The Golden Invasion

Koganemushi froze, senses alert for danger as it detected motion.  It raised its tiny oars in defense, then tucked and rolled, releasing its devastated leaf in a desperate bid to disappear beyond my sight.  Too late.  Before it could turn its free fall into flight, it hit the soapy water in my jar and floundered.  Maybe it chittered out the coleopteran equivalent of “Uh-oh”, or maybe not, but it would not bother the wild grapes in our backyard again.

Japanese Beetles

Japanese Beetles on Virginia Creeper

It was a handsome creature, beautiful even, and neither Nadia nor I took any pleasure in sending it and its many, many glittering friends to a soapy demise, but we took even less pleasure at the sight of the tattered and shredded leaves the Japanese Beetles were leaving in their wakes.  The grape, pawpaw, and virginia creeper foliage visited by Popilia japonica had been “skeletonized”—about as accurate a descriptor as one could ask for.

Skeletonized grape leaf

Grape leaf "skeletonized by Japanese Beetles

We were determined to defend our domain.

It’s all rather sad, really.  These pretty beetles (Koganemushi means “gold beetle”, I hear) never wanted to be here in the first place, in all likelihood.  They apparently showed up in the early part of the last century in New Jersey, having been trapped in a shipment of iris bulbs, and immediately went about doing what we all do when faced with trying circumstances.  Surviving.  It seems they have done quite well, having tumbled into a land of milk and honey and few predators.

Like us, they appear to be generalists, which is a time-tested strategy for getting by where fussier types would fall by the wayside.  No pawpaw around?  That rose over there looks might tasty.  No roses?  Let’s check out the beans!  Or the irises!  Or the….well, you get the picture.  For all I know, if they went clean through all the greenery, they might take on the squirrels next.

It’s an old, old story, one that has been, and still is, enacted by many species, including one that drifted out of Africa once upon a time, spread and adapted, devoured pretty much everything in its path, and sauntered across a newly-exposed land bridge that led eventually to our backyard.  Many of these odd-gaited creatures met the equivalent of a jar of soapy water along the way, generally wielded most lethally by their own brethren objecting to being pushed around by anyone, regardless of appearance.  But the rule in the natural world, then and now, seems to be: Invading is easier than getting rid of invaders.

But it may be possible to come to an accommodation.  Nadia and I pick the beetles off by hand, but there are other methods available.  One is using Paenibacillus popilliae spores in your yard to give the beetle larvae Milky Spore disease.  We have no experience with it and I hear it takes time, but apparently it can be quite successful.  Let me know.  There are various chemical sprays and powders that are supposedly effective, but we’re just not that riled, yet.

You could also try strategy, like convincing your neighbors that those nifty pheromone traps are the greatest thing since bipedalism helped us get here.  This should pull most of the beetles out of your yard and into theirs.  Remember to keep congratulating the neighbors on all the dead beetles in their bags so you can string this out as long as you can.  I did run into one neighbor who used the traps to decoy the critters away from her roses into another part of her yard, and she claimed it worked.  Along these lines you might also experiment with planting beetle fodder that you don’t care about to draw the insects away from plants you really are partial to.  Seems in our backyard that they prefer grapes to almost everything else.  This also helps concentrate them and make them easier to grab.  Watch what they go for in your yard and if you’re lucky enough that their favorite is not your favorite, use that to keep ’em distracted.

At least one attempt seems to have been made to bring in the mercenaries—old enemies from Japan in the form of parasitoid Tachinid flies that are host-specific.  This is a risky road to walk.  Specificity is a good trait in imported biological controls, even if it’s not so good for their survival in a strange land.  You want these things to go away when their work is done, but nature sometimes has ways of doing end runs around a sure thing.  Personally, I wouldn’t have brought them in, but nobody asked me at the time and they’re here now.

There is lots of information out there, and where there is knowledge, there is hope.  Let us flail away, but in the process it really is okay to sneak an admiring glance or two at how handsome these beetles actually are.

And remember—defend your turf with a kind heart.  After all, these little golden samurai aren’t doing anything we haven’t done.

 

 

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Courtship and Cookies: A Dubious Guide

There are cookies, and then then there are cookies.  These were cookies.  Handsome, dark, subtly sweet, not overpowering, but able to make you want another, and then maybe another after that.  Bad for diets.  Good for indulgence.

Nadia's Persimmon Cookies

Nadia's Persimmon Cookies

So, of course, when Nadia served them to a group of native plant aficionados and informed them that they were persimmon cookies, made from the fruits of our very own backyard persimmon tree, they raved about them and went for seconds.

“I don’t know why I didn’t use persimmons before,” Nadia said.  “There are persimmons all over the place around here, but I didn’t try them for years.  It might be because right after I came to the U.S., somebody gave me a persimmon that wasn’t ripe, and I was scared to try them after that.”

There was a slight, but audible, gasp among the onlookers.  “Oh, no!”, someone said.  “That’s awful!  No wonder you didn’t want to try them again!  Who would do that?”

I moved slightly back into the shadows…

*********

Anyone who hangs around outdoors in persimmon country will eventually try an unripe persimmon.  It might be a mistake or perverse curiosity, it might be on a dare, or you could be the victim of a prank–ahem–, but whatever the cause, it will be an unforgettable experience.  Your mouth will pucker, indescribable tastes and sensations will flood your taste buds, your teeth will feel like they were just coated with…..well, green persimmon.  You will want that stuff out of your mouth RIGHT NOW!

