Gnaughty Gnawer—Part 1

I have written a few times before about our struggles with pests such as mice, termites, voles, deer, various biting insects, and an occasional raccoon and opossum. It's a constant struggle trying to deal with these critters, living out here in the woods. Over the years we've learned some coping techniques that allow us to coexist peacefully with most of them—for example, by finding deterrent schemes, limiting their damage, or simply finding ways to view them less as enemies and more as mildly-problematic cohabitants that we can live with.

Mice are one of the definitely more problematic cohabitants—as they have a way of chewing up things that I'd rather stay whole, as well as hoarding copious stashes of food (once in our clothes closet), that either later spoil or attract ants. We have primarily relied on our cat or resident snakes to control the population of mice, and they've done a fairly decent job of it. 

In recent years we have yet another reason to keep mice at bay: they can be a link in the chain of Lyme disease transmission to humans, so breaking that link can be helpful.
Living in an underground house, we have blessedly few invasions of mice, but I have a meditation hut to which I withdraw a couple of times a week to spend time in solitude. Mice periodically assault my refuge, and a recent raid was launched by the cheekiest mouse I've ever encountered. By cheeky, I mean this guy was the most impudent, audacious, and in-your-face rodent I've ever dealt with.

It began its harassment shortly after I'd retired one evening. I was awakened by the sound of some critter gnawing at the base of the wall. It being unusually quiet and peaceful in my hut, the sound of the chewing on wood denied me any chance of sleep. I got up and banged on the wall to scare it away. It stopped, but the gnawing sound returned several minutes later, after I once again fell asleep. I whapped the wall again, returned to bed, and the critter soon again commenced its chewing. This went on for the first half of the night—keeping me from my needed rest.

But chewing on the wall was just the beginning of his assault. In the second half of the night, I was awakened by something falling from the windowsill to the floor—rather, something being pushed to the floor by... guess who? I arose from my bed, figured out that the culprit was most likely the mouse, who had by then apparently chewed his way inside my hut. I made a lot of menacing hissing noises, hoping to scare it away. (How does a fearful predator of a mouse sound? Should I have meowed like a cat?)

Very soon—as I was again dropping off to sleep for the tenth time—another object got nudged to the floor from the windowsill. I seized a flashlight. Shining its light in the direction of the sound, I saw the mouse, who perkily climbed the wall, stared insolently at me, then disappeared into the woodpile. By now I was so infuriated that further sleep was impossible.
I declared war on my cheeky invader. I set a mousetrap over by the window the next morning. Returning to my hut later that day, I found the trap sprung and the bait gone. Not only was he impudent, but he seemed to have a cleverness capability rivaling mine! I spotted the mouse squatting under the wood stove, watching me, but once again it quickly ducked into the woodpile as I menacingly approached.

That afternoon I returned to my hut for my badly-needed nap. I reset the trap in a more clever location and laid me down to sleep. Within five minutes a loud SNAP! startled me, and I rolled over to see my quarry kick its wee legs a couple of times and promptly expire. Success! One dead naughty rodent. Only later did I discover that it had also insolently roamed my meditation shrine, chewing up a bird's nest and knocking over two small Buddha statues. Good riddance, you impertinent rodent!

More on the mouse next time...

Tree Frog

This little guy came down from the trees to allow me to get a photo of him. Note his great camouflage, in the form of what looks like moss or lichen on its back, which coats many trees around here. It is about one inch (2-3 cm) long. Click to enlarge.

Sacred Sacrifices—Part 2

Let me turn to another type of sacrifice that my dictionary defines: ”An act of giving up something valued for the sake of acquiring something else regarded as more important.” This is another kind of sacrifice that seems to have gone out of favor these days. When I was young, people often purchased things from the store on so-called “lay-away plans.” You picked out something you desired, put some money down, and the store stashed the object in the back room. You made payments as you were able, until the purchase price was met and it was yours. Such a concept of delayed gratification is literally unknown today, as credit card companies encourage you to have whatever you want now—as long as you pay them usury charges of 22% or more on the balance.

In an classic experiment in 1970, Walter Mischel, a researcher at Columbia University, conducted a study in which young children were placed at a table upon which one marshmallow sat. The experimenter told the child that she had to leave the room for a few minutes. If, while she was gone, the kid could refrain from eating the one marshmallow in hand, a second marshmallow would be rewarded upon her return. The kids were filmed through a one-way mirror, and the torment they went through is hilarious to watch.

Mischel then followed the kids over the next decade or two. What he showed was that those kids who demonstrated self-control and won the second marshmallow were later more successful in life. Delayed gratification brought them greater achievement. As in the above dictionary definition, they were able to give up something of value (a single treat) to acquire something of greater value (two treats).

