Monday, November 29, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
My Local Wind Symphony Orchestra—Part 2
As I became absorbed by the wonderful evening's performance of the orchestra, I became more attentive and increasingly discerning, as I began to be able to distinguish the subtle qualities of the individual sections of the orchestra. The violin-like section—in the sense that it most often carried the melody—was the higher-pitched "shirring" sound made by the wind gently blowing through tree branches. Often it blossomed into a complete string section of various complementary voices—like violins, violas, and cellos. The sound of the wind shirring through pine branches is akin to an airy-sounding whistle. It was the violins, I realized. The bare branches of deciduous trees (it was late November, with no leaves on the trees) shirred at a bit lower pitch, like violas. As the wave moved off through distant trees, the sound was deeper yet; cello-like. The shirring section played in an undulating manner—gently beginning, rising to a crescendo, and then falling back into silence—over and over.
A second wind section was similar to the woodwinds in a human orchestra—creating playful bursts of whirls, as gusts blew by. The sound might be high-pitched like a flute or more like the bold blast of the trumpet section. Their voice would come unexpectedly, and then quickly pass away. This section provided a sometimes-comic voice.
Immediately following the woodwind section, the voice of an almost percussion-like section would rattle nearby. The vortices spun off the gusts would swirl along the ground, kicking up leaves and causing them to rattle and settle back into place.
There was also a baritone and bass woodwind chorus. They sounded out with a sustained, soothing, deep sounding "whoosh"—that came from the collaboration of hundreds of voices, all at a distance. Their gentle undercurrent could be heard only when no louder wave was passing nearby.
From time to time, when all the close-at-hand voices had rested for a moment, I could make out a very distant subtle roaring sound—almost like an airplane flying many miles away. The muted roar of this section of the orchestra felt powerful, but was simultaneously very quiet, since it was so far away. It emitted a sound even steadier than the baritones and basses—as if thousands of gentle wind sounds for many miles around had combined in a continual background chorus.
Suddenly I heard another subdued percussive sound. It was not the wind, but an extremely light, icy form of precipitation that was falling around me: sleet. I could hear it only when all other voices of the orchestra paused for a few moments. The very soft pitter-pat of tiny sleet particles falling on dry leaves was like a distant snare drum, quietly tap-tapping—providing a hushed interlude between the voices of the various wind sections.
A sensational and bonus dimension to my Wind Symphony Orchestra—that no human orchestra offers—was tactile, olfactory, and even visual sensations that it offered. As wind eddies peeled off and whirled through the underbrush, some of them swirled around my head—cooling my cheek and wet head. The breezes kissed me. It was sometimes accompanied by a rich, strong smell of soil and composting leaves. Even though it was dark and cloudy, I could look up and see black tree trunks waving in a deep gray-colored sky—as though the trees were conducting the symphony that whirled around me.
Most of my neighbors would laugh at my suggestion of a local symphony orchestra. But they don't pause to sit outside in the dark on a cold winter’s night and get very quiet. The orchestra could be performing its beautiful symphony all around them, but would remain unheard, as they hurry inside. The only creatures listening are a few wild critters and me. We're all grateful for the splendid concert.
A second wind section was similar to the woodwinds in a human orchestra—creating playful bursts of whirls, as gusts blew by. The sound might be high-pitched like a flute or more like the bold blast of the trumpet section. Their voice would come unexpectedly, and then quickly pass away. This section provided a sometimes-comic voice.
Immediately following the woodwind section, the voice of an almost percussion-like section would rattle nearby. The vortices spun off the gusts would swirl along the ground, kicking up leaves and causing them to rattle and settle back into place.
There was also a baritone and bass woodwind chorus. They sounded out with a sustained, soothing, deep sounding "whoosh"—that came from the collaboration of hundreds of voices, all at a distance. Their gentle undercurrent could be heard only when no louder wave was passing nearby.
From time to time, when all the close-at-hand voices had rested for a moment, I could make out a very distant subtle roaring sound—almost like an airplane flying many miles away. The muted roar of this section of the orchestra felt powerful, but was simultaneously very quiet, since it was so far away. It emitted a sound even steadier than the baritones and basses—as if thousands of gentle wind sounds for many miles around had combined in a continual background chorus.