To get a rough idea, take a little alum, wet your finger, dip it in the powder, and put finger in mouth.  It’s in the ballpark, but cannot compare to the onslaught of a green persimmon.

So how do we get from this existential shock therapy to the delicate treats on the plate before us?  Well, you wait.  You bloody well cannot rush a persimmon and remain unscathed.  Just wait.  Wait until they are soft and smooshy and sort of orangy-purple.  Even better, wait until they are on the ground or until there has been a frost.  You can then pick them up or pluck them, brush off any other living creatures with similar ideas, pop them in your mouth and savor the sweetness.  After you suck the pulp off them, the large seeds are good for spitting at targets, if you like that sort of thing.  Beagles work well.

Safe Persimmons

These persimmons are safe.

 

Ripe Persimmon

This is what it's all about.

 

 

 

 

 

It is those seeds that make persimmons less popular than they might be otherwise, since there are a lot of them relative to the amount of pulp, and they make processing the fruits a bit more difficult.  Nadia uses one of those conical colanders with a wooden pestle that some folks use to process tomatoes for pulp and juice.  It works pretty well and the proof was right before us, diminishing rapidly.

******

“I don’t remember who gave me that persimmon,” Nadia replied, “But it must have had an effect, because I avoided  them for years.”

It was time to face the music, I suppose.  The Father of Our Country had his cherry tree.  I had my persimmons.  “It was me,” I confessed. “I guess you blocked that part out.”

Multiple pairs of surprised eyes swung in my direction, including Nadia’s.

“And what did she do?”, someone asked, squinting in contempt.

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath.  “She married me.”

Now, I do not—-repeat, do not—-recommend green persimmons as a standard courting technique.  Frankly, I doubt if it contributed to the final outcome one way or another, maybe because of the Nadia’s mental block as to who the culprit was.  I escaped retribution by reason of traumatic amnesia, I suppose, but I expect that persimmon cookies might just aid the cause of romance.  They are just that good.

And so, in the interest of romance, here is a recipe.  Feel free to experiment or substitute at will. May it serve you well.

Persimmon cookies with wild plum  or elderberry jam

Ingredients
1 cup Greek-style yogurt
1 tsp butter
1 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
2 cups persimmon pulp
2 cups whole wheat flour
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 tsp ground nutmeg
½ tsp salt
½ cup native pecans or peanuts minced
¼ minced crystallized ginger-optional

Preheat oven to 350 F and grease cookie sheets with canola or other oil.

Mix dry ingredients in a bowl. In a separate bowl, mix sugar, butter, yogurt, eggs, and persimmon pulp.  Add dry ingredients to this mix. Fold in nuts and ginger (if using).

Drop dough by teaspoonfuls onto cookie sheets and add a dab of wild plum or elderberry jam on top of each cookie.

Bake for 10 to 15 minutes. This recipe makes 8 dozen cookies.

And here’s a bonus recipe, for all you cake lovers:

Persimmon cake with rice flour

Ingredients
3/4 cup raisins
Apple juice (or brandy)
2 cups rice flour (or replace with 2 cups wheat flour)
1/2 tsp baking power (skip baking power if using wheat flour)
2 tsp baking soda
1½ tsp ground cinnamon
½ tsp ground nutmeg
½ tsp salt
1½ cups sugar
¾ cup melted butter (or replace with Greek-style yogurt)
3 eggs
1¼  cup persimmon pulp
2 tsp vanilla
1½ cups Missouri pecans (or walnuts)

Preheat oven to 350 F

In small saucepan over medium heat, bring the raisins and apple juice to a boil.  Remove from heat and let cool.

In a medium bowl, mix melted butter,  persimmon pulp, eggs, and vanilla. Set aside.

In a large bowl, mix dry ingredients.  Add persimmon blend and gently stir.  Fold in raisins with apple juice and nuts.

Add the batter in a greased 10 cup bake pan, bake for 40 minutes or until a knife inserted into the cake comes out clean.

Remove from the oven, let cool and invert into a plate. This recipe serves 12 or more.

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We Hardly Knew Ye……

So long, Cicadas.

Brood 19 is Passing into History

The Great Southern Brood has flung its fling, sung its songs, flown its flights, sowed its seeds. A few lonely latecomers still flit around, looking a little lost, wondering where the big party is, but the waves of red-eyed revelers of past weeks have mostly passed on.

I expect that not everyone is sorry to see them go, but I’ll miss them. Some things about them, at least.. Not necessarily the startle of having them land on my face or scrabble down inside my shirt. Not the certainty of getting a car full of cooked arthropods if I leave the windows down on a sultry day. But I’ll miss the exuberance, the silvery explosion of sound when I open the backyard gate and startle them at rest, the sight of hordes of them stirring around in the trees, looking like bees buzzing around a hive. I’ll even miss their music and trying to unravel its complicated rhythms and waves.

Some determined grumps see them only as pests, screeching too loud and littering the ground. They leave their messy exoskeletons clinging to our neat fences and manicured plants. They are graspy and noisy and alien and, well, just so untidy.

But me, I see them as part of the grand, sacred rhythm of the world. A bit less majestic, maybe, but no less fascinating than the great wildebeest migrations in Africa
or the mysterious simultaneous blooming and death of some bamboos. This is spectacle and a manifestation of the grand pulse of life. Our objections are petty and trivial.

Maybe in thirteen years, we will see their children in our backyard. Maybe they