Luina Hypoleuca, Silverback

Day 322: Flip over one of Silverback's leaves, and you'll understand precisely how it got its common name. The backs are woolly (tomentose), covered with fine silvery hairs. The second part of Luina's Latin moniker is also definitive: "hypoleuca," where the prefix "hypo-" means "under" and "-leuca" means "white," easy to remember if you associate the term with "hypodermic," i.e., "under the skin." Each button-like head of the plant's inflorescence is comprised of 10-20 individual cream-coloured flowers resembling miniature pincushions, studded with the long, bright yellow corollas characteristic of this species. Silverback commonly grows in the drier soils of the subalpine zone. It may be seen in association with one or more of the Castillejas (Paintbrush) which are known to parasitize it.

At Least 1000

Day 321: I will beg your indulgence for one more post about quilting this week because, as you may have inferred, Double Wedding Ring is undoubtedly the most difficult project I've tackled yet (well, Memory Wreath wasn't easy, but at least the pieces weren't curved). The very thought of cutting out all those little wedges was daunting in itself, but it went surprisingly quickly, and I'll explain why in a minute. Here you see something in the neighbourhood of 1000 ring segments. I needed 960 for the entire project, and cut extra just to be on the safe side. These will be drawn at random from the bin in sets of 12 to assemble into two arcs of six each. After I've made 32 arcs, I will begin piecing them together with the background fabric to form the first four rings (the quilt will be four rings by five). The reason cutting the wedges went so quickly is that I was able to cut 4-6 at a time for the most part. There were a few prints I decided to "fussy-cut," i.e., center the individual piece on a part of the design. I refer to the fabrics I fussy-cut as "character prints." These include specific design elements like cats, chickens, owls, etc. which I want to feature in their entirety. Framing a character can be quite a challenge when you're cutting 2.5" pieces! The remaining segments were cut from "all-over" prints. The "all-overs" can be stacked and cut in bulk with a rotary cutter. Obviously, fussy-cutting takes more time since the template needs to be centered over a particular character. Background, "melon" and solid-colour corners will be cut as they are needed. The serious part of cutting is done and dusted, and I'm on my way to a classic.

Learning Curves - Literally

Day 320: Trust me, I knew better than to jump right into this project without working out the foibles first, but now after making four blocks from discards, I think I'm ready for the Big Time. The first block (upper left) was horrible. The meets didn't meet (a faceting term for the points at which multiple lines intersect) and the finished block was so distorted that it couldn't even be stretched to an approximation of a square. The second attempt resulted in better meets, but the block was still cattywampus. With the second block, I'd also tried an experiment to see if I could change it up to seven segments instead of six, and while it worked as planned, the outer wedges were too much reduced in size to be aesthetically pleasing. The third block buckled due to differences in how I handled the fabric, but it was more square than either of the first two. In between trials and errors, I was alternately cutting out millions of little bitty wedges and watching YouTube videos, and found several helpful suggestions. I also discovered that my sewing machine (a cheap Brother) makes it almost impossible to sew a perfect 1/4" seam if the needle is in the center position. Since the needle cannot be put on the right for some bizarre reason, the solution is to place the bulk of the fabric on the right, and shift the needle to the left so that the feed dogs both contact cloth. Sewing with the seam allowance to the left is awkward and counter-intuitive, but it allows me to align the edge on the 1/4" mark. This process plus some hints about pressing let me produce an almost perfect block on the fourth try. The term "learning curves" has taken on a whole new meaning, but I think I've got this whipped.

We Saw This Really Blue Flower...

Day 319: Rangers at the desk of the Visitor Center are frequently asked to identify a plant, bird or animal from the briefest of descriptions. It happens less often when we're out in the backcountry, although it is still a fairly common occurrence. A perfect example would be, "We saw this really blue flower near Tipsoo Lake. What was it?" The query may be accompanied by a postage-stamp sized out-of-focus photo from which it is likely impossible to tell whether the plant in question was Monskhood (Aconitum, left) or Larkspur (Delphinium, right). When asked to give a clearer description of the blossom, the visitor falters and then says, "I think there was some white in the middle." How about the foliage? That's asking too much. It had leaves, and they were green.