Suddenly I heard another subdued percussive sound. It was not the wind, but an extremely light, icy form of precipitation that was falling around me: sleet. I could hear it only when all other voices of the orchestra paused for a few moments. The very soft pitter-pat of tiny sleet particles falling on dry leaves was like a distant snare drum, quietly tap-tapping—providing a hushed interlude between the voices of the various wind sections.
A sensational and bonus dimension to my Wind Symphony Orchestra—that no human orchestra offers—was tactile, olfactory, and even visual sensations that it offered. As wind eddies peeled off and whirled through the underbrush, some of them swirled around my head—cooling my cheek and wet head. The breezes kissed me. It was sometimes accompanied by a rich, strong smell of soil and composting leaves. Even though it was dark and cloudy, I could look up and see black tree trunks waving in a deep gray-colored sky—as though the trees were conducting the symphony that whirled around me.
Most of my neighbors would laugh at my suggestion of a local symphony orchestra. But they don't pause to sit outside in the dark on a cold winter’s night and get very quiet. The orchestra could be performing its beautiful symphony all around them, but would remain unheard, as they hurry inside. The only creatures listening are a few wild critters and me. We're all grateful for the splendid concert.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Monday, November 22, 2010
My Local Wind Symphony Orchestra—Part 1
The “downtown” center of my little corner of an Appalachian backcountry county is an intersection containing a small grocery store and one house. We live half a mile away, by the crow’s route, but over three miles by car. It's a community that can be found only on a very local map. It has two unique attributes. The one that most local folks will tell you about is the artesian spring across from the store—where water endlessly flows from a steel pipe. As the story goes, someone tried drilling for oil, several generations back. They never struck black gold, but after going down many hundreds of feet, they tapped into a perpetual (so far, anyway) supply of pure water. Some folks still stop there to fill their jugs up with the clean, cold water.
The second attraction of my community is its Wind Symphony Orchestra. That's right—our tiny burg has its very own wind orchestra! Ask any local other than me, however, and they'd stare at you, puzzled. They might even hoot over such a silly thought.
However, our Wind Symphony Orchestra is for real. I've listened to its fine performances many times. My peak music treat came on a winter’s night last year, as I was soaking contentedly in the hot tub. It was a dark, breezy evening—with gentle waves of wind wafting through the surrounding woods. As I lay back in the tub, I fell into my usual deep relaxation. My mind dropped all trivial thoughts, as my attention turned to the complexly-blended sounds of the wind moving through the forest.
The breeze was slightly unsteady, but soft. Waves would periodically move through the trees. I could hear them coming from a half mile or more distant. They would approach, whoosh quietly by me, and flow off down the hollow. Small, abrupt gusts would intermittently speed by, whistling through the trees and kicking up dry leaves. Whirls of eddies would spin off these gusts and twirl around me, causing leaves to leap up and dance in circles. One gentle wind after another would crest, spill, spread, and then quietly dissipate. For long moments between them silence would rule—an utter stillness in the air. Then I'd hear the far-off hush of the next wave headed towards me. My mind's eye would go out to it and ride along, as it sailed my way, through the woods.
The night's soothing breeze wrote the score for my Wind Symphony Orchestra. It was a concerto of many movements—each one related to the others in a coherent, creative masterpiece. The passing waves were played out by the various musical movements—all adagio. They were then punctuated by brief, gusty allegros that enthusiastically offset the slower, wavelike parts of the score.
My Wind Symphony Orchestra contains several sections—most all of them made up, of course, of wind instruments. There are hardly any drums, cymbals or other impulsive percussion; I guess we can’t afford them in such a small community. The ebb and flow of the symphony they were playing featured, in a beautifully rotating manner, the orchestra's various wind sections. I could hear the melody shift from section to section, as the surrounding instruments played a gentle backdrop to the main theme. Now there might be a single wind section playing its solo. Now a duet between two sections. Now the whole orchestra building into a grand crescendo, in a magnificent blending of voices.
More on the symphony next time…
The second attraction of my community is its Wind Symphony Orchestra. That's right—our tiny burg has its very own wind orchestra! Ask any local other than me, however, and they'd stare at you, puzzled. They might even hoot over such a silly thought.
