Down Among The Fuchsias

Day 292: It's baby bird season around here, so I shouldn't have been startled when something moved in under the leaves of one of my hardy fuchsias while I was photographing the flower. I'd just propped the stem up with the stick you see here, not thinking that I might be moving someone's parasol. A young female Black-Headed Grosbeak popped out from under the foliage and gave me an inquisitive look, not particularly disturbed by my presence or that of the scary camera. At first I thought it was an injured adult. Despite my best efforts to prevent window strikes, they still happen far more often than I like. However, the behaviour of this individual was that of a fledgling, and my suspicions were confirmed as she moved around and I could see that some of her feathers were still developing. Smart little girl, she'd found a hiding place to keep herself safe until she can fly strongly. We shared a few moments of eye-to-eye as I assured her I wasn't a threat. I'm confident that she'll be okay, although for a minute, I wondered if I was going to be nursing another Grosbeaky person back to health.

Second Clutch

Day 291: I am almost positive that the tenants of the House of Chirp are the same ones who raised a family there earlier this year, despite what Bernd Heinrich may say in "White Feathers" regarding second clutches. He is an excellent observer and knows how to recognize his Tree Swallows by their behaviour, as do I. After the first 2020 nestlings had fledged, the resident pair returned to the box even though they were still feeding the youngsters on the wing. At one point, one of the kids entered the box on mom's heels, only to be called out by dad who was circling. Both the male and the female entered the box several times as I watched, and it soon became obvious to me that they were planning a second family. I've only had a second brood in the House of Chirp once in thirty years, and that was in 2019; this would mark the second occasion if they were successful. As you can see from this photo, there are at least two babies getting very close to fledging, identifiable as youngsters by their yellow gapes. Mom and dad are both bringing groceries, in one instance a large moth, although the bearer flew off with it again rather than feeding it to one of the young (possibly because I disturbed the process by opening the kitchen window). That said, the kids' full crops indicate that they're eating well despite the fact that the weather has been leaving them panting at the doorway. I worry about my "grandbirdies" in this heat, but relief is coming.

Kitty Windows

Day 290: Handwork on the kitty quilt is proceeding much more quickly than I'd expected. By bedtime last night, I'd sewn a total of ten prints into their frames, a total of six for the day. The quilt has 72 "windows" to fill, so even if I only do four per day, I could be done in under a month. To me, this is the fun part of making a quilt: hand-sewing. I find machine work tedious and monotonous, words which I've heard many people use in reference to hand-stitching, ironically. A cozy, homey feeling accompanies sitting with a piece of fabric in your lap, meticulously placing each tiny stitch so that it is almost invisible. As you watch the project develop beneath your hands, a sense of pride in your workmanship wells up and you find yourself striving for perfection without being conscious that you are doing so. Memories rise: a patient grandmother teaching a four-year old to "go over four threads and back two" to form a perfect stem stitch on an embroidered handkerchief, or putting three winds around the needle for a neat French knot. The hours slip by, and the forty minutes it took to sew one print into its frame seems negligible when balanced against the prospect of your work becoming an heirloom to be passed down through generations, or hopefully so. I find myself wondering: have I done enough handwork that one piece will survive into the next century? Will something of my stitchery endure beyond my time on the earth? I'd like to think it will.

Nigella, Love-In-A-Mist

Day 289: Although most of the plants in my flower beds are perennials, I like to fill in the open spots with annuals in order to have the freedom to "change it up" a bit each year. Invariably, though, there are a few stragglers from previous year, having re-seeded themselves before I could dead-head or remove pods. There have been a few I wished I'd never planted, and marigolds springs immediately to mind. As much as I love them, I was pulling marigolds for years as they cropped up in unanticipated spots. Likewise, I seem to have permanently installed tall yellow snapdragons when the dark red short ones I'd hoped would re-seed are slowly dying out, and never, ever again will I plant Lobelia in anything but a hanging basket. On the other hand, there are some faces I welcome each year, despite their visits coming as something of a surprise. One of these is Nigella, which bears the charming common name of Love-in-a-mist. I presume the "mist" portion of the nomenclature comes from the ferny, lacy foliage which surrounds the flowers, leaves which dry to a wiry state to become a basket for balloon-like maroon-and-cream seed pods. The pods are lovely in a dried arrangement, and hold their colour for months, but I always leave a few in the garden to assure more Love-in-a-mist next year.

Pussy-foots

Day 288: Oh, my sweet Tippy! You put up with anything your mama does to you, don't you? When a friend posted a photo of cat-paw chair-leg covers yesterday morning, I knew I had to make some. I found instructions on YouTube and within a very short time, had a pair which were much too small and round to fit on the square legs of any of my old-fashioned wooden chairs. I put them on my fingers and poked Tippy, but he just sniffed them and dismissed them as uninteresting. No "cats vs. cucumbers" here. He's pretty imperturbable. So, there I was, two detached cat paws in my hands and nowhere to put them. Then I remembered "Cats in Hats," an earlier crochet project which Tippy endured with remarkable patience. Could I talk him into wearing them like socks? Pussy-foots mittens! It took a little manipulation to keep his claws from catching in the yarn, but they fit, although when he tried to walk in them, they fell off. Maybe I should add garters.