While botanists get seriously up close and personal with their plants, counting stamens, examining leaves for fine hairs and so on, we ask nothing more of you than that you count the petals, decide whether they are all the same shape and size, and tell us whether the leaves were long or rounded, single or splayed out like fingers on a hand. These simple bits of information (or other obvious morphological characteristics) are usually enough to put us in the ballpark when coupled with season and location. Referring to the photos above, Monkshoods upper petals form the distinct hood which gives the plant its common name, while the petals of Larkspur open out like those a child might draw. That simple distinction could answer the question of "What was that really blue flower we saw at Tipsoo?" without the need for a ranger's suggestions. But then, everybody likes to talk to a ranger, right?

Saussurea Americana, American Sawwort

Day 318: By now, I am sure most of my long-term readership will have figured out that words are my favourite toys. I enjoy finding out where they came from, what they're connected to, how their meanings have changed over time. To look at American Sawwort (a plant endemic to the northwestern states including Alaska and Montana), one might think that its common name was a logical extension from the toothy margins of its leaves ("-wort" means "plant"). Whether that is the case, I can't honestly say, but what fascinated me about its etymology is that its botanical name is Saussurea americana which, to my ear, is far too "saw-ish" a term to be coincidental. In trying to track down its taxonomic roots, I discovered that the Saussures (father Horace and son Nicolas) were both scientists of some renown in the late 1700s and early 1800s respectively, and that Nicholas in particular had a penchant for botany. In fact, he laid the groundwork for our modern understanding of photosynthesis. Is there a linguistic connection between "sawwort" and "Saussure?" Inquiring minds are itching to know.

Aconogonon Davisiae, Newberry's Knotweed

Day 317: Is it Newberry's Knotweed? Newberry's Fleeceflower? Davis' Knotweed? Polygonum? Koenigia? Aconogonum? Aconogonon? For pity's sake, somebody settle on something here! Current taxonomy lists it as Aconogonon davisiae which would incline me to think it was Davis' Knotweed, but I learned it as Newberry's. I'm not sure when or why it was taken away from Newberry, but someone seems to have wanted to expunge him from the record. In any event, this plant is quite common in the Sunrise area of Mount Rainier National Park, and turns a glowing shade of pinkish-red in autumn, setting the slopes ablaze with colour. The name "Aconogonon" comes from Greek and refers to the fruit which has three distinct angular ridges and contains a single seed, descriptive if you're up on your Greek (which I am not) and tons of fun to say. The problem is knowing when to stop: Aconogonogonogonon and on and on.

Pin It!

Day 316: My botany partners joke that they can track where I've been by looking for "Crow Rocks," i.e., the various things I use as field tripods. Sometimes it's a rock, yes, but sticks and bits of shed bark are also frequently brought into service for the same purpose. As it happened, I was down on my knees at the camera with a chunk of long-dead, dry wood propping up the lens, and my attention was fully on the unique plant I was photographing. Then, as I started to raise up, the light hit the surface of the wood at a different angle, and there they were, hundreds of little black pins no more than one scant millimeter in height. Joe and Sharon were already back at the car, so I carried my treasure out to them and as I walked up, I said, "Here's something I bet you've never seen before!" A photo session ensued, drivers of passing cars no doubt wondering what was so fascinating about a chunk of old wood.

These are a species of "stickpin" or "pin lichen." Without laboratory facilities, I can't positively determine which one, but Mycocalicium subtile is my best guess, based on characteristics I could observe with a hand lens and habitat/substrate. This is only the second pin lichen I have ever found. As you might guess, they are extremely difficult to spot due to their size. Closer observation would reveal that the capitula (pinheads) are goblet-shaped or, as Sharon observed, "Like little tiny Myrios," referring to our historic fungal find from several years ago. You never know what you're going to find in the woods if you just keep your eyes open.