Michael Foley, in his book The Age of Absurdity: Why Modern Life Makes it Hard to be Happy, addresses this issue in a bit different manner. He describes Mischel's marshmallow experiment and uses it to make the point that if we can resist the desire for immediate gratification for anything (even yummy marshmallows), we have a better chance of achieving long-term fulfillment in our lives. He points out that fulfillment is hard work and that many people in modern society do not really want to do the hard work, because our culture teaches us that our desires can easily be satisfied with little effort.

So we no longer sacrifice—either in the sense of slaughtering an animal to the gods or by exercising self-control and delaying gratification. In either case, sacrifice is giving up something desirable today (like that delectable marshmallow beckoning me) for a bigger reward tomorrow. It calls for planning and letting go an immediate satisfaction for a happier future. It calls for hard work. Not many people are willing to wait.

Sacred Sacrifices—Part 1

I found myself thinking recently about the ancient practice of sacrifice—whereby our deep ancestors made offerings to the gods, in the hope that the sacrifice would please them and they'd in turn grant the entreaties made in their name. There are countless examples of our forebears making oblations to their gods.

Why sacrifice? Those ancients did not understand how most natural events came about. Beneficial happenings—such as good rains, victory in battle, and good health—were believed to be delivered by the gods. Likewise, harmful happenings—disease, earthquakes, and floods—were also dispatched by the gods. The ancients believed that the gods could be helpful or harmful; it depended on their mood. In order to curry favor or placate them, the ancients often engaged in elaborate sacrificial ceremonies.

But what does it really mean to sacrifice? It has a wide variety of connotation—depending on the topic and the situation. My dictionary defines sacrifice as no less than six kinds of events: (1) an act of offering to a supernatural figure, in the way of slaughtering an animal (or person!) or surrendering some possession; (2) an act of giving up something of value for the sake of acquiring something else regarded as more important; (3) Jesus offering himself for the redemption of mankind; (4) a chess move, whereby one offers an opponent a piece, for strategic or tactical reasons; (5) in baseball, a bunt that puts the batter out, but advances one's team's base runner; (6) in bridge, a bid that is made with the belief that it would be less costly to be defeated, than to allow your opponents to make their contract. Those various definitions surely cover a lot of sacrificial ground!

Returning to our deep ancestors' sacrifices to the gods in exchange for favorable circumstances: their acts were essentially based on an ignorance of the natural world. An ancient Greek philosopher (Epicurus, 5^th century BCE) and a later Roman poet/writer (Lucretius, 50 BCE) both put forth the argument that earthquakes, floods, and bountiful growing seasons were not due to the capriciousness of the gods. They were natural happenings. In fact, these sages reasoned that the gods had better things to do than either bedevil or bless humans. Hence, they counseled that sacrifices were for naught. It was a fool's errand to appeal to the gods. Don't waste your prize goat.

However, their message fell on deaf ears, as humans continued to make sacrifices. Why? It is quite natural for us to conceive of storms, drought, and diseases as events far larger than ourselves—events that must be caused by a super being. Thus people carried on with the practice of offering something of value to the powers that be. Many acts of sacrifice demand our giving up something we really value—otherwise, it's a hollow deed. So our forebears came to choose the most perfect of their animals to slaughter. In the case of Abraham, he was even ready to kill his own son, to please God!

I wonder how the sacrificial ceremony and its aftermath might have played out differently, for those living in polytheistic versus monotheistic cultures. For example, in ancient Greece or Rome, people often selected one of many gods to be their personal deity. They had an altar in their home, with icons and other paraphernalia relating to their god of choice. The family developed ceremonies and appropriate sacrifices to their private god.

I wonder what did they do when their offering seemed to be spurned? “Hey, I killed my prize goat and we still had a crappy harvest!” Did they conclude that their sacrifice was not up to snuff and thus select two perfect goats next time, or did they get pissed off at their god and decide to worship another one? They had a sizable pantheon to select from.

Then along came monotheism, introduced by the Hebrews. Now there was only one God to sacrifice to. I wonder what did the monotheists did, when their sacrifices failed to deliver the goods? They were not afforded the opportunity to switch deities. They either had to embellish the next sacrifice, or conclude that God works in mysterious ways and muddle on. Luckily, humans later came to understand that many good and bad events indeed are natural happenings that do not call for sacrifices for which one will be granted favors or to be spared from tragedy. The hope of influencing events lives on, however, in the form of prayers offered for favors.

More on sacrificing next time...

Darkling Beetle

This beetle hides in the day and emerges at night. The larvae are called mealworms. They cannot fly, which is why this one stayed fixed, as I took several photos. Click to enlarge.

