Beneficial Wasp Attacking Pest

Living With Pests—Part 3: Pest Martial Arts

Last time I wrote about studying one’s pestilent adversary. The greatest benefit of doing this is that by learning its ways, the adversary may be disarmed, with no need for battle. That’s the wisdom of the martial artist: with knowledge and skill, the problem may be defused, before it erupts into violence.

How does this martial process play out with garden pests? In one way, it may simply mean learning to live with the pest, while preventing it from multiplying and taking over. Life on the homestead can be a lot more mellow if you allow a little damage, while insuring that things are kept in check. This can often be achieved by making one’s Eden a little less attractive to the nuisances. Let me give a couple of examples. I described in the previous post how dog hair in a vole’s tunnel creates a vole’s worst nightmare: dogs had somehow invaded the tunnels. Run!

Ants can be another formidable foe. Life may seem to be relatively pest free, until one day you find a couple of ants on the kitchen counter. Where there are two ants, there are two thousand. Once inside the house, it may be too late; some form of chemical warfare may be necessary. We have found that they can often be kept outside by sprinkling dried pennyroyal around the door or other possible entry points. Shortly after we moved here, we discovered pennyroyal growing wild. A little investigation informed us that it was an excellent ant repellent. And it is!

The complexities of raising a garden present many excellent opportunities to practice pest martial arts. The garden attracts a jillion kinds of invaders, like worms, insects, beetles, slugs, and leaf rot. My spouse has become a graduate student of ways to combat garden pests. The result is a five-pronged program: (1) use minimal organic insecticides, and only when necessary, (2) plant veggies at different times and places each year (keeping the bugs guessing where dinner is), (3) keep the garden reasonably clean (don’t encourage nesting places or allow egg masses to overwinter), (4) distribute things that bugs detest (e.g., eggshells for cutworms), and (5) go after them by hand. The last technique can be the most effective, but is the bloodiest. Once you learn the lifecycle of a given insect pest, you can severely limit their numbers by performing early morning patrols, when you find them slowly stumbling from sleep. It is then quite easy to quash them (or their eggs) between thumb and forefinger.

Another approach is to learn that there are numerous beneficial insects that will go after your pests. Lady beetles like aphids. The praying mantis eats many bugs. Tachinid flies and parasitic wasps will lay eggs on the caterpillars of certain nasty moths and butterflies. Various solitary hornets and wasps go after bugs. Spiders do a great job of insect predation. These lovely critters can get killed by insecticides, along with the nasty ones. The beneficials are attracted by certain plants—some of them native “weeds” that we once pulled out (but no longer!), some of them certain types of flowers, some by keeping a good mulch layer down. There’s so much to learn!

Living with pests is a balancing act. You never win the war—especially if you choose to make it a war. These pests have been around far longer than we humans and will likely be here after we’ve departed this planet. We like to believe that we are in charge, that we dominate, that we are the inheritors of the earth. That type of thinking is a recipe for failure. We can get along so much more compatibly if we listen and learn, if we let go some of our hubris and learn to live with the pests.

Cabbage Worm: Bad Pest

Living With Pests—Part 2: A Pest Education

Our culture offers us quick and facile answers to most of our problems. A physical discomfort is readily overcome by a miraculous medication—so the pharmaceutical industry would have us believe. The typical garden catalog or magazine is filled with ads for products that will rid your vegetable patch of any pest. They’d have you believe it’s assured and final. You don’t need to understand your garden opponent, just identify the critter and buy the antidote.

These quick fixes, however, come with a price: they’re expensive, as well as often toxic and temporary. In fact, the chemical “cure” can be worse than the disease. One can naively poison the soil, or upset the balance of nature (say, by also destroying good bugs), or pave the way for a future counterattack, as your nemesis returns in a more formidable form (some chemicals breed super bugs).

There is a nonviolent, more effective approach to dealing with pests, but it requires time and effort. It begins by reducing one’s ignorance of the adversary. As any martial artist knows, the first step to dealing with an opponent is to study him. The more you know about your antagonist, the more intelligent your response will be.