Solanum Rostratum, Buffalobur

Day 315: As I look out my east window, the ground beneath one of the bird feeders is occluded by some tall yellow snapdragons which have bent over under the weight of their blossoms. I had not noticed that they were concealing a threat. Standing there somewhat in the manner of Arthur Dent on the day the Vogon Destructor Fleet arrived, "Yellow," I thought. The word 'yellow' wandered through my mind in search of something to connect with. Fifteen seconds later I was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow Buffalobur that was advancing up my garden path.

Those of you who are familiar with Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy will no doubt recognize that I purloined the last three sentences of that paragraph from Douglas Adams' writing and adapted them to my own purposes, but they are nonetheless an accurate representation of what occurred. Solanum rostratum (Buffalobur or Horned Buffalobur) is a highly invasive weed which is often spread in contaminated bird seed. It is poisonous to livestock and humans. In areas where it is not controlled adequately, mature plants may turn into "tumbleweeds" to be blown across open fields, spreading their seeds as they roll along. A single plant can produce hundreds of seeds which remain viable for up to ten years. If infestations can be caught early, plants can be dug out and bagged for disposal. In this case, a few minutes after initial observation, the offender was safely tucked away in my plant press, another specimen which will eventually be sent to the Burke Herbarium.

Tonic

Day 314: It took seven or eight years to establish a colony of Hydrastis canadensis sufficient to supply me with a couple of quarts of my favourite summer tonic, Goldenseal tea. Each plant bears only two leaves, so I only harvest the tips (and that, sparingly). The infusion must not be boiled, but rather should kept just off simmer for about twenty minutes. The resultant tea is rather bitter and takes some getting used to, but it is an excellent thirst-quencher and quite refreshing. I have never used the berries for tea, preferring to let them drop to the ground where hopefully, they may produce another Goldenseal plant, although its primary reproduction comes from underground runners. The roots are saffron yellow, and the origin of the plant's other common name, "Yellow Puccoon." However, several other unrelated plants are also known as "puccoon," nearly all of which have been used over the ages to produce red and yellow dyes.

Fitch And Bella

Day 313: Fitch and Bella. It sounds like something they might call a TV series featuring a high-profile law firm, but in fact, they are my two favourite Hoyas. Both are prolific bloomers which follow an intermittent schedule, coming into flower roughly every six weeks throughout spring, summer and autumn. Fitchii (the salmon coloured one, "Fitch" for short) is also quite fragrant. In fact, if I haven't noticed the flower spurs developing buds, I am sometimes alerted by the scent. Bella, on the other hand, doesn't form the spurs typical of many Hoya species, but sends out clusters from the leaf axils. Her flowers have a barely noticeable perfume. That said, their flower formation doesn't often coincide as it's done this week. Now if I could just convince any of my other five species to bloom!

A Different Approach

Day 312: As I mentioned two days ago, my mother took an entirely different approach to quilting. She preferred to make crazy quilts, in which the fabrics are individually stitched to blocks of plain material. Although crazy quilts are often quilted in the standard way, an alternate method is to apply decorative embroidery to cover the seams before the backing and batting is added. My mother preferred this method. This quilt is a small lap robe, the only example of her work which I still have, and for a reason which it rather shames me to admit: George (as most of her family and friends knew her) had the worst taste in patterns and combinations of colours of any person I have ever known. At least this quilt has a tartan theme to hold it together, unlike another hideous quilt top I almost wish I had retained for posterity. It was pieced from dozens of mismatched hippie-era psychedelic print cottons so bright that her skillful embroidery was almost completely camouflaged by the garish purples, oranges and day-glo greens of rainbows and peacocks, paisleys and daisies, mandalas and magic mushrooms. It was so painful to the eyes that I sold it at a yard sale just to get it out of my sight. If ever there was a "period piece," that quilt top was surely definitive of the Age of Aquarius, and I hope the person who bought it recognized it as a work of history.