It's A Bloomin' Yucca

Day 287: For all of what I said a few days ago about the Crocosmia's tendency to spread (you can see it in the background here), I approve of any plant which will reduce the amount of grass/weeds in my yard, so while I was visiting my foster sister last year, her husband and I teamed up and brutally sectioned one of her yuccas with shovels. Even jumping on mine, my weight was not sufficient to cut through the thick roots, so once Romy had loosened his side, he finished off mine and then the two of us grabbed the plant by its remaining rhizomes and pulled, a process which sent us tumbling backward in a sprawl of arms and legs when it finally let loose of its antipodeal anchor. The fact that we had so much trouble digging it out was a good sign for its survival, and even though it was thoroughly wilted by the time I arrived home, I was sure it would recover. I was right, and not quite a year later, it has put up its first spike of flowers: graceful bells as large as the end of a man's thumb, borne in a panicle which rises well above the mounded foliage. As for its location in the yard, I've given it plenty of room to make more little yuccas if it so desires.

A Currant Of A Different Colour

Day 286: While I am not especially fond of the fruits of Red-Flowering Currant straight off the vine, they make a passin' fair substitute for blueberries in muffins. However, this year's crop has a different destiny. I have had an astonishingly good crop of Gooseberries (four cups!) and a reasonable yield from the Red Lake Currants (another cup). Combined with these native fruits, I should have enough for a full-sized batch of mixed Ribes jam (Ribes sanguineum above, plus R. uva-crispa and R. rubrum). The currants will need to be cooked and strained to remove blossom ends and stems as if I was making clear jelly, but the gooseberries will be left "chunky" (cut in halves or quarters in some cases). Sanguineum is just starting to produce. I picked a half-cup this morning, and there are loads of unripe ones. The jam should provide a delicious combination of tastes which I'm betting most people wouldn't be able to identify.

Crocosmia Lucifer

Day 285: You admire a plant in someone's yard, determine to get one for your own garden, and three years down the road, you discover that while lovely, it exhibits traits which make you wonder if it's considered a weed in its native environment. Crocosmia is one of those. Its showy, its brilliant inflorescences shining at the tips of graceful, slender stems; it quickly fills those boring spaces in your landscaping, and it propagates both by seed and bulb...vigorously, as if given half a chance, it would take over the world. Once established, it is almost impossible to eradicate, a feature I learned the hard way after planting the red variety "Lucifer" where its foliage soon came to block the sidewalk. I dug it out, sifted the soil through my fingers to remove even the tiniest of bulbs, but I'm still pulling Crocosmia five years later. Aggressive behaviour aside, it is an attractive and colourful addition to the garden. Just be sure to locate it somewhere it can sprawl. The hummingbirds will love you.

Queen Of Plants Without Chlorophyll

Day 284: About a week ago, I received an email from Arnie with the salutation, "Oh, queen of plants without chlorophyll," which was accompanied by a lovely photo of an Aphyllon species he'd found near Oregon Caves and a question about why he was seeing clumps of Castilleja at some points along the trail and Orthocarpus at others. I suggested that it might be because both plant genera are initial mycoheterotrophs (i.e., they require the assistance of a mycorrhiza to germinate), possibly even facultative mycoheterotrophs (ones which rely on a mycorrhizal "assist" even though they're capable of limited photosynthesis). Arnie likes to wind me up, and he's doing a fantastic job of it, keeping me posted almost daily on the mycoheterotrophs of southern Oregon. Damn, I wish I could take a road trip!

However, his salutation made me laugh, and also made me feel unashamedly proud of the fact that he turns to me when he has questions about mycoheterotrophic plants. In fact, it was my passion for mycoheterotrophs which inspired him to send me on a hunt for Cephalanthera austiniae, the Phantom Orchid. I think he thought it was a wild goose chase; I thought it was a snipe hunt, a way to keep me occupied and out of his hair for the rest of the season. We were both surprised when I got on the radio and announced breathlessly, "Arnie...Arnie...I'm kneeling beside two Phantoms!" as the tears streamed down my face.

That was several years ago. My botany partners and I have continued to monitor the site (the only place where Cephalanthera is known to occur in Mount Rainier National Park), and each year, we inventory Phantoms. With COVID hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles, Joe and Sharon have gone alone twice, and last Sunday, Joe reported a census of 19 to me. This morning, I was out the door before sunrise with GPS and camera in hand. I only found 17 of Joe's specimens, but I also noted several large banana slugs in the area. I think that may be a clue into why some Phantoms disappear within a day or two and others live out their life cycle to set seed. In fact, I noted one old stalk from last year, its pods hanging dry and empty. So why is the Phantom so rare? Let's turn back to the discussion I had with Arnie: it requires a specific mycorrhizal partnership. In fact, Cephalanthera is more selective than other mycoheterotrophic species. Some combination of factors allows its existence at this site. We know that it occurs in the presence of certain other vascular plants ("plant associations"), so I believe it's possible that the mycorrhiza is dependent on something in the decaying detritus of these plant associates. Ah, so many questions! But I do know this: Cephalanthera austiniae is the true Queen of plants without chlorophyll. I am simply one of her vassals.