In reality, every critter that threatens the garden is Mother Nature’s work of art. That’s a good place to begin. It may not be a form of art that I appreciate, when I survey the damage, but that pest has exquisitely evolved to occupy its niche. It deserves to be respected and appreciated for what it is—not reviled as some worthless creature. It helps to begin by shifting one’s attitude and coming to see your opponent as a worthy one.

Once this appreciative mind-set begins to sink in, you can begin to conceive of more sane approaches. The critter I regard as a pest has possibly come to be one because I have upset nature’s balance. Rather than rush to kill it, there may be a way to restore the equilibrium. For example, every bug has its predator. Maybe I simply need to help the predator flourish. I may even have naively eliminated that predator by some previous rash action.

As I begin to understand my garden adversary (oh, the books I have purchased and the Internet searches I have launched!), much more effective responses are discovered. Some of the most effective actions have come to me as I read a minor tidbit about the pest—such as something that it abhors.

An example: Voles used to run through the tunnels that moles built under our garden. They would stop beneath a lush veggie and chew the roots off (later we’d watch the plant shrivel), and sometimes even draw the rest of the young plant into the tunnel below, dining on it at leisure. After months of frustration (and shamelessly attempting some fairly lethal but futile assaults), I read that voles are terrified of dogs and other such carnivores, and that they possess an excellent sense of smell. Aha! Taking that cue, I combed hair from our dog and stuffed bits into all the garden tunnels I could find. Within a couple of weeks all voles had vacated the veggie patch!

More on pest martial arts next time…

Cucumber Beetle: a Pest

Living With Pests—Part 1: The Problem

The closer I get to nature and the more I become aware of its qualities, the more I become in awe of it. But there’s a downside to rubbing shoulders with Ma Nature: dealing with pests. The natural world abounds with fierce competition between species. Only the fittest thrive and survive in this aggressive environment. And humans are the fiercest creatures of all; we have come to occupy and control virtually every corner of the globe. But our dominance is constantly being challenged by all kinds of pests. It’s a never-ending struggle. That’s evolution!

When we humans choose to live in secure urban enclaves, we are rarely face the challenge of directly competing with pests. The pest control folks usually take care of the job for us. They’ve either already swept the area clean or a quick call to them brings in their high-tech weapons. In rural environments, however, we usually face the confrontation on our own—especially when we are trying to garden and grow our own food. The problem is aggravated when you are a neophyte—as we were a couple of decades ago. When starting to garden, you can become overwhelmed by the pesky invaders.

Our move to the woods saw us inhabiting on a plot of land that had contained rather scrawny shrubs and trees. It was healthy, but no flourishing Garden of Eden. We cleared an area for a homesite and a garden, worked hard to enrich the soil, and planted vegetables, flowers, shrubs, and fruit trees. In a couple of years we were on the way towards transforming the sparse patch of land into our version of a luxuriant Eden. Was it any surprise that oodles of critters wanted to join us? I remember being amazed when cucumber beetles, squash bugs, and cabbage moths so quickly zeroed in on our garden. We thought we were so isolated. Where the hell did they come from?

Home-grown tomatoes, beans, corn, and other veggies have been our sustenance and joy over the years, but they are also favored by all sorts of pests—insects, worms, beetles, chewing mammals, molds & mildews, etc. We’ve contended with countless of these nuisances over the years. Some battles we’ve won, some we’ve surrendered, and some are ongoing—with periods of truce, followed by the critters launching and relaunching their assaults, just when we thought we’d prevailed.

We’ve experienced two general types of pests: the irritating and the sinister. The former might be insects that moderately harass a vegetable or may even devastate a less crucial vegetable, such as eggplants. The sinister pest might be deer, who can nibble off damned near the entire garden’s tender young plants, or the bugs that clean out all of the squash. You can afford to be flexible and a little forgivable when irritating pests do damage. But when the sinister invaders attack, your back is against the wall. You have to draw a line in the homestead sand or you may end up famished and fruitless.

The challenge to effective pest resistance is discerning how threatening the invader is and then selecting an appropriate response. Easy answers are rare—despite the ads that chemical companies and high-tech outfitters place in garden catalogs. We’ve found that the best long-term approach is to educate yourself as best you can on the vagaries of your varmint. That’s the topic next time.