Cute As A Bug

Day 311: This little character seemed to know that I needed a reason to smile today. It's been a tough morning. That said, I've been chasing skippers around the yard for a couple of weeks now, but they've been reluctant to hold still long enough for me to focus the camera. Not this one! As I turned from photographing the entire year's yield of blueberries (all four of them), Skipper nearly knocked me over in his haste to be first to land on this tomato flower. He had some competition, but once he'd claimed it for his own, the rival flew off to look elsewhere for lunch. Mr./Ms. Ochlodes posed and postured for a couple of minutes while I fiddled with settings and got zoomed in with a macro filter at close range. I mean, what's not to love about that face? Skippers have always been one of my favourite butterflies, and especially the Woodland Skipper (Ochlodes sylvanoides) which seems to be the dominant species in my yard. Maybe with his help, I'll get some tomatoes after all.

Inspiration

Day 310: For as long as I have been quilting, I have promised myself that someday I would make a Double Wedding Ring like the one Old-old (my great-grandmother) made for my father and mother when they married. She used flour-sack prints for the piece work and a good quality cotton for the background. I have no idea what batting she used, but it has held up well through repeated washings, and even now the quilt is in very good condition except for a stain on the back. Today, I pulled it out of storage and looked at it with a more critical eye to see how it was made. She used a machine to sew the pieces together and to apply the binding, and from the difference in length of the quilting stitches on front and back, I can tell that she used the same piercing/stabbing style of stitching that I use which, if you think about it, is only logical. She taught my grandmother, my grandmother taught me. If you detect a missing generation in there, there is a simple explanation. My mother preferred making crazy-quilts and applied decorative embroidery stitches to pieces which had been sewn directly to the background material. Currently, I have a nearly completed quilt on the frame, all but two rows of Kittygons made for another, and as soon as one or the other of those projects is done, I will begin cutting pieces for my own Double Wedding Ring, following the path Old-old put me on more than seventy years ago.

Fair Time

Day 309: After two years' absence due to the pandemic, I will be submitting two pieces to the Puyallup Fair (Washington State Fair) in Home Arts: a crocheted maid's apron made from a 1940s-era pattern and a shawl woven in my family tartan (McLeod of Lewis). That said, I will not be attending the Fair due to risk of covid, so if any of my readers happen to spot my work on display, I hope you'll send me photos.

My husband was always after me to put my crafts in the Fair, and I always resisted, feeling that my skills were not good enough for competition at the State level. It didn't help that the submission process was rather complicated (this was before internet, you see), and I didn't understand terms like "division" and "class" in the show context. Admittedly, when I finally broke down and decided to enter my works the first time, I had to have some guidance in order to classify the pieces I intended to submit. Even now, it can be a little daunting. Is an apron a garment or an accessory? I have also discovered that selecting the best option when a piece fits into one or more categories can help bring home a ribbon. So far, none of the pieces I've submitted over the last seven or eight years has failed to win a prize. I have to think Bruce would be proud.

Asclepias Found!

Day 308: It's easy to get lost in a crowd, and that's exactly what happened to the milkweed in the Barren Wasteland. I've planted it several times with seed from various sources, and although some plants appeared in the span of the last two years, I was almost certain that none had come up this year. I kept checking their spot every week or so in the early season, and then forgot about them as the other plants grew taller. I was harvesting seed from the Deptford Pinks yesterday, and as I pushed a mass of Black-eyed Susans aside, there to my wondering eyes did appear a rather substantial concentration of Asclepias, two to three feet tall. That discovery inspired me to check the second spot, where I found several first-year plants 12-18 inches in height. None shows any sign of developing flowers, but at least they've taken root and, in the case of this specimen, have now returned for a third year. Gardening is often a matter of patience as well as hard work, but that said, I think some of those Black-eyed Susans are begging to be relocated so the milkweed can thrive.