However, our Wind Symphony Orchestra is for real. I've listened to its fine performances many times. My peak music treat came on a winter’s night last year, as I was soaking contentedly in the hot tub. It was a dark, breezy evening—with gentle waves of wind wafting through the surrounding woods. As I lay back in the tub, I fell into my usual deep relaxation. My mind dropped all trivial thoughts, as my attention turned to the complexly-blended sounds of the wind moving through the forest.
The breeze was slightly unsteady, but soft. Waves would periodically move through the trees. I could hear them coming from a half mile or more distant. They would approach, whoosh quietly by me, and flow off down the hollow. Small, abrupt gusts would intermittently speed by, whistling through the trees and kicking up dry leaves. Whirls of eddies would spin off these gusts and twirl around me, causing leaves to leap up and dance in circles. One gentle wind after another would crest, spill, spread, and then quietly dissipate. For long moments between them silence would rule—an utter stillness in the air. Then I'd hear the far-off hush of the next wave headed towards me. My mind's eye would go out to it and ride along, as it sailed my way, through the woods.
The night's soothing breeze wrote the score for my Wind Symphony Orchestra. It was a concerto of many movements—each one related to the others in a coherent, creative masterpiece. The passing waves were played out by the various musical movements—all adagio. They were then punctuated by brief, gusty allegros that enthusiastically offset the slower, wavelike parts of the score.
My Wind Symphony Orchestra contains several sections—most all of them made up, of course, of wind instruments. There are hardly any drums, cymbals or other impulsive percussion; I guess we can’t afford them in such a small community. The ebb and flow of the symphony they were playing featured, in a beautifully rotating manner, the orchestra's various wind sections. I could hear the melody shift from section to section, as the surrounding instruments played a gentle backdrop to the main theme. Now there might be a single wind section playing its solo. Now a duet between two sections. Now the whole orchestra building into a grand crescendo, in a magnificent blending of voices.
More on the symphony next time…
Friday, November 19, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 3 (and final)
I did finally get some helpful guidance on academic Websites. Fred is apparently a field cricket, rather than a house cricket. (Pardon me while I lay down some dry scientific cricket trivia here—but I can’t resist.) House crickets are brown and smaller than their black field cousins. Fred was very black. Field crickets come in at least two flavors: Gryllus veletis and Gryllus pennsylvanicus. Which one was Fred? Again I was able to hone in on Fred’s family tree, since G. veletis overwinters as a mid-sized juvenile nymph and matures in the spring. (G. pennsylvanicus overwinters as an egg, and Fred ain’t no egg.) Fred’s type like to overwinter in “moist, firm soil.” I guess that’s what he was seeking when he emerged from under the stereo. He was looking up at me and inquiring if I’d seen any moldy dirt lately—he’d found only dry dust balls under the stereo.
Here’s the neat exoskeleton part: Nymphs, according to the Ohio State University website, “… resemble adults, except are smaller and wingless, molt eight to nine times [!] and reach adulthood in about 90 days.” Ohio State gave me another sign to check out: at each molt, a cricket’s poop gets larger. I could measure the size of Fred’s poop and compare it to pre-molt! This was getting fun.
I learned even more about Fred’s habits at related sites. Crickets, one Website explained, “… eat plants, dead insects, seeds, leather, paper, and old cloth (especially if the cloth is stained by food or perspiration). They are particularly fond of wool and silk.” Hey, I could begin to vary Fred’s diet! I immediately tore off the corner of a soiled paper napkin I’d been using and dropped it in as a treat. Several days later Fred had not touched it. I guess the grass was greener.
Another Website said that crickets’ powerful legs allow them to leap as high as three feet. Hmmm… maybe Fred had grasped the properties of his glass-walled home but concluded it also had a glass roof. If he tried such a great leap, he might just hurt himself, banging up against his very own glass ceiling.
Another site said that cricket legs are so strong that cricket fighting was an ancient and popular form of entertainment in China. A prospective champion cricket owner would starve his tiny gladiator for several days before tossing him into the ring, to face another equally hungry and mean fighter. I assured Fred that I was horrified at such barbarity.