Cathedral Window Kitty Quilt

Day 283: "Desperate times call for desperate measures," and living in pandemic days has necessitated breaking one of my life-rules, the one which says, "You cannot have two projects of any one type going at the same time. One must be finished before another is begun." In part, I can justify why I have four quilts in progress currently, two of which are in the "hand-quilting" phase and two which are in the "piecing" phase. Mousie's grandmother's quilt replaced Kevin's son's on the frame because it is a time-value project. When I reach the point where only two blocks remain to be stitched, I'll shift back over to Daniel's. The orange quilt is at the point where it requires a trip to the fabric store, and since that won't be on the calendar any time soon, I started a "kitty quilt" to replace the one I donated to the Nisqually Land Trust.

Cutting fabrics is time-consuming and certainly not the most exciting part of putting a quilt together. At this size, the quilt requires 168 squares of the background fabric (light aqua) and 288 squares of white. The white squares form the "windows," and must be folded and pressed on the diagonal so that the folded edges can be turned back over the prints. A rotary cutter makes this part of the project go faster. Mind your fingers while you're ironing those points, though! There are other methods to ensure accuracy, but I find this one works best for me. Next, pin the white triangles to the background fabric and stitch them in place. Then join the squares until you have a strip either as wide or as long as your quilt will be. The outermost squares only have one white triangle applied, leaving half the background fabric to form a nice border around the quilt. Once two strips of squares are made, you're ready to join them. This is where the "meets" get a little tricky. The points of the triangles should come together perfectly, so accurate pinning is mandatory. Join strips until your quilt is the desired size. Then the real fun begins: adding the prints. I like to cut the prints 1/2" larger than the white and aqua squares so that I don't have to fuss with the corners where stitching can sometimes be very close to the cut edge. Once you have the prints stitched in (hand-work!), you're ready to batt, back and bind. I rather suspect I'll have this one done before I finish any of the other three.

Curtains

Day 282: First of all, I would like to thank Patty, sister-of-the-heart, for doing things with this image my photo processing software couldn't match. The picture was taken through my dirty kitchen window because I knew that if I opened it, one of the residents would pop out through the door. Second, even before I ordered Bernd Heinrich's new book "White Feathers: The Nesting Lives of Tree Swallows," I had observed Tachycineta bicolor's preference for them. I assume the contrast helps parents find their young inside the nest. Third...well, I believe my renters are returnees from earlier this year and perhaps even from past years, and it would seem that they decided to spruce up the place by adding lace curtains. It's nice to have tenants who care about the appearance of the neighbourhood (something I can't say about either of the humans who live near me). Even though the decorating job was only temporary, it was a bright spot in my day. In other news, I am equally amused and annoyed by the three baby ravens, blue eyes and pink gapes still evident, who are trying...quite noisily...to de-moss the roof on the north side of my house. I can't be angry at them. They're kids, and as readers have heard me say time and again, "There is nothing, absolutely nothing, as cute as baby birds."

Prototype

Day 281: My readers may recall that I made a Cathedral Window quilt of kitty prints a few months back which I was not entirely pleased with. The "meets" where the white frames join were less than perfect, and because I quilted it with the sewing machine, the stitching was not as accurate as I would have liked. I donated the quilt to the Nisqually Land Trust for their auction which, because of the pandemic, wound up being cancelled (they're planning to hold it virtually, but details are not yet available). In any event, I wound up without a "kitty quilt," and wanted to make another one, this time doing the quilting by hand.

In the meantime, a friend had found a kitty print she thought I could use. She sent me a yard of it, and I didn't even have to measure to see that the darling cat faces were going to be too large to fit in the frames. Cathedral Window is easy to adapt to a different size, so I bought a 5" quilting ruler and set about to develop Plan B. As my mother used to say, "A thing worth doing is worth doing well," so I decided that the prototype should be made in such a manner that it would serve some function, perhaps a pillow top, so I made it four squares by four squares which gave me room for five prints. The half-frames on the sides were filled in with a coordinated solid.

I've learned a few tricks along the way. For one thing, I changed up the construction method a bit to make it easier to join strips of squares. I also determined that the center prints need to be 1/2" larger than the base and frame fabrics, i.e., the light blue and white fabrics are both cut as 5" squares, and the center prints are 5 1/2" squares. I like the look of the larger windows, and yes, now Patty's kitties will fit the frames. Hand-stitching the prints looks much nicer, and for all the wrestling I did to sew the first quilt on the machine, it's easier too, even though it takes longer. This, however, is the prototype...just an experiment to be sure there were not going to be any little surprises or foibles to work out. And obviously, I'm not going anywhere any time in the foreseeable future.

Psychology Of Fear

Day 280: We all have our small fears: spiders, stock market crashes, the monster under the bed, dropping our cell phone down an open manhole, but what does it mean to be truly afraid? "Afraid," as in "terrified?" How many of us have been held at gunpoint, seen a comrade in arms blown to bits beside us, fallen from a great height? How many of us can actually claim that we know what that type of fear feels like? And how can we say that we know how we'd react in such a situation? You've heard the expressions, "paralyzed with fear" and "running into the face of danger." They seem contradictory, and in fact they are, and yet both are perfectly normal reactions to terror. Aside from being instinctive and almost uncontrollable reactions, in both cases, the result is the same: we do the wrong thing. We make a choice (conscious or not) which, if we'd had a little more time to think about it, might have shown itself to be a foolish one.