Great Spangled Fritillary

To the Moon

Sitting in the outdoor tub the other night, gazing at the first-quarter Moon: It was so beautiful that I spontaneously saluted it, as if making a toast, and said out loud, “To the Moon!” That tributary phrase hung in the air for a few moments, as I savored the view. Then the same expression got dredged up from my deep memory banks, when I heard it repeatedly used half a century ago by Jackie Gleason, in his show “The Honeymooners.” Playing Ralph Kramden, he would get a threatening look in his eye, as he warned his TV wife (played by Audrey Meadows), “To the Moon, Alice.” The warning was similar to Archie Bunker’s demand that his wife Edith “Stifle it!” (Ah, the good old days, when husbands’ threats were condoned.)

I continued to sit there and let the expression linger in the air awhile longer, wondering what other examples might come to mind. That phrase “To the Moon” has been used in so many ways—other than in homage or admonition.

Jack Kennedy used it when he launched the US on the Apollo Mission: “We choose to go to the Moon…” And we did. We went and then we abruptly stopped, nearly 40 years ago. Today many countries are showing a renewed interest in lunar exploration. People are again going “to the Moon.”

As I sat and continued to soak, I conjured up other unrelated ways in which this catchphrase has found use. Of course, there are countless poems, songs, and books that have employed it. The pop tune “Fly Me to the Moon.” Jules Verne’s 1873 classic book, From Earth “to the Moon”. A British spinoff: The Hitchhiker’s “Guide to the Moon.”

It’s been used more than a few times in high-school science classes. A quiz question asks, “What’s the distance to the Moon?” Or the teacher might describe a lunar eclipse as happening when the sun sends the Earth’s shadow “to the Moon.”

In the days of yore, when people believed in an Earth-centered universe, one might make a list (in order of distance from Earth) of what were then considered to be the seven planets rotating around us: 1. the Sun, “2. the Moon”, …

Enough!

Winter Moon

How Many Sisters?

There is no better time for gazing at the heavens than in mid winter. Directly overhead, about 9 pm, are three bright star clusters and constellations: Orion, the Hyades, and the Pleiades. Part of the show are the super stars Sirius and Betelgeuse.

Orion the Hunter holds up his shield, warding off Taurus the Bull (containing the Hyades star cluster), who in turn defends the Seven Sisters of the Pleiades. Following close on Orion’s heels is Canis Major (Great Dog), whose bright nose is Sirius, the brightest star in our sky. Inset into Orion’s shoulder is giant red Betelgeuse. Each one of these objects is notable on its own. Together they are a light show that surpasses Las Vegas.

The Hyades is a group of a half dozen stars shaped like a V. It’s a true cluster—in that all of its stars are related. (In contrast, the stars of the Big Dipper, although they appear to be grouped, are disconnected and at vast distances from one another. They just appear to be aligned, from our vantage point.)

Orion contains some of the brightest stars in the northern hemisphere. His belt is three vivid blue stars that grab your eye. The shoulder star Betelgeuse is ancient; it's over 50,000 times brighter than our Sun and 500 times its size. If it were put where our Sun is, it would engulf the Earth and Mars.

Hanging from Orion’s dazzling belt is a sword of three stars. But the middle one is not a star; it’s the Orion Nebula—an immense cloud of interstellar gas, which is the blown-out leftovers of an ancient supernova. Today the clumps of gas are coalescing into new stars It’s a hot and active star nursery.

Yipping at Orion is Canis Major. The dog’s nose, Sirius, is the brightest star in our sky—24 times brighter than our Sun. Although Sirius appears to be an intense point of light to the naked eye, it is really a double (binary) star. Half the stars in our Milky Way are binary stars, but most can’t be separated with the naked eye. The Egyptians cast Sirius as one of their key stars. Its appearance each year heralded the flooding of the Nile.

Finally there’s the Pleiades. Pretty little Pleiades. It has a mystical, magical quality to it. It resembles a miniature teapot; sort of like a tiny Dipper. Its alternative name—the Seven Sisters—is Subaru in Japanese. Take a look at that car’s logo and get an idea of how the cluster appears.