Yet another Website described how spiders have real respect for those fierce cricket legs. If a cricket happens to get caught in a spider web, “… the spider takes great care to wrap webbing around it before moving in for the paralyzing bite. If the spider gets impatient, a swift kick from those powerful jumping legs could gravely wound the spider.” Aha! That’s why the spider left the fish bowl after a few days! It understood that Fred could kick its butt. I like to think that I helped Fred resist the potential spider assaults by providing him a cozy home that had allowed him to store up enough sleep that he could stay awake nights—one eye cocked in the spider’s direction, just waiting for a threatening move. He did seem to sleep more, after the spider left.
Only male crickets chirp, and they do so by rubbing one serrated-edged wing against the other—ever faster as the temperature rises. So how do I know that Fred is a male, when he had exercised his right to remain silent? Because one of the Websites showed that the female had a long ovipositor (the tube that deposits her eggs) protruding from her hind end. Fred had just a cute, round little butt… no ovipositor. Before determining my cricket friend’s gender, I had not named it. When “it” became “Fred”, the bond deepened.
Finally, one fascinating piece of information I gathered from one Website is that crickets spend their days out of sight—under a stone or in a shallow burrow. That information told me that maybe Fred was a little uncomfortable being exposed all day long in a fish bowl (sort of a “fish bowl exposure,” one could say), so I built him a three-walled house with tiny roof from an old matchbox; a wee cricket-port. Five minutes after I placed it in the corner of his bowl, Fred had retreated inside.
When spring’s warmth returned I carried Fred’s fishbowl outside and tipped it over. I stood back as he finally discovered that his glass ceiling was, in fact, nonexistent. (Maybe he knew that, and simply preferred to be fed regularly?) Slowly he edged towards the opening, jumped daintily onto the greening grass, and scurried under cover. He didn’t pause to wave an antenna or even to bow in my direction, but I waved him on, hoping that he would now be strong enough to mate and carry on his family tradition.
Here’s the neat exoskeleton part: Nymphs, according to the Ohio State University website, “… resemble adults, except are smaller and wingless, molt eight to nine times [!] and reach adulthood in about 90 days.” Ohio State gave me another sign to check out: at each molt, a cricket’s poop gets larger. I could measure the size of Fred’s poop and compare it to pre-molt! This was getting fun.
I learned even more about Fred’s habits at related sites. Crickets, one Website explained, “… eat plants, dead insects, seeds, leather, paper, and old cloth (especially if the cloth is stained by food or perspiration). They are particularly fond of wool and silk.” Hey, I could begin to vary Fred’s diet! I immediately tore off the corner of a soiled paper napkin I’d been using and dropped it in as a treat. Several days later Fred had not touched it. I guess the grass was greener.
Another Website said that crickets’ powerful legs allow them to leap as high as three feet. Hmmm… maybe Fred had grasped the properties of his glass-walled home but concluded it also had a glass roof. If he tried such a great leap, he might just hurt himself, banging up against his very own glass ceiling.
Another site said that cricket legs are so strong that cricket fighting was an ancient and popular form of entertainment in China. A prospective champion cricket owner would starve his tiny gladiator for several days before tossing him into the ring, to face another equally hungry and mean fighter. I assured Fred that I was horrified at such barbarity.
Yet another Website described how spiders have real respect for those fierce cricket legs. If a cricket happens to get caught in a spider web, “… the spider takes great care to wrap webbing around it before moving in for the paralyzing bite. If the spider gets impatient, a swift kick from those powerful jumping legs could gravely wound the spider.” Aha! That’s why the spider left the fish bowl after a few days! It understood that Fred could kick its butt. I like to think that I helped Fred resist the potential spider assaults by providing him a cozy home that had allowed him to store up enough sleep that he could stay awake nights—one eye cocked in the spider’s direction, just waiting for a threatening move. He did seem to sleep more, after the spider left.
Only male crickets chirp, and they do so by rubbing one serrated-edged wing against the other—ever faster as the temperature rises. So how do I know that Fred is a male, when he had exercised his right to remain silent? Because one of the Websites showed that the female had a long ovipositor (the tube that deposits her eggs) protruding from her hind end. Fred had just a cute, round little butt… no ovipositor. Before determining my cricket friend’s gender, I had not named it. When “it” became “Fred”, the bond deepened.