Right now, people are scared out of their wits, myself included. We see the rising numbers in the case counts and death tolls in our country, our states, our counties, and if they don't set us trembling in fear, then we are either ignorant or insane. Many people are reacting as if they are invincible, i.e., flaunting danger by going maskless or gathering in groups. Others are gambling, believing the odds to be in their favour, pulling the handle on the slot machine over and over and over, sure the winning combination will come up until finally they realize they're out of money. Fear inspires foolish behaviour. Fear drives us to make bad choices, not only as individuals but as a mass. Reopen schools! Hold that county fair! Let's go to the park! Let's have a picnic! We'll be fine if we wear masks and stay six feet apart. No, we won't, and it's time we face up to facts.

Get a grip on your fear. Don't let it make you do something stupid. In the words of Frank Herbert as spoken by Paul Muad'Dib in 'Dune,' "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain." And know that I am repeating these words not because you need to hear them, but because I desperately need them to be true.

Five-Leaf Akebia Fruit

Day 279: The fruit of the Five-Leaf Akebia (Akebia quinata) is an odd-looking thing, and as far as I've been able to determine by reading and experimentation, entirely without gustatory merit. So why do I cross-pollinate my two vines every year? Because I can. Earlier this year, I reported that I thought I had been successful in fertilizing white female flowers with pollen from the purple males. Regrettably, the pods which began to form dropped before they reached the diameter of a pencil. Theoretically, the transfer should work that direction, but to date, the only plant to set fruit has been the purple one, and that only after I had hand-pollinated it with the white. Still, we take our successes where we find them, and in another corner of the garden, the kiwis have declined to be "self-fertile," also starting to set fruit, only to drop it before the berries began to swell. In contrast to the Akebia, kiwis are a crop I wish to successfully cultivate for the table. I may have to plant a pair (male and female) of a different "hardy" variety.

Deptford Pink

Day 278: Let's talk about a couple of plain-English terms which many people find confusing. First off, when speaking of a plant as being "native" to an area, we mean that it has been there since...well, since it was first recorded by a human being. We have no way of knowing its prior history, although the advent DNA sampling has given us a few glimpses, but indigenous lore will tell us if it had any medicinal, culinary or spiritual significance even before the first botanist arrived to put a name on it.

On the other end of the scale, we have "invasive." Invasives are those plants which are not native to an area, and that have the capacity for establishing themselves at a sacrifice of native species. These are the "bad boys," and they come in various levels of virulence. Some are capable of becoming monocultures, crowding out anything else which might grow in a particular area, like the Phragmites which is invading many of our wetlands and waterways.

Now we have come to "naturalized," those plants which we know for certain did not occur in a region prior to a determinable (if broad) point in time, having been brought to an area deliberately or accidentally, and posing no threat to native species. One such plant is the delicate Deptford Pink (Dianthus armeria). It may have been brought to America by Europeans who wanted to retain a link with their home country's wildflowers, or it may have followed them as a seed caught on fabric or in hair, in animal fodder, or other means of inadvertent transport. It does not proliferate to a point which threatens native plants, does not draw pollinators away from the business they should be conducting; it is as innocuous as the student who sits in the back row studying, never raising a hand or participating in classroom discussions.

The Barren Wasteland holds quite a population of Deptford Pinks thanks to their inclusion in a packet of "native" wildflower seed (read the first paragraph again, please). I say, the more the merrier. The stems are tall and wiry, and the leaves are sparse and unassuming, almost invisible against the background of more aggressive plants. I don't notice it growing until one day, a flush of speckled pink eyes open. "Deptford! There you are!" It's always nice to see them again.

Dresden Orange

Day 277: With our plans for a Sisters-of-the-Heart Quilting Bee disrupted by the pandemic, I found myself getting too far along on Mousie's grandmother's Dresden plate quilt, so to ensure that we have enough to do when it becomes possible for them to come for a visit, I laid it aside and picked up where I left off piecing my own version of Dresden plate. My desire to make an orange quilt date back at least forty years. At one time, I had an appreciable stash of orange-themed prints set aside, but later disposed of them when I thought my quilting days were done. Oh, yes, I've kicked myself many times for that foolish move, believe me! A couple of years ago, the idea resurfaced and I began accumulating appropriate fabrics, although at the time, I hadn't settled on a design. Eventually, a twenty-blade Dresden plate won the toss, although Memory Wreath (one of my favourite patterns) was running a close second. I decided on a chocolate-brown base fabric for the blocks to give the whole quilt an autumnal feel, with yellow centers in the plates, perhaps repeating as "streets and alleys" between the blocks. Today, I will be piecing the last two plates, leaving four to be appliqued to the base fabric. As for the "streets and alleys," well, it looks like this project will also have to go on hold until COVID leaves the building. Not to worry! There's always a Plan B in any experienced crafter's closet.