When I look at the Pleiades I see six stars, not seven. So where does the name Seven Sisters come from? Greek mythology describes the seven daughters of Atlas being turned into stars by Zeus. So Pleiades got its label.

Some people have claimed seeing as many as 16 stars in the Pleiades cluster. I suspect it’s a little like a macho game of “Mine’s bigger than yours.” He who sees more stars is the winner. But there’s a way to beat all the braggers. Take up a pair of binoculars and you can see dozens of stars in Pleiades. Big telescopes register as many as 3000 young stars in the cluster—all a brilliant blue.

I can’t stand outside very long on mid winter nights, looking up at these stellar favorites of mine. The cold sinks too deep into my old bones. But I’m always stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of them, as I cross the yard. It’s delight that never tires.

Icy Creek Sculpture

A Big, But Slow Brain

The human being seems to make decisions in two disparate parts of the brain: the more primitive, sub-cortex region and the more recently-evolved outer cortex. The decisions coming from those two areas are quite different in character. The sub-cortex (the part we share with primordial vertebrates) makes decisions that are both faster and less accurate. The “higher” cortex is slower, but more exact.

A lizard (with its tiny, primordial brain) must often react quickly to danger. Instantaneously it jumps to avoid being eaten. It doesn’t matter exactly where it jumps (no accuracy called for)—it’s simply a case of immediately needing to exit the scene.

Back when we humans were dodging saber-toothed tigers, we also needed to react promptly. No time to think—just vamoose! Didn’t matter where—just outta there. But as we grew more secure and our lives became more complex, the need arose to make our decisions more carefully and precisely. Our longevity became better assured by slowing down, gathering the appropriate information, and becoming more meticulous in our judgments. The cortex grew, and then grew some more, to help us make those better choices. Thus evolution generated our big brain, so we could make those more deliberate, precise decisions. (This is contrary to the Bush administration’s mental throwback to more primitive times, when it made a quick decision to strike back, after 9/11, rather than pause and choose more wisely.)

Do we need two sites in our brain—with dissimilar and sometimes conflicting qualities—for decision making? We still have a few occasions when we need to make knee-jerk judgments. How well do the two locations communicate and cooperate with each other? Do they get into conflict with each other? Which one takes control in borderline cases? These are deeper questions for the experts; for which I won’t hazard an answer.

One fascinating behavior we exhibit, seemingly demonstrating that an inner conflict can occur, is when the sub-cortex (the fast acting one) grabs the initiative in a situation it regards as threatening, and makes the first choice. Before the cortex can get going on its deliberate analysis, the deed is done. Now, that precipitous decision is a blow to the ego, since it wants to believe that it’s in control of things. But while it was carefully pondering the situation, that damnable primitive sub-cortex stole the show. What’s a self-respecting ego to do? It’ll fib. It’ll make up a story about how it was planning to arrive at that decision anyway. In fact, it does very well—in its task of self-deception—of convincing us that it really was in charge. (Sound like Bush on Iraq?)

Clearly, we humans not yet fully evolved. There are more improvements needed in our brain functions. Where will we go next? Will we get these separate parts of our brain cooperating? Will we learn to avoid needlessly manufacturing threats, slow down, and grow an even bigger, wiser brain? Who knows? Tune in, in a million years or so (assuming we’re still around).

Icy Mitt in Creek

Cause and Effect

Karma is one of those words that so often gets employed in American culture in ways that the creators of the word never intended. It has Sanskrit origins, and means “deed” or “act.” In a very general sense, karma refers to what’s happening to me today as being caused by the totality of my actions at some previous time or state. It has its roots in Hindu and Buddhist worldviews.

In common American usage the meaning of karma tends to get distorted and misused. It often is given the connotation of being one’s fate or destiny, and gets unnecessarily tied to one’s former lives. According to this interpretation, what’s happening to me today is fate—as if it was predetermined by what I did in a previous incarnation, and now I’m powerless to do anything about it. It’s my lot in life. Accept it, knowing I deserve it, because of something bad I did, countless lifetimes ago.