Finally, one fascinating piece of information I gathered from one Website is that crickets spend their days out of sight—under a stone or in a shallow burrow. That information told me that maybe Fred was a little uncomfortable being exposed all day long in a fish bowl (sort of a “fish bowl exposure,” one could say), so I built him a three-walled house with tiny roof from an old matchbox; a wee cricket-port. Five minutes after I placed it in the corner of his bowl, Fred had retreated inside.
When spring’s warmth returned I carried Fred’s fishbowl outside and tipped it over. I stood back as he finally discovered that his glass ceiling was, in fact, nonexistent. (Maybe he knew that, and simply preferred to be fed regularly?) Slowly he edged towards the opening, jumped daintily onto the greening grass, and scurried under cover. He didn’t pause to wave an antenna or even to bow in my direction, but I waved him on, hoping that he would now be strong enough to mate and carry on his family tradition.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Saturday, November 13, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 2
One morning when I checked in on Fred, I noticed a spider inside the fish bowl. It had weaved a web, just off the bottom, and was waiting, immobile, off to one side. Was this Charlotte’s cousin—come to translate Fred’s message to me? Or was it looking to Fred as a very large meal—just waiting for an opportunity to pounce and wrap Fred up for storage? I watched the spider—about half the size of its bowl companion—over the next several days. The only time I saw it move was when I trickled a few drops of water into the bowl for Fred. When the drops hit the spider’s web, it charged out to the center, hoping it’d snared some prey.
I knew that the spider had no idea it had taken up its sentry duty inside a fish bowl—an unlikely location for any insect to be flying along and becoming ensnared. I wondered how many days a spider could fast, before starving. I watched to see if it was getting any more anxious to capture Fred, but the spider patiently remained frozen in place—enticed to move only when I dribbled a couple of water drops into its web. Then one morning the spider was gone. Fred remained sprightly behind—seemingly oblivious to the departure of his bowl mate. I detected neither relief at no longer being the object of digestive intentions, nor sad about once again being alone.
Cricket life in the fish bowl carried on. I began to wonder how long Fred might remain our guest. What is the life span of the average cricket? Can they overwinter? It was now January and Fred was fast approaching an overwintering feat. When protected in a fish bowl (but not having to duck marauding spiders, say), might they live longer than usual? Fred remained silent in the face of my many queries.
I have a few insect books. They give only the barest identifying details, however, so when I consulted them, they were of no help. I could have dug deeper and done some Internet surfing to learn more, but decided that I’d just as soon let it all unfold, with my ignorance getting partially lifted through observation. Fred was a guest, after all. It is not polite to probe too deeply into the lives of one’s company. Be discreet and simply observe.
Nearly two months after Fred had materialized from under the stereo, my spouse exclaimed one afternoon, “There’s another cricket in the bowl!” She could have said that Fred had disappeared or that he’d turned orange, and I’d have been less surprised. Another cricket!? I mean, having one cricket hang around in your fish bowl for some two months in the midst of winter is quite remarkable, but having it suddenly joined by a second one?
Despite his powerful jumping legs, Fred had never hinted at trying to leap out of the bowl. I’m positive he’s not been able to figure out the properties of the glass enclosure he’s in; I watch him, head against the glass, trying to move forward, but stymied by the invisible wall that contains him. It’s way beyond incredible that another cricket would be scouting the area in February, find a compatriot gazing out of a fish bowl, and figure a way to jump in! Far better to coach Fred on how to escape. On the other hand, it’s possible that Fred would tell any passing cricket that he had a cushy life—wallowing among the grass clippings. “Come on in and chill out! The big two-legged creature feeds us for free.”
I looked at the “new” cricket. Hmmm… it didn’t seem to be very vital. It made sedentary Fred look as if he had a severe case of ADHD. I put my glasses on for a closer look. Aha! The “new” cricket was just a shell of Fred’s former self! Fred had molted! That was his exoskeleton lying there. I peered at Fred. He looked healthy, refreshed, and quite unconcerned about my wonderings, in his new suit of clothes—munching away on a grass clipping.