The Hunt For Neowise

Day 276: I'm down in a valley, a narrow valley. To the northeast of me, I have a window of horizon perhaps 15 degrees in width, and most of that dominated by a 14,410' Mountain. To the north, a 2500-3000' ridge of "hills" begins its immediate and abrupt rise from the valley floor less than a quarter mile from my living room window. To the west, my window of sky is even narrower, blocked by trees but for a notch where a two-lane road cuts through. To put it another way, if an astronomical event occurs, if it's not almost directly overhead, I have very little hope of seeing it. Enter Comet Neowise.

Now I have to say that I've seen one spectacular comet in my lifetime and a few minor ones. Comet West hung directly over Mount Rainier in February 1976. From my southwest Washington home where no light pollution interfered, its tail spanned more than a hand's-width of the pre-dawn sky. After I moved here, Hale-Bopp and Lovejoy made their appearances in 1997 and 2011 respectively, Hale-Bopp presenting directly above those aforementioned "hills" and showing a nice tail. I was able to view it from the comfort of my living room either with my naked eye or through binoculars, although I could easily have covered it with a thumb held at arm's length. Lovejoy was a disappointment, a mere blurry green dot even through my telescope. My sighting of Neowise last night falls somewhere between those of Hale-Bopp and Lovejoy.

After consulting multiple websites, star charts and conferring with astronomer friends who have their own observatory, I thought I might have a decent window for evening viewing if I drove out to Eatonville to a point overlooking the city toward the north. It was 10:15 before the first stars began to appear, and by then, a thin layer of cloud had formed along the horizon, dense enough that aircraft lights winked in and out of existence as they passed through the thicker portions. Was I going to miss Neowise because of it? Wait...as I turned my head, scanning the sky where I thought it was supposed to be, my eyes registered a smudge of light slightly higher in the sky than I had expected. By averting my eyes slightly in the manner one does if one is trying to count the number of stars visible in the Perseids, I could see a tiny bright dot trailing a smear. If I tried to look directly at it, it disappeared. I had not brought binoculars and don't think they would have been much help. I know I could never have found it without a better aiming device on my telescope. As for the camera, forget it. My camera doesn't like night photography even at the best of times, and it would have taken much longer than the 15 seconds it allows me for an extended exposure to have recorded the faint, nearly invisible flyspeck of Neowise. But I saw it, and that's what counts. Hopefully, there will be better viewing later in the month.

Collecting Currants

Day 275: With COVID numbers remaining high and the stupidity rate climbing, I am finding it increasingly difficult to urge myself out on walks. I have had three near-misses while less than half a mile from home, two when a driver passing another car came across the fog line on the opposite side of the road where I was walking, facing traffic. The number of vehicles heading toward the Park would appear to be at or above the last several years' "increased visitation" rate, and while I don't want to die of COVID or a coronary, neither do I want to be taken out by an impatient driver. Consequently, I am also having a hard time finding material my readers will find interesting, so today's offering is currant news. With an A.

They're nearly done now, my two small bushes, but they have given me roughly a cup of delicious Red Lake currants. The stems which bore fruit have been marked with flagging tape so that I know to prune them out. Red currants bear best on second-year wood. Third-year wood will produce fewer berries. On the other hand, gooseberries can be asked to produce for three years on any given stem before it needs to be taken out of service, and boy, do I have gooseberries coming on! I've already picked close to a cupful, and that was just for starters. The two fruits (currants and goozleberries) are being stored temporarily in my freezer until I have gleaned the full crop. From there, it's into the jam pot for a small, but utterly delicious specialty batch.

Jamming these two fruits is a bit of a bother, but gooseberry/currant fans will tell you it's worth it. Currants alone are best turned into jelly, straining the cooked fruit through muslin to remove the dried flower ends and stems. Gooseberries will require being "topped and tailed," as the saying goes, i.e., both the stem end and the blossom end will need to be cut off with a sharp knife. Fortunately, this tart fruit doesn't ripen all at once. Topping and tailing seems much less of a chore when done a cup at a time. Berries can be frozen without adding sugar or liquid to hold until you're ready to make jam. I'm looking forward to having a couple of half-pints, but don't expect me to share!

Stemonitopsis Typhina

Day 274: When I sent Arnie the photos and told him I'd found another new species of slime mold on Park property, he replied, "Little popsicles!" That was the second natural-history belly laugh I've had this week, the earlier one being when an acknowledged authority in the field (a professional and lettered man) commented on someone else's image of a developing slime mold, "Who's a hungry little plasmodium, then?" I've long been a believer that the world needs more silly; it is encouraging to see it coming from the otherwise staid academic community.

So...to the "little popsicles." This is the same slime I photographed a week or so ago, a second and more abundant "fruiting." Better images made identification possible, and I have put a footnote on my earlier post stating that it is in fact Stemonitopsis typhina. Like lichens, slime-mold common names are not standardized and really shouldn't be used, but this one also goes by "Shiny Thimble." Indeed, some of the brown sporocarps were quite glossy, having not yet entered into the phase when they release their spores.

