may not kill every fly I see, but I can help them starve to death on my watch. 

Autumn Sounds Different

Autumn sounds different on our rocky hilltop.  As the temperatures drop and days grow shorter, life is considerably altered from what it was just six weeks ago.  We have new guests at the bird feeder while other frequent diners have migrated South.  It’s quieter with fewer bird songs and insect orchestral contributions.  Autumn has introduced more than frosty mornings and golden leaves to our countryside.
Long before summer songs ceased, I watched feathered summer friends gearing up for long migrations.  Some are true global citizens that fly to Central and South America for the winter while others shoot for warmer climates in southern Texas and New Mexico. 

Recently, robins rendezvoused in the backyard and under the cedars to feast in preparation for their journeys. They scoured the lawn like miniature vacuums seeking slow moving and inattentive insects.  Bass booming nighthawks, by the hundreds, swarmed an alfalfa patch below the house for at least a week, devouring bugs in order to fuel their journeys.  Abrasive, screeching blue jays stormed our feeder in groups of 15, driving off smaller birds and even saucy squirrels who don’t give up their sunflower seeds without a fight. For a while, it was noisier than usual with all these gatherings until one morning when I awakened to a changed tune in the yard.  Where there had been cacophony, silence controlled. Repetitive mockingbirds and shirring wrens had vanished along with robins and jays.

The same thing happened outside my classroom in town. Swallows darted in frantic activity as they tried to fatten late-fledging young for fall travels.  For a few busy days, it seemed like Denver International Airport outside my window with all the comings and goings.  I glanced to see what was going on, and I noted the fully-feathered young perched at the edge of their daubed home, flapping strengthening wings.  The next day, peace ruled. When I stole a peek, the nest was empty. 

Also in Ellis, the 70 or so turkey vultures that roost throughout the summer on the water tower or atop local grain elevators left stained perches behind.   These birds that rode thermals like they were amusement park rides had taken more direct routes out of town.  Only  rare die-hards show up to feast on road-kill opossums and skunks. 

            During an October excursion to the Quivira National Wildlife refuge, I spied Swainson’s hawks and turkey vultures kettling in groups of 60 or more as they prepared for their exodus.  On the same afternoon, I saw thousands of migrating pelicans creating a moving blanket that reflected sunlight off their white feathers. The sounds from the sky that day reminded me of being at Disneyland and listening to visitors from every continent talking all at once. 

            These days, nuthatches, woodpeckers, and juncos challenge obese squirrels for a spot at the feeder.  Every now and then a chickadee lands to snack.    Despite my new visitors, days are quieter.  I like to think of my summer songsters brightening some Minnesota snowbird’s morning as he sits on his Port Aransas patio sipping coffee while he listens to some of my favorite musicians.

           

           

  

Drunk Dogs and Wasps

When I first met my husband, a field-trained black lab owned him.  Rebel was one an intelligent beast with a once in a lifetime personality. The retriever and  man enjoyed a rustic bachelorhood  at Meade  State Fish Hatchery.  Dog and owner led an idyllic life hunting, fishing, and working fishponds set far from town and people.

Once Rebel decided I was an asset to his meal schedule and ability to lounge on the couch, this big, black dog made room in his Labrador heart for another human.  When our jobs changed and we transferred from the lake to Ellis, Rebel accepted another difficult adjustment to a previously perfect life.   He traded working  fishponds for retrieving evening papers and supervising a garden.

While he missed the freedom of roaming fish hatchery grounds  where he could roust game birds and help my husband feed and move fish, Rebel discovered  new delights.  We had a mulberry tree, a pear tree, and two apple trees.   You  ask, “Why would fruit trees be a bonus in a retriever’s life?”

This particular lab loved mulberries, pears, and apples—especially if they had dropped to the ground and fermented for a few days.  Yes, our lab was a lush during a fruit drop.

I’d  find him sleeping soundly amidst mounds of fallen mulberries.  His distended belly rising and falling  rhythmically as he breathed.  I laughed to see dark purple mulberry stains  circling his muzzle after one of his binges.  When he awoke from his snooze, he looked at me with unfocused eyes and wobbled as he rose to greet me.  A perpetually happy dog, these fruit indulgences didn't alter his loving personality.   

In early fall, if I called and Rebel didn’t come running, I knew I’d find him,  head on paws,  sleeping off a toot under our pear and apple trees.  Fermented fruit scent permeated the air surrounding this tiny orchard.  Low flying, inebriated wasps  fed on yeasty pulp or circled  above  over-ripe yellow and red orbs and Rebel.  To my surprise, these relaxed insects never stung me as I collected fruit they crawled upon. Their tranquility explained my dog's relaxed state. 

Certain  I didn’t want to encourage dipsomania in  our beloved pet, I found myself racing him to fallen fruit when I got home from school.  He’d give me  a hang-dog look that nearly broke my heart as I tossed his beloved apples and pears in a bucket.  We’d taken him from the freedom of the fish hatchery and moved him to town, and now I was depriving him of the one pleasure he’d found that made city life worthwhile.

Rebel has been gone for decades, and we moved long ago from that house surrounded by the pear and apple trees.  Despite passing time, the dog days of August and slow moving wasps remind me of that black dog that made room in his heart for a new member of the family and relocation to a neighborhood with paved streets.