This development raised too many questions in my mind, for me to continue passively observing, trying to learn cricket customs. I had to know more—so I turned to the Internet and searched on “cricket.” I found links on buying chocolate-covered crickets and on Buddy Holly’s old backup group, which were kind of interesting, but not relevant to my search. Then I located a few good Web sites on cricket habits. Unfortunately, too many of these viewed crickets as pests—worthy only of one’s learning enough about these critters to keep them away, or poison them if they got in your house.
The last of Fred’s bowl movements next time…
I knew that the spider had no idea it had taken up its sentry duty inside a fish bowl—an unlikely location for any insect to be flying along and becoming ensnared. I wondered how many days a spider could fast, before starving. I watched to see if it was getting any more anxious to capture Fred, but the spider patiently remained frozen in place—enticed to move only when I dribbled a couple of water drops into its web. Then one morning the spider was gone. Fred remained sprightly behind—seemingly oblivious to the departure of his bowl mate. I detected neither relief at no longer being the object of digestive intentions, nor sad about once again being alone.
Cricket life in the fish bowl carried on. I began to wonder how long Fred might remain our guest. What is the life span of the average cricket? Can they overwinter? It was now January and Fred was fast approaching an overwintering feat. When protected in a fish bowl (but not having to duck marauding spiders, say), might they live longer than usual? Fred remained silent in the face of my many queries.
I have a few insect books. They give only the barest identifying details, however, so when I consulted them, they were of no help. I could have dug deeper and done some Internet surfing to learn more, but decided that I’d just as soon let it all unfold, with my ignorance getting partially lifted through observation. Fred was a guest, after all. It is not polite to probe too deeply into the lives of one’s company. Be discreet and simply observe.
Nearly two months after Fred had materialized from under the stereo, my spouse exclaimed one afternoon, “There’s another cricket in the bowl!” She could have said that Fred had disappeared or that he’d turned orange, and I’d have been less surprised. Another cricket!? I mean, having one cricket hang around in your fish bowl for some two months in the midst of winter is quite remarkable, but having it suddenly joined by a second one?
Despite his powerful jumping legs, Fred had never hinted at trying to leap out of the bowl. I’m positive he’s not been able to figure out the properties of the glass enclosure he’s in; I watch him, head against the glass, trying to move forward, but stymied by the invisible wall that contains him. It’s way beyond incredible that another cricket would be scouting the area in February, find a compatriot gazing out of a fish bowl, and figure a way to jump in! Far better to coach Fred on how to escape. On the other hand, it’s possible that Fred would tell any passing cricket that he had a cushy life—wallowing among the grass clippings. “Come on in and chill out! The big two-legged creature feeds us for free.”
I looked at the “new” cricket. Hmmm… it didn’t seem to be very vital. It made sedentary Fred look as if he had a severe case of ADHD. I put my glasses on for a closer look. Aha! The “new” cricket was just a shell of Fred’s former self! Fred had molted! That was his exoskeleton lying there. I peered at Fred. He looked healthy, refreshed, and quite unconcerned about my wonderings, in his new suit of clothes—munching away on a grass clipping.
This development raised too many questions in my mind, for me to continue passively observing, trying to learn cricket customs. I had to know more—so I turned to the Internet and searched on “cricket.” I found links on buying chocolate-covered crickets and on Buddy Holly’s old backup group, which were kind of interesting, but not relevant to my search. Then I located a few good Web sites on cricket habits. Unfortunately, too many of these viewed crickets as pests—worthy only of one’s learning enough about these critters to keep them away, or poison them if they got in your house.
The last of Fred’s bowl movements next time…
Friday, November 12, 2010
Monday, November 8, 2010
My Friend Fred—Part 1
A few years ago I read a book that strongly impacted me—The Voice of the Infinite in the Small: Re-Visioning the Insect-Human Connection, by Joanne Elizabeth Lauck. Its message: we humans have long considered all animals as “other,” as well as being below us. This has been especially true for insects. We dislike them, regard them as pests, see them as useless, and have committed great harm to them. Lauck’s book is a celebration of the insect world, wherein she shows us the beauty, the wonder, and the wisdom of insects. It was a life-changing book for me.