As a sidebar, there are three pocket-ecologies on this piece of property which now have my full attention. One is a stump which has hosted three different slime molds this spring, a very humid site; one is where Scutellinia scutellata grows in abundance alongside several slimes and Ramaria fungi, also a moist site; one where Stemonitopsis and Tarzetta cupularis (a rare fungus) live within a few feet of each other, a substantially drier micro-climate which nevertheless contains a lot of decaying forest detritus, albeit of a different sort (conifer vs. deciduous). With no fancy laboratory equipment at my disposal, I am attempting to analyze by observation, hoping to get some clue as to what is unique about these three areas that they support types of life not seen in other parts of the same forest. As new developments arise at these sites over the summer, I may find even more peculiarities. For me, this is what being a naturalist is about: observation, making connections, finding associations. It's much more rewarding than popping a tissue sample under the microscope.

In The Barren Wasteland

Day 273: The 10' strip of yard which lies between the back wall of the house and the garage is known as the Barren Wasteland. Much of it is occupied by the cover for the pit in which the captive-air tank of my domestic water system sits, and a concrete slab of similar size which has no obvious reason for being there. As I discovered early on when I tried to locate a vegetable garden there, the soil is poor, rocky, nutrient-depleted fill. Still, I wanted something in that space so, being the type of person who doesn't want to kill a perfectly good flower outright, I began transplanting the things I didn't want in my flower beds with the thought that if they survived in the Barren Wasteland, they were worthy of admiration, and if they didn't...oh, well. The plot also became a repository for the contents of free wildflower seed packets, those "especially selected for your area" envelopes which tend to be filled with non-native species and outright weeds. I figured I was in for some serious weed-pulling, but also that I might get some colour in the long term. In other words, the Barren Wasteland was destined to become a home for the unruly, the mildly obnoxious, the problem children who deserved a chance to redeem themselves to become useful members of society: Oriental poppies, Rudbeckia, mint, English bluebells, Phlox, Pigsqueak. Somewhere along the line, Rose Campion crept in, and every year it surprises me when it opens its bright magenta eyes at the tops of 3' stems. How it grows so tall before I notice it is anyone's guess. I suppose it's because I overlook the Barren Wasteland's faults and accept that it's doing the best it can to please me, and please me it does, even though its population of rejects leans rather toward the pink end of the spectrum.

The Philadelphus Story

Day 272: While I may take taxonomists to task for shattering families and sowing discord between species, I wish someone would sit down with their little DNA-sampling equipment and sort out the mess in Philadelphus. It was a bone of contention between my mother and me; she had a Mock Orange in her yard which was a bush six feet around, heavily laden with flowers along each branch. In my yard, the term referred to a fifteen-foot tall sprangly shrub which, although abundantly floral, bore clusters more widely separated. In point of fact (at least according to current taxonomy,) both belonged to the genus Philadelphus. There are at least sixty-five species and subspecies of Philadelphus, and not all are fragrant. They range in height from 3-20 feet, and their growth habit is sufficiently diverse that one could be fit into almost any landscaping theme. Mine (Philadelphus lewisii) fills the whole neighbourhood with its fragrance on warm afternoons and is much loved by the Swallowtail butterflies who flock 'round it by dozens.

Verify

Day 271: A couple of unrelated events this last week have bolstered my contention that the internet is the world's greatest source of misinformation. Several searches on various subjects have further strengthened the conviction, to the point that I now feel it is safe to assert that there is a greater abundance of wrong information than right present on our beloved web.

Let us begin this exercise by saying that one of the test tubes in the photo above is filled with pee. That's right: urine. Hie thee to Mr. Google and look up urine samples. You will find them in almost every hue and state of turbidity. Compare various images, and you may find yourself digging more deeply into pH levels, dietary influences, drug tests, medication responses and so on. Once you think you have identified the tube containing urine, ask yourself what its colour and clarity suggest. By the time you've done an hour's on-line research, you might even begin to feel qualified for a P (if perhaps not the hD) in pee. You've done well! Only one problem: I lied. I took you by the hand, led you down the garden path, and told you a whopper. This is a "hoto" of liquid-filled test tubes; there's no p in any of them.

See how easily you were gulled? Likewise, if I were to tell you that they have Greys in captivity in Area 51, or that the government can turn your micowave oven into a remote listening device, or that "male" and "female" peppers can be distinguished by the number of bumps on their bottoms, the internet is there to support those claims from multiple sources. Now, more than ever before, verification of material of any sort is essential, and should be conducted before that material is republished in any form.

I make this promise to my readers: that I will try to maintain a laboratory standard for accuracy in my posts, and if I should find myself to be in error, to publish a retraction as soon as it comes to my attention. If admitting I was wrong embarrasses me, then let me blush. A blush fades quickly and does no lasting harm, unlike the perpetuation of misinformation.

Summer Icicles - Ceratiomyxa

Day 270: As a lichenologist, I spend a lot of time looking at rotten stumps, broken branches and unattractive rock outcrops. I find it amazing that slime molds escaped my notice until a few years ago when I stumbled across my first specimens of Lycogala epidendrum. Its pink bubble-gum mounds were the gateway to yet another rabbit hole begging me to enter and, like Alice, I tumbled into a bizarre world populated with some of the oddest creatures I had ever seen. During voluntary isolation, I have been exploring the woods near my home in minuscule detail in the hopes of discovering vascular plants or lichens not previously recorded in the area. Not many botanists get an opportunity for intense field study such as this, to be able to spend as much time as possible in a relatively small geographic area. While exploring one particular section of no more than 1500' sq. ft., I have found four slime mold species and a handful of relatively uncommon fungi which do not seem to appear anywhere else except in that particular microecology. Among them is Ceratiomyxa fruticulosa, a slime mold one might easily mistake for a fungus on first glance. What is it about this location? Is it that there is more moisture here, or that certain plant species are present? Is it because when fire swept the area it burned more or less intensely at this small spot? Was the detritus of the old forest more rich in hemlock or cedar, perhaps providing a unique chemistry which draws the slime molds to it? Why are they here? What do they want? I will probably never have answers, but as the questions arise, they feed and nourish my curiosity. One must have questions, else why bother getting out of bed?