Old Hairy Nuts

Day 307: The leafy foliage of Comptonia peregrina suggested that of ferns to early settlers on the east coast who dubbed the plant "Sweetfern," a term which also makes reference to the scent which rises from it. In its native habitat, it often forms dense colonies, but as a landscaping plant, it can be kept pruned back to be a manageable shrub. Some sources call it "invasive," but in my experience, the occasional runner which comes to the surface ten feet away is easily and permanently removed by cutting close to the parent plant. It is difficult to transplant or slip and should not be disturbed once it is established. My parent plant now sports a trunk as thick as my wrist, and I keep it pruned into a loose three-foot globe at the end of the flower bed closest to the kitchen door where its fragrance greets me when I step out to feed the birds. As the common name suggests, the odor is somewhat sweet, somewhat spicy, vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon or perhaps snickerdoodle cookies. It is particularly apparent on warm afternoons. It produces nutlets in hairy clusters near the tips of the branches. Each nutlet holds four seeds. My efforts to start Comptonia from seed have not been successful.

Kittygons Halfway

Day 306: Sooner or later, it happens to every person who quilts as much as I do. Your attention falters, and you sew something where it didn't belong. In this case, I was so excited about being halfway done with assembling the Kittygons that I sewed four extra background pieces into the spots which should have been reserved for the tops of the next set of large hexagons. I realized it only when I tried to fit a completed Kittygon into the nex row. A few swear-words later, all was set to rights and I was on my way to completion of Row 4. I have found that by having the Kittygons pre-assembled, it is much less confusing than trying to keep track of the order in which they appear if sewn in individual lines, but even so, it's obviously no guarantee against error. Hexagon quilts are fun to make, but anyone considering one should be prepared to sew a lot of short seams, and to waste an incredible amount of thread. There is no gang-processing here, no strings of pieces to zip through the sewing machine without cutting the thread. Every seam (two inches in this rendition) must be individually sewed. Be sure to put "patience" on your shopping list.

Go Hardy!

Day 305: For all the fuss and bother that annual fuchsias are, I can't imagine why everyone doesn't grow the hardy varieties instead. Many of them have blossoms which are as large as those of the annuals, and they are available in just as many colour combinations and a wide assortment of flower forms. Some types are hardy to -20°, so even if you are in Zone 5, there will be a hardy fuchsia for you. While these plants can grow into a sizeable bush, they are easily maintained at a more manageable size by pruning out older wood. Most flower on both new wood and old. Except for "Riccartoni" (not pictured), I keep mine cut back to roughly 18" in height. They never fail to put on a floriferous gala as summer begins to wind down. Go hardy! You won't regret it.

No Longer Barren

Day 304: There is a 10-foot wide strip of land between my house and the garage which, with the ambition of a new homeowner, I decided to turn into a garden when I first moved here over thirty years ago. A portion of it was occupied by a heavy wooden lid over the pit where the captive-air tank lives (the system which pressurizes water to the house) and a concrete slab over what must have been an old well. The rest of the space was overgrown with grass and weeds, so I set about digging and tilling, preparatory to planting beans and corn. I should have known the project was doomed just by looking at the soil: a pale brownish-grey substance with no tilth to speak to its ability to nourish plants. I was rewarded with some spindly, tough beans and nothing else, but even so, it took several years for me to admit defeat as far as produce was concerned. Changing tactics, I began trying to establish wildflowers in what had by then become known as the Barren Wasteland. Many experiments later, this is what the Barren Wasteland looks like today, a riot of chest-high colour. Despite being no longer barren, its name shall endure as a testament to my labours and the amazing determination with which black-eyed susans and rose campion vanquish all invaders.