This interpretation is not only wrong—it can be downright dangerous. It encourages us to be passive and accept the bad stuff (because we’re a bum), or the good stuff (because we’re special). We helplessly swing from bad to good, a puppet of our former doings. This use of karma also allows religious authorities to manipulate their naïve subjects—keeping them subjugated and obeisant.

Karma is best understood as a simple law of nature: the law of cause and effect. The effect of my coming down with a cold is caused by my encountering its virus. If I spit in the face of a macho street dude, I’ll suffer the consequences. Thus, to a large extent, my fate is in my own hands—not in the next lifetime, but now. What I do today heavily influences my tomorrow.

The very first verse of the Dhammapada (the core teachings of Buddhism) begins, “Our life is shaped by our mind; we become what we think.” That’s a basic karmic statement. What I think, say, and do shapes my life; impacts my immediate future. Think, say, or act foolishly and I’ll suffer the consequences. Think, say, or act wisely and lovingly and I’ll reap the benefit (as will those around me).

But of course, my life is not entirely in my hands. I’m not in complete control of my world. Even if I behave myself, sometimes shit happens. (That’s pretty much the story of Job, it seems to me.) But sometimes I also get lucky, even when I’ve acted foolishly. Grace happens. Let me not go overboard at these times and either feel depressed or superior. Let me not attribute these events to the arrival of a comet or think that God has singled me out for punishment, because I’m a bad person. It’s not about me. Comets and God don’t act on my behalf. They’ve got their own business to attend to.

Because karma is a natural law (nothing supernatural here), I know I am able to take charge of my life. I can make healthy choices and have the confidence that the world is not capricious, but is reliable and accountable. Shit happens and grace happens are rare events; the rest is in my hands. Maybe things happening to me at the moment are not all that pleasant (due to what I did yesterday?), but I have the power to bring a happier future—largely based upon how skillfully I respond to these events.

Creek in Winter

Nascent Wisdom—Part 2

One more example of emergent intelligence in social insects is the honeybee. Although any single bee is pretty simple-minded, the colony is very smart in finding food sources, looking for a new home, or dividing up the colony to follow a new queen. The key to bees’ smartness appears to be how they resolve differences of “opinion.” Bees have an intelligent way of sorting through the conflicting ideas and finding the wisest solution for the hive. They do this by entertaining a diverse set of views (no secretive, smoke-filled, back-room cliques allowed), giving equal voice to all alternatives, and efficiently narrowing down the options.

There’s yet another social animal that has demonstrated its intelligence when gathered in large groups: Homo sapiens. That statement may appear to violate the experience of many of us: people in crowds do pretty stupid things, but wait a minute. Yes, human group-think has often been very dumb and caused incredible harm, but there’s another side to the story. James Surowiecki (an insightful financial columnist for the New Yorker) wrote a book, The Wisdom of Crowds. What he showed is that a human crowd—when they followed a bee-like process—will make choices that are far more intelligent than any one person could make; even the most experienced and brightest expert among them. People can ferret out solutions to tough problems, if they do like the bees: seek diverse opinions (avoid closed-minded in-group mentality, like in the Bush administration did), act in a decentralized manner (no dictators or bosses), and employ a fair and balanced decision-making process.

Maybe what gets in the way of our acting more intelligently is that we humans tend to think too much. Our big brain can get in the way. Rather than instinctively interact democratically with each other, we double-think the process and allow a few individuals to sway us with their oratory, charisma, and power. We hand off our autonomy to the expert or to the big man. We abdicate our responsibility to participate in a democratic process, allowing specialists to take over, or let the bully dominate. We permit somebody else to do the job for us.

So we so-called highly-conscious humans can take some counsel from our “stupid,” simple-minded fellow creatures. Let’s follow their lead: Cooperate with each other and act smart. Our decisions can be unwholesome when we (1) abdicate authority to the experts, (2) we choose hierarchy over equality, (3) we follow ingrown group-think ideology, or (4) when we refuse to cooperate with one another. In fact, that kind of stupidity is fouling our earthly nest, rather than sustaining it.