Limenitis Lorquini, Lorquin's Admiral

Day 269: Lorquin's Admiral (Limenitis lorquini) is one of my favourite local butterflies. Purportedly common along the Cascade range, I don't recall having seen one until I moved here. However, my references assure me that they can be found anywhere except the driest parts of the Columbia Basin and a narrow coastal zone in western Washington. The species ranges from British Columbia eastward into Montana, and to southern California. Its colours mimic those of the California Sister, a butterfly birds know to avoid because of its bitter taste. Limenitis lorquini nectars on a wide variety of flowering plants including thistles and Asteraceae. Its larvae feed on willows, poplars, serviceberry, chokecherry and other Prunus trees. It can be observed from May to October in the areas it inhabits.

Stemonitopsis typhina

Day 268: Update: I now have a positive ID of Stemonitopsis typhina, still a new species for me! So...please make mental corrections as you read the following post.

*****

Since discovering the fascinating realm of slime molds several years ago, one genus has been on my Bucket List: Stemonitis. The distinguishing feature of these elegant slimes is the long, slender sporangia which develop at the end of thread-like stalks. The sporangia group together in clusters, a characteristic which has given rise to one common name of "tree hair," although that name can also be applied to certain lichens and mosses.

I've been hunting Stemonitis for some time, not knowing what type of habitat it preferred other than rotting wood. There's plenty of rotting wood in our Pacific Northwest forests, but apparently it has to reach a certain state of decay before Stemonitis deems it worth consuming, and each species within the genus has specific preferences for type of wood. With no more clues than that, I set out to investigate rotten wood until I either found a Stemonitis or ran out of forest. I was almost back to the point where a private property line compels me to return to pavement when I decided to take a small and very brushy detour. I was about ready to abandon my jungle-commando search when something pinkish caught my eye from about twenty feet away. It could have been any number of common things: a fungus, a bit of blush-tint wood, a trick of the light, but I couldn't leave without checking. Lo and behold, when I reached it and bent over..."Stemonitis!" You could have heard my whoop in Tacoma. That said, without examination of its micoscopic features, it is impossible to tell whether this is S. fusca (which I suspect), S. axifera or S. splendens. All three are macroscopically similar and are known from this area.

I don't need furs or diamonds. I don't need a hot car or a European vacation. Just give me a new slime mold or a plant I've never seen before, and I'm happy as Larry. Simple pleasures for a simple mind.

Silene Latifolia, Evening Catchfly

Day 267: In a fortuitous coincidence, as I was preparing this post for publication, a friend sent me an article about a related species. You might be surprised to learn that the Silenes have been around for a very long time. Shown above, Silene latifolia is known commonly as Evening Catchfly or White Campion. The name "Evening Catchfly" is also applied to similar S. noctiflora. They can be differentiated by counting the styles; S. latifolia has five, S. noctiflora only three. The petal shape is different as well, but not always the best indicator. Both were introduced from Europe, and can therefore be considered "weeds" despite their attractiveness. You might be led into thinking that they were insectivores from their common name, but no, they do not actually catch flies.

I mentioned that they'd been around for a long time. In an experiment a few years ago, Russian scientists were able to grow S. stenophylla from placental fruit tissue which had been embedded in permafrost for...sit down...32,000 years. The regenerated plants grew to maturity, flowered, and bore viable seed. Some distinct differences between the regenerated plants and present-day specimens of S. stenophylla (genetically identical) were noted in the general morphology, differences which have not yet been adequately explained.

Scarves For Massachusetts

Day 266: Weaving on a floor loom generates a lot of  "too short to use, but too long to throw away" ends. The technical jargon for this potential waste material is "thrums," an interesting word in and of itself. Its origins are Norse, rooted in the same word which also gives us "term" in the sense of "a limited time." In any event, my thrum pile was threatening to overwhelm my craft room, so I determined to terminate it (clever etymologist that you are, you see what I did there, I'm sure). That said, I was sure I could find order in chaos if I worked at it hard enough, so with the addition of balls of yarn not large enough for a project but too large to toss, I began making scarves on my 10" rigid heddle. A lot of planning goes into each one of these in order to find a pleasant mix of colours as well as a balance between them; even so, there are many possibilities for variation in the width of the stripes and in their order. I suspect that by the time COVID-19 has run its course and I am again able to get out to the post office, I will have sufficient scarves ready to send to the Joppa Flats Education Center to keep half the state of Massachusetts warm through the winter. I might also have a little more space in my yarn storage bins.