The Brain and Life Span

I posted a blog on 3/31/14 titled “Monogamous Dummies,” wherein I described a then-current result of studies of fruit flies, which had made the surprising discovery that polygamous male fruit flies demonstrated themselves to be more intelligent than monogamous males. Another surprising finding of this study was that monogamous males lived longer than their polygamous cohorts.

The researchers had no explanations for these results, other than to note that, within a given species, those individuals possessing a larger brain (and thus who are usually more intelligent) did not live as long as their smaller-brain comrades. A possible reason offered is that the brain of any critter demands a significant proportion of that critter's energy. Thus, big-brained creatures may sort of run out of energy sooner and expire before their dumber fellows.

It is a fact that the species which immediately preceded us Homo sapiens, the Cro-Magnon, had a bigger brain than we do (about 10% larger). Thus, as we humans have evolved, our brains have shrunk a little. Does this say that we are dumber than Cro-Magnon? That's very difficult to say, but the life of modern humans is certainly easier than that of our deep ancestors. While they had to work hard to forage for food, we walk into the supermarket and leisurely fill our cart with oodles of goodies. While they had to keep a sharp lookout to avoid being eaten by large predators, we have either done away with most of those predators or locked them up in zoos.

And what about the life span of Cro-Magnon, compared to modern humans? That's also not an easy question to answer, but it is surely affected by technology and availability of high-quality food. Our modern healthcare tools can be very effective at extending the life of people. Cro-Magnon did not have access to antibiotics, dentists, or surgical techniques. So maybe we H. sapiens live longer, not because we're dumber, but because of our modern medicine?

These findings also suggest a reason why evolution has gradually decreased the size of our brain. If we don't need the brain power we once had (because we have smart machines to care for us), why not let the brain shrink a bit—especially if it lengthens our life span? Is this not a wise trade-off that evolution has made?

That possibility is a little disconcerting, however. What might happen when we develop super-smart artificial intelligence machines? Will our brains shrink to the point that our dogs will someday be teaching us simple tricks and taking us to the vet to be neutered?

Watching TV

Several years ago I planted a trumpet vine seedling. There are times when I regret having done so, because this plant likes to take over the world. It propagates by sending its roots out in all directions and popping up another vine 15 or 20 feet away, that will grab onto any available structure and proceed to bury it under a profusion of greenery. For the rest of my life I will be hacking back trumpet vine, lest, like kudzu, it smothers every plant around.

If this vine possessed only this troublesome behavior, I would long ago have declared war and eradicated it—much as I succeeded in doing with poison ivy a few decades ago. But the trumpet vine has an endearing quality at this time of year: it blasts forth with the most gorgeous blossoms that attract hummingbirds and big ol' bumblebees.

Over the last couple of weeks I've had the pleasure of soaking in my outdoor tub and becoming fascinated by the beauty of the plant, while watching the antics of visiting hummingbirds. Unable to receive a TV signal out here in the woods—moreover unwilling to have it intrude into our peace and quiet—I instead get much enjoyment watching my hummers dip into trumpet vine (TV) blossoms. I watch my own kind of TV.

The blossoms of TV are aptly named. They are long and narrow, with the ends flared outward. Bright orange, they are “loud and brassy” against the TV lush greenery. The hummingbird's long, skinny bill and even longer tongue are perfect for sampling the nectar hidden deep within the blossom. I love to watch a hummer hover near a bloom, dip quickly into it as its head completely disappears inside, and then quickly pop back out. While its head is buried deep in the blossom, it is vulnerable to predators, so it doesn't stay in for long. A few quick dips and it moves on. Of course, the hummer is doing a good deed for the TV, as it gets its head coated with pollen, that it then spreads to other blooms. The hummingbird is participating in TV sex!

I watched a fascinating display put on by two hummers the other evening. My attention was drawn by the sound of one hummingbird strafing the top of the TV several times—zooming at high speed across the vine. I soon realized that it was the resident male seemingly threatening a female, who I saw dipping into TV blossoms. She kept snuggled down into the vine, to avoid his attacks—which were like the bombing runs of a fighter plane.

Why was the male acting so aggressively? I think it might be that the mating season is over, so the male need not attract the female, like he did back in June, when his aerial acrobatics were more like a frenetic dance, done in front of her, as he worked hard to dazzle her and hopefully mate.

Now she seems to be just another competitor for trumpet vine blossom nectar. I think he's being far too selfish. With all the rain we've had this year, the vine has an abundance of blooms. Why be so stingy? Whatever his motivation—and I don't claim to understand it at all—I do very much enjoy watching my kind of TV lately.