Like But Unlike

Day 303: These two square braids (one heavier than the other) may appear to have been constructed using the same technique since on each face, they both exhibit a V-shaped stitch not unlike a chain of crochet, but they are structurally quite different. The gold-coloured braid was made using a single strand of thread on a lucet, and the rosy-toned one was braided with five "bowes" (loops) which were manipulated entirely on the hands. The lucet-made cord is in fact essentially peg-knit on two pegs (the two tines of the lucet), but the strands of the fingerloop braid not only pass over/under as in standard braiding, but also through one another as they are exchanged from hand to hand. Each system for making these braids has its advantages and disadvantages. Lucet-made cords are more likely to unravel if broken. Fingerloop braids can only be made with loops as long as half the distance between the weaver's outstretched arms unless they happen to have an assistant who is willing to tighten each pass against the fell. Not too many of us have a friend who is quite that patient!

Hang In There, Kiwi!

Day 302: I may be counting my chickens before they're hatched, but nine berries on my hardy kiwi "Issai" have survived two hot spells. The plant is supposedly self-fertile. Last year, it was loaded with berries when a week of 100-degree temperatures caused the fruit to drop (along with the ripe currants and gooseberries, which I managed to salvage). It didn't flower as heavily this year for some reason, although it did so at a better time with respect to available pollinators. I thought I'd done a fairly thorough inventory, and came up with a count of eight berries. One disappeared a few days ago, I think carried off by a young Towhee who had already demonstrated an unusual taste for gooseberries, and while I was examining the ground to see if perhaps it had simply fallen from the vine, another fruit buried deeply within the foliage caught my eye. That discovery prompted another search which yielded up a second hidden berry. I've marked each group with a green ribbon so that I can find them. I hope that doesn't make it easier for the Towhee as well. The mature fruits of this variety will be grape-sized and smooth, and just as flavourful as the fuzzy big kiwis you find in grocery stores.

Rainiera - Monotypic Genus

Day 301: The genus Rainiera has but one species in it, i.e., it is a monotypic genus, Rainiera stricta its solitary member. As one might guess from the name, it is particularly associated with Mount Rainier, but does occur as far north as Stevens Pass and south into Oregon. For as common as it is in the Sunrise area, one might find it hard to believe that it falls among plants whose conservation is a matter of concern globally. Indeed, in autumn it seems to dominate the slopes along the upper Sunrise Road. Within Washington or Oregon, it is designated "SNR" or "no status rank," indicating that here we have a healthy population. Formerly known as Luina stricta, Rainiera is distinct from Luina (Silverback). It bears the common names of "False Silverback."

Platanthera Stricta, Slender Bog Orchid

Day 300: Mount Rainier National Park is home to at least 15 members of the Orchid family (Orchidaceae), but none has a flower larger than roughly an inch in its greatest dimension. The more floriferous members of the family put up tall spikes bearing numerous individual flowers which on close examination resemble those of corsage orchids, but on a miniature scale. Many are subtly fragrant if not particularly colourful and in fact about half are simply green or white (the exceptions are Calypso bulbosa and most Coralroots). There is some debate as to whether Orchids such as Platanthera stricta (above) can be considered truly mycoheterotrophic, but all depend on some degree of assistance from soil-borne fungi which break down nutrients into a form which can be used by the plant. Some researchers will argue that the fungus receives no reciprocal benefit from the orchid and therefore the relationship is one of parasitism, but to my way of thinking, there must be some undetected mutualism. Just because we can't quantify something doesn't mean it isn't there.

Adding To The Inventory

Day 299: Team Biota scores again! I'd gone one way while Joe and Sharon went another, and on my way back, shiny leaves caught my eye...shiny, like "poison-ivy" shiny, and three-lobed, but obviously not PI/PO. "Hmmmm...," said I. "I don't think I've seen that before." And then I walked right on past it as I heard Joe call out, "I've got another odd one." His turned out to be the distorted leaves of a plant we have yet to identify, the in-curling apparently the result of disease, insect infestation or some other stressor, and as we searched for other examples of it, I almost forgot about Mr. Shiny-Leaves. Once we were done looking for deformed plants, I said, "Oh, yeah...I've got another weird one in the woods a ways, just one of them." The three of us went in together for a multi-camera photo shoot, and when we got back to the car, we broke out the books. They were no help at all. We'd found another Mystery Plant.

