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…
Monday, February 23, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
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.
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.
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