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 Anthocyanin causes the blazing red color, when the chlorophyll is withdrawn.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!

It’s Falling—Part 2

As Fall comes on, birds forage for the last remaining sweet berries—either stocking up for their migration south or enjoying their last treats before being forced to eat dry, tasteless seeds on wintry days for those who remain here. I like to examine the clearing’s deciduous trees, looking for their old nests, hidden beneath canopies of leaves during the summer, but now exposed by the fallen leaves.

As I write, a large flock of grackles just descended on our dogwood trees, stripping every berry in just a few minutes. Luckily for the year-‘round avian residents, we are beginning to load up the bird feeder, since they were robbed of their berries by the invading grackles. If truth were to be told, I think the local birds favor the meaty sunflower seeds continually delivered to their feeder, spurning the bland dogwood berries.

Our neighborhood avian tenants begin to congregate in the Fall. Their summertime competitive engagements are now forgotten, as their offspring have either departed for new environs or joined the band as adults. The newly-formed flock hovers around the bid feeder, urging me to stock it with ever-increasing amounts of seeds. The flocking also boosts their safety—now that they can no longer evade predators by hiding in bushes or dense trees. In a cooperative group many eyes are better at avoiding being on the lunch menu for a hawk.

Fall also impacts many types of plants. It’s the time for them to propagate seeds for next spring’s rebirth. Some of those seeds get eaten and lost to plant reproduction, but they put out such a prolific harvest that a few find fertile ground for a renewed life next year. Some hide at the center of enticing fruits—indigestible and waiting to be pooped out later, at some distance away. Some seeds have become adept at latching onto animals’ coats and people’s pant legs—counting on help to spread their latent promise. Some simply count on the wind to blow them hither and yon.

Then last but (I’d like to believe) not least, Fall has its impact on us humans. For weeks in mid-to-late summer we fret over the lack of rain—watching one promising thunderstorm after another bypass us and dump on city folks, who just get annoyed by the showery inconvenience. Cheated of shower after shower, we water and water, in a struggle to keep plants healthy and growing. Now in the Fall those plants are preparing for dormancy. They no longer need water. We are reprieved!

Another wonderful gift of Fall to us is the disappearance of biting insects. We can once again pause and enjoy our surroundings, without being hassled by mosquitoes or gnats. Good riddance, suckers! I can now turn to more strenuous labors—cutting and gathering firewood, digging and transplanting, policing and cleaning the grounds—without heavily sweating and dehydrating myself in summer’s heat. My thoughts begin to turn towards indoor winter activities of writing and crafts.

Possibly the most iconic example of Fall for us is the return of the wood heating season. As plants enter their dormancy for winter, the woodstove is completing its summer dormancy. Thankful for my earlier labors that have seen a full winter’s supply of firewood set by, I’m ready to reawaken the stove for its frosty duties.

Welcome, Fall! You bring us such appreciated change.

It’s Falling—Part 1

By mid October it’s clear that Fall has arrived in the northern Shenandoah Valley. Up to now we’ve had a few sporadic hints of autumn, but they were immediately followed by a few days of warm Indian Summer. But Fall is surely upon us now. Change can literally be felt in the air—a combination of sights, smells, sounds, and the touch of autumn molecules on your skin. It’s so refreshing!

Fall is a dynamic interim period, when the stasis of summer yields to autumn, followed by the stasis of winter. Days grow perceptively shorter now, the climate crisps, winds heighten, and temperatures tumble. Frost lurks around the next corner. Despite the fact that Nature is preparing for death and dormancy, Fall paradoxically seems a time of quickening. It rouses one’s spirit as it prepares the land for the coming hibernation.

Autumn is a celebration of summer’s bounty—when we harvest and take stock of what the garden has produced. The last fresh samples of the garden’s gifts are relished—knowing that it will be the better part of a year before we’ll be enjoying that newly-picked taste again. We’re fully thankful, however, for all we have been able to set by; stocking up the freezer, in canning jars, in bags of dried veggies, and have waiting in the fruit cellar.

Fall is a verb. Of 25 definitions for Fall in my dictionary, the first 17 treat the word as a verb, as an action. Moreover, Fall is an intransitive verb, because, first and foremost, it is an action verb. We experience the doings of its impact. Fall is dynamic—it moves, it IS. It’s on the road to somewhere, and we are caught up in the excitement of the journey and in anticipation of the destination. After the doldrums of late summer, we’re finally going places! Fall is in the driver’s seat and is taking us there.

Fall’s impact on Nature is profound. Deciduous trees quit drawing sustenance from their leaves and begin severing their connections, sealing off the interface at the leaf stem. As the leaves begin to disconnect, they lose their green chlorophyll color, change to red or yellow or orange, and float to the ground. Fall derives its name from this shedding of leaves.

Insects prepare either to die or to over-winter huddled under those discarded leaves. Colonies of wasps wrap up their summer’s labors, as the workers begin to perish, while the queens—full of eggs for the following spring—seek their winter’s slumber. Colonies of bees begin to huddle closer together to provide the warmth they need to survive the winter—bolstered by an ample supply of nourishing honey they’ve laid up during warmer times.

Next time: more impacts of Fall.

Two Months After the Mast—Part 1

Humans—since we alone seem able to ruminate over the past and fret about impending events—love to look for omens that prognosticate future happenings. The past is finished and fixed (although we hate to admit that our memory of it is quite faulty). So be it. The future, however, holds infinite possibilities—some pleasant, some painful, all intriguing. If only we could get a glimpse today of tomorrow’s fate, we’d be in such an advantageous position. We’d fare far better than the guy next door, who ignorantly faces each new moment. Or so we tell ourselves.

Weather prediction has become an obsession for many people. We moderns don’t have to deal with the complex and ambiguous process that our ancestors did—such as pulling out the pack of tarot cards to get our weather forecast; it’s instantly available 24/7 from the Weather Channel. The National Weather Service cranks its many computers, giving us quite accurate predictions for the next couple of days. This service has encouraged people to become fixated on tomorrow’s weather, or to endlessly watch images of the aftermath of today’s extreme storms.

An accurate forecast for the next few days may be one thing, but we want more. We want to be able to peer months into the future and to become privy to its weather conditions. The fall is a favorite time for folks to be seeking a glimpse of the nature of the impending winter. Is this going to be a “bad” winter? Lots of snow? Is global warming going to make it balmy again? There are numerous forecast gurus, who claim to have special knowledge about the coming weather. They hawk almanacs to sell the results of their secrets to eager fans. But there are also a couple of simple folk methods for weather prediction, that are accessible to everyone.

A favorite such predictor around here is the wooly bear caterpillar. You see them marching over the ground in the fall, as if parading their winter prophecy. The wooly bear (fully as cute as a teddy bear) has a black band around its middle, that separates two brown ends. The wider the central black band—so the story goes—the colder the coming winter. (I wonder why scientists have not been monitoring the bellyband width of wooly bears, these last few decades, to give them proof of global warming.)

Of course, this cute caterpillar has no way of gazing into the future. I fail to see why Mother Nature would bother with such a notion. Besides, if you examine several parading wooly bears, you’ll find that their “predictions” vary widely—as their bellybands are anywhere from a thin line to covering the complete caterpillar’s body. It’s like a simultaneous prediction of anything from a Brazilian to an Alaskan winter.

But I would guess that a died-in-the-wool wooly bear aficionado would counter my argument by protesting that you only get the “real” prognostication from the first preordained caterpillar one encounters. That initial one—like the “First star I see tonight”—has special powers. Well, maybe so.

What’s the other folk weather forecasting technique? What’s the meaning of this posting’s title? See you next time.