At home, I broke out Hitchcock and stayed up well past my bedtime trying to nail it down. I got as far as Ranunculaceae, but no further. In the morning, I did the only sensible thing, and shipped the photo off to both Arnie and David. Arnie admitted to being stumped, and I didn't hear from David until Sunday night. He suggested Coptis laciniata, Oregon Goldthread. Initially, I wasn't sure, and thought it might be a different Coptis, but another session with Hitchcock settled the matter. The leaves were divided to the mid-vein, the factor which excluded my other candidate. Now we have to make a return trip to search more thoroughly for other examples of the plant. The best news? This is another new species for the Park (and I believe the county as well), and Team Biota is running victory laps.

Kittygons Coming Together

Day 298: Although I'm still 100 shy of having cut all the lime green background pieces, I've begun assembling the kittygons after spending most of an hour yesterday with all of them laid out on the floor. My goal was to have no two identical small hexagons in proximity to one another, no two prints appearing in the same position near each other, and to prevent "clumping" of the same print, i.e., to place them in a fairly even distribution throughout the quilt. That was a pretty tall order, and I'm not sure I filled it to the letter, but that's what scrap quilts are about: randomness. One cannot achieve randomness by making it conform to rules because enforced randomness is not truly random by its very definition. I'm sure some day when I'm curled up under the Kittygons during a power outage, I'll find order somewhere in the chaos. I will undoubtedly cuss a vividly blue streak before I laugh and say to myself, "How on earth did I miss that?"

Erigeron Acris

Day 297: As a general rule, I dismiss DPDs ("damn purple daisies") from my personal list of Wildflowers of Interest. I can look across a field of lavender-hued asters without seeing them as anything but background noise. However, this miniature version won a special place in my heart when I discovered it several years ago. As opposed to most other DPDs, this one is quite small, standing no more than six inches tall (and that would be a stretch). It's easy to overlook, and perhaps that's what caught my eye originally: I don't look for something. I look at the whole scene and my eye is automatically drawn to what is unusual in it. This is Erigeron acris, "acris" meaning "sour, bitter," thus leading to the plant's common name of "Bitter Fleabane." The flowers are very pale lavender, almost white, and the greyish-green leaves camouflage it quite effectively in the dry, rocky areas in which it is frequently found. When mature, the plant's fuzzy seed heads look like miniature dandelion puffs, each seed (achene) attached to its own parachute of fluff (pappus), ready to be carried away on the winds of autumn.

Patty's Potato Chip

Day 296: Yesterday, the Potato Chip Quilt arrived at its final destination, taking my sister-of-the-heart Patty quite by surprise. Oh, I'd baited her with a tracking number so that she could follow a Mystery Box as it travelled across the country, but had given her no clues as to what it contained. The third member of our triumvirate was in on the secret, keeping her lips zipped as tightly as mine. I wanted her to share in the suspense and the moment of revelation. Now both of my "sisters" have quilts I hand-stitched, although Mousie's was pieced by her grandmother about seventy years years ago.

Quilting is one of the ways I've kept sane through the pandemic. When I finish the one currently on the frame about two weeks from now, it will be the seventh one I've made since covid protocols became a new way of life. Of those seven, one was quilted with the sewing machine and one was tied, using buttons at the anchor points, but the other five were all hand-quilted to make the puff pattern visible on the back side (photo, right). This stitching helps stabilize the batting, although modern batts don't tend to lump like the cotton ones of yesteryear. I find hand-quilting very relaxing, even meditative, and I am grateful to the friend who gave me her old quilting frame which has made the job even more enjoyable. As much as I love piecing the bright colours and arranging them, I am truly in my métier when doing hand-stitchery. One hand remains above the quilt, the other beneath it, driving the needle straight down or straight up, striving to keep my stitches uniform and aligned. As my mother often said, "A thing worth doing is worth doing well," and I try to live by her philosophy. Even so, my hand-work is far less meticulous than that of my great-grandmother who, although I barely knew her, has served to inspire me in the art of quilting.