After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.
A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?
But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”
I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.
First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.
Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.
Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.
More on Fred next time…
After reading The Voice of the Infinite in the Small, I found my attitude changing. I felt regret for my buying into the cultural, anti-insect brainwashing that I’d absorbed during my life, and for my past harmful and even hateful actions towards insects—especially those species that I’d come to regard as pests and enemies. I’d been no friend of ants, mosquitoes, flies, termites, cockroaches, beetles, and any type of garden vegetation-munching bug or worm. I’d poisoned them, swatted them, despised them, and thought them unclean vermin. But Lauck helped me to see a better way. She showed me how suitable insects are to their environment, how valuable they are, and how I might learn to live peacefully with them.
A few months later Fred showed up, one cold December night. I was listening to music—sitting in my rocker, deeply absorbed, when I found myself peering toward the floor, and saw him squatting just under the edge of the stereo system. I was surprised to see a cricket still alive, so far into the winter. Where had he been hanging out? Why had I not heard his (sometimes irritating) chirping? (Crickets have a way of finding an entry into the house in the fall and proceeding to chirp away endlessly.) But this critter just silently squatted there. Was he cold? Hungry? Would he shortly begin his incessant singing—causing me to doubt my newly-felt warmth toward the insect world?
But Fred (I later discovered he is a male cricket) just sat there, unmoving—disinclined to answer my questions. Did he like my music? Did it offer him solace? Deciding that Fred’s continued vitality might be threatened by cold and starvation, I gently picked him up and placed him in a fish bowl. He remained immobile—only his antenna slightly moved. (In fact, imperfect Fred had but one whole antenna—the other was a mere stub.) “OK, Fred,” I thought as I looked down; “What do I do now; get you some food maybe—but what do you eat?”
I tried to intuit what a hungry cricket would most relish. Hmmm… vegetation of some sort, I guessed. I went outside, armed with scissors and flashlight, and located some frigid December grass—still green, although well hunkered down for the winter. I clipped a few blades, took them inside and dropped them in Fred’s fish bowl and climbed into my bed.
First thing in the morning, I checked on Fred. He seemed still alive, still not moving much—but feebly waved his good antenna towards me. It was not until the next day that I saw some cricket poop, and then a little later I caught Fred munching on a blade of grass. I began to feel confident he’d not starve.
Over the next week or so Fred settled in. More poop appeared, his grating song thankfully did not begin, and he seemed quiescently content—as far as I could tell, or at least I hoped. I wondered if Fred’s appearance might be an omen for me—he might have arrived to encourage me to continue my work on growing to understand and appreciate insects. I tried telepathically sharing some of my new thoughts with Fred. He’d occasionally wave that good antenna, as if encouraging me.
Days passed. I wondered if Fred was going to hang around for awhile or if one morning I’d find him upside down, dead feet projecting skyward, content to have passed on to insect heaven. He remained healthy looking. His poop continued to pile up in the corners of the bowl.
More on Fred next time…
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Diverse Divers
Fall is a very active time of year—certainly not as active as spring, but there’s still a lot going on. Insects are closing down their season—many of them preparing to die, once eggs or pupae are set to carry on next spring’s generations. A few insects will go into a deep sleep, to awaken again when the weather warms. Some animals are fattening up for hibernation. A few species of birds are also loading up on food, in preparation for migrating to warmer climes.
One of the most obvious fall transformations that we humans are inclined to notice is the changing color of leaves of deciduous trees—from summer’s green to the many shades of red, yellow, and brown. A deciduous tree’s method of coping with winter is to become dormant—its leaves are too vulnerable to go through a harsh winter, so the tree drops them and hunkers down for a few months.
During summer the leaves have been manufacturing sugars and other nutrients—fueled by the sun and transformed by green chlorophyll. As the tree prepares for winter it first withdraws chlorophyll from the leaves, to be stored and used again when it reawakens in the spring. Some deciduous trees—such as maples—send out anthocyanin during the summer, to discourage insects from eating its leaves. Anthocyanin causes the blazing red color, when the chlorophyll is withdrawn. Other trees use other chemicals to ward off insects (oaks use tannin), and their leaves turn yellow or brown in the fall.