Hybrid Seed

Day 265: Some of my readers may recall that in November 2019, I brought out my little paintbrush to tickle the flowers of a white Schlumbergera (Zygocactus) until they released pollen. I transferred the pollen to two receptive flowers on a yellow Schlumbergera and sat back to await results. By early December, the ovaries of the yellow plant had begun to swell. By April, they had begun to turn pink, indicating that they were ripening. One dropped about a month ago while still somewhat tender, so I let it lay until it had dried out thoroughly, and on July 1, I cracked it open. It contained roughly two dozen tiny black seeds which I planted in a mix of potting soil and sand.

Years ago, my husband conducted a similar experiment. As I recall, his craving for results caused him to harvest the pods before the seeds were mature; in any event, those he planted never germinated. In this case, I think the pod may have fallen prematurely despite the appearance of the seeds. The second pod is still attached to the plant.

Horticulture does not bring the instant gratification so desired by many. It is an exercise in patience; plants progressing through their cycles recognize only their own urgencies and cannot be rushed. Can you stand the suspense?

Tarz In The Jungle

Day 264: Perhaps this isn't the most artful set of photos I've ever posted. It's not meant to be. It's meant to demonstrate what it takes to find the rare and unusual, and to show what it means to be an observer. You've probably already noticed the red circle in the lower photo. I'm going to ask you to ignore it for a second and attempt to look at the upper photo with an objective eye. Even knowing where the red circle lies, can you spot the tiny cup fungus in the upper photo? Be honest. That's Tarzetta cupularis, in situ, a single specimen, the only specimen I found in roughly ten acres. The story doesn't end there, by any means. I did not have my GPS with me on the first trip, nor did I realize that Tarz was anything special. Once I learned that it has only been reported from one other location in western Washington, I knew I had my work cut out for me. I had to re-find it.

Having a reasonably eidetic memory for landscape features has served me well over the years. It's why I don't get lost. Even when I try to take a different returning route, I invariably drift back onto my original line, guided by some unconscious memory of sticks, rocks, patches of moss, slope of the land or other features which have registered in the depths of my brain. That said, when I found myself standing again at the location where I was sure I had seen Tarz, it took me several minutes to find it. Why? Because I was pointedly looking FOR a small creamy cup fungus instead of allowing it to suggest itself to me as something out of the ordinary. You've experienced this phenomenon on a larger scale when you've mislaid your car keys. You've eye-scoured the counter where you normally leave them, and they're not there. They're just NOT THERE! Ten minutes later, you walk back into the room and they're laying on the counter in plain sight. Once I stopped looking for my solitary Tarz (I was distracted by a different fungus), it caught my attention almost immediately: a 10 mm spot of a different shade of cream than that of the wood, dry grass, bird's-nest fungi, leaves and other cream-coloured forest debris. Nevertheless, I took a GPS reading and made note of several macroscopic indicators so that I could find it more easily. Although I've made several return trips, no others have erupted.

New Kids In Town

Day 263: I'm always happy when I find something I haven't seen before, and of course since I'm new to the world of slime molds, the gateway to fresh discoveries is wide open. I do not profess to any skill at identifying any but the most common of them; my modus operandi is to get the best photo possible and refer it out to a group of slime mold experts from around the world. By doing so, I am learning the identification points for genera and species. These tiny creatures turned out to be a Cribraria of some sort, impossible to sort out any further without a microscope. My lesson for the day was to look for the fine net-like structure which contains the spores. Now it must be said that hunting slime molds can be a risky business. While I was photographing these little critters which, I hasten to add, measured something under 1 mm in height (much smaller than pinheads), I perched on their log, cushioned by a thick layer of moss thinking nothing of what might be living within its green micro-jungle. Suffice to say that I now know what the bite of a nymphal earwig looks like, and that the swelling/itching responds well to repeated applications of Benadryl cream.

Berry Bonanza

Day 262: Originally when I removed the sod from 25 sq. ft. of yard, sunk three big flowerpots in the soil up to their waists and fenced the area off to keep it safe from browsing deer and elk, I dubbed it the "Blueberry Pen" for the three bushes planted in its confines. One thing led to another, as things are wont to do; a pot for tomatoes was included, an extension was added and the fence restrung to accommodate an old, unhappy gooseberry (also in a large pot), and then in a major makeover, my botany partner spent an entire day busting sod while I hauled it away, enlarging the Pen to roughly 400 sq. ft. The new space was destined to hold Red Lake currants, additional gooseberry plants (I love gooseberry jam), a few special-case raspberries (separate from the main Heritage everbearing raspberry cage), a mulberry bush ("here we go 'round...") and yes, a pair of tomatoes, cherry and beefsteak. The entrance to the Berry Pen (renamed) has been defined by an arched trellis now bearing two vigorous hardy kiwi vines, and a potato start is bedded under straw in an open spot, its leaves reaching for the sunlight as it develops more tubers. It's a lot of garden in a small space, a little prickly to walk through for anyone not understanding that gooseberries bite back; an intense garden, now intensely focused on filling my freezer with my favourite fruits. The gooseberries are just starting to blush, the currants are reddening, and the blueberries are nearly as thick as leaves on the stems of their bushes, a veritable bonanza of berries waiting to be jammed and muffinized.