There Is Nothing...

Day 295: Friends know the phrase well: "There is nothing...absolutely nothing!...cuter than baby birds!" The last several weeks have provided me with much amusement in the character of newly-fledged Evening Grosbeak kids being fed by one or both parents. There is much to be learned from the patience seen here, and from the occasional demonstration of "tough love"when mom or dad decides it's time for Junior to find food on his own. That said, these are familiar sights. Not so, the youngster who was being instructed in how to drink from the birdbath. A young male, not yet in full colour but with white wing patches fairly well developed, was receiving instruction from Dad: "Look, you bend over, get a beakful of water, tip your head back, and it runs down your throat." The youngster's sense of balance was a little dodgy, and he seemed to be afraid he was going to fall backwards off the rim. He turned around so that his tailfeathers were resting on the bowl, but when he tipped his head back, the tip of his tail slipped to the side and got wet. He shook it off, releasing a sudden Parrot-sized rainstorm. The shower startled him the first time, and then he seemed to realize that the cool water felt good. He decided to forgo drinking lessons in favour of stepping down onto the first tier of the basin for a full and very splashy bath. Dad retreated to the safety of the nearby fence while I watched from the kitchen doorway, wishing I'd had the camera at hand. This breeding season has been one of the most successful so far, with hardly any fatalities. If you're thinking of buying stock, invest in sunflower seeds. I may have to start buying them by the semi-load.

Lapsana Communis

Day 294: Following up on a post made on June 6, I finally remembered to photograph the flower of Lapsana communis, a weed which goes by the common name of Nipplewort. As you can see, the blossom is relatively small, not even close to the size of that of a hawkweed or dandelion. Nor does it form a fuzzy seed head like them. Instead, it drops individually-sheathed seeds which do not split open (dehisce) until germination occurs. Consequently, the weed tends to remain in closer confines than those pests whose seeds are wind-dispersed, but nevertheless, it can take over an area and crowd out less vigorous native species. It is not listed as invasive, but it is not native to the area. The foliage is purportedly edible and the sap is reported to be soothing on the skin. I'll remember that the next time I'm out there pulling it by the handful.

Anticlea Occidentalis, Mountainbells

Day 293: Okay, bear with me here. This is not going to be another rant about taxonomy, I promise. That said, when this plant was moved from Stenanthium to Anticlea, my curiosity about the etymology was aroused because it didn't seem to be sourced in Latin. As it turns out, the name was drawn directly from Greek mythology. Anticlea was the mother of Odysseus (the identity of his father is subject to debate). Her name means "without fame," appropriately perhaps, because she seems to have no particular function in the legend beyond being noted as part of Odysseus' genealogy when he meets her spirit in Hades. Ask three people how to pronounce "Anticlea," and you'll likely receive three different answers. I've heard "An-TICK-lee-uh," "ANTIE-klee" (totally ignoring the final "a") and something close to my own pronunciation of "Anty-CLEE-uh." Perhaps the most surprising thing about the taxonomic shift is that it denotes a phylogenetic link with three species of deathcamas, one of which (Glaucous Death Camas) also experienced a reclassification (from Zigadenus to Anticlea). In any event, Mountainbells are lovely and relatively scarce in our forests. They prefer a moist, shady habitat. Their delicate purple bells sway on slender stems to a height of roughly 12 inches, responding to the slightest breath of wind.

Willow Galls

Day 292: Red galls can be found on almost any species of Salix (Willow) in the Pacific Northwest. These growths form around the larvae of specific insects (wasps, midges, etc) and arise as a reaction to chemicals secreted by the insect itself. The gall serves as both protection and as a confined source of food for the single developing larva contained within its shell until the insect is ready to emerge. In this instance, the responsible party is likely a member of Pontania, i.e., a Sawfly. Several members of the genus are specific to one particular host species, although some willows can be affected by more than one species of Pontania. Galls generally do not damage the tree, although the same cannot be said for the mature bug.