The leaves, robbed of their life-giving chlorophyll, soon die, dry, get cut off from their mother tree, and then fall (that’s the season!) to the ground. I love to sit and watch leaves fly, float, flap, and dive downward—especially when the wind has not dislodged them. The wind causes hundreds to fill the air at once and I can’t follow any single leaf. When the air is still, however, individual leaves break loose and begin their final swan dive. I become almost mesmerized by them. Each one is absolutely unique. Their shape is the main cause of their diverse flight paths—whether they are flat or curled, whether they fall straight down or soar like a paper airplane.
A leaf may begin with a straight dive, then suddenly slip sideways and start to twirl and tumble. Its path can take on intricate patterns, as it descends. Some leaves seem to want to get their dive quickly over, to nestle with their pals on the forest floor. Some seem to try to delay their landing as long as possible, by fluttering slowly this way, then slipping leisurely that way—executing a slow-motion dive. Some flip over and over, while others spin and still others float placidly downward, never once rotating.
Sometimes, as I watch a leaf break from its twig and begin its final voyage, I try to guess what its flight path might be. I’m rarely right. Every leaf seems to pick its own path and then maybe change its mind on the way down. The leaves have spent half a year stuck to the same spot and this is their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fly, and many of them merrily soar, while others just dejectedly drop. In fact, many leaves of an oak tree refuse to let go at all in the fall. They stoically hang on all winter and are forced off by next spring’s new growth.
Sometimes I chuckle at how simple my pleasures have become, when I realize that I’ve just passed a quarter-hour absorbed in the infinitely diverse ways in which leaves tumble earthward. It beats the hell out of a television commercial!
One of the most obvious fall transformations that we humans are inclined to notice is the changing color of leaves of deciduous trees—from summer’s green to the many shades of red, yellow, and brown. A deciduous tree’s method of coping with winter is to become dormant—its leaves are too vulnerable to go through a harsh winter, so the tree drops them and hunkers down for a few months.
During summer the leaves have been manufacturing sugars and other nutrients—fueled by the sun and transformed by green chlorophyll. As the tree prepares for winter it first withdraws chlorophyll from the leaves, to be stored and used again when it reawakens in the spring. Some deciduous trees—such as maples—send out anthocyanin during the summer, to discourage insects from eating its leaves. Anthocyanin causes the blazing red color, when the chlorophyll is withdrawn. Other trees use other chemicals to ward off insects (oaks use tannin), and their leaves turn yellow or brown in the fall.
The leaves, robbed of their life-giving chlorophyll, soon die, dry, get cut off from their mother tree, and then fall (that’s the season!) to the ground. I love to sit and watch leaves fly, float, flap, and dive downward—especially when the wind has not dislodged them. The wind causes hundreds to fill the air at once and I can’t follow any single leaf. When the air is still, however, individual leaves break loose and begin their final swan dive. I become almost mesmerized by them. Each one is absolutely unique. Their shape is the main cause of their diverse flight paths—whether they are flat or curled, whether they fall straight down or soar like a paper airplane.
A leaf may begin with a straight dive, then suddenly slip sideways and start to twirl and tumble. Its path can take on intricate patterns, as it descends. Some leaves seem to want to get their dive quickly over, to nestle with their pals on the forest floor. Some seem to try to delay their landing as long as possible, by fluttering slowly this way, then slipping leisurely that way—executing a slow-motion dive. Some flip over and over, while others spin and still others float placidly downward, never once rotating.
Sometimes, as I watch a leaf break from its twig and begin its final voyage, I try to guess what its flight path might be. I’m rarely right. Every leaf seems to pick its own path and then maybe change its mind on the way down. The leaves have spent half a year stuck to the same spot and this is their once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to fly, and many of them merrily soar, while others just dejectedly drop. In fact, many leaves of an oak tree refuse to let go at all in the fall. They stoically hang on all winter and are forced off by next spring’s new growth.
Sometimes I chuckle at how simple my pleasures have become, when I realize that I’ve just passed a quarter-hour absorbed in the infinitely diverse ways in which leaves tumble earthward. It beats the hell out of a television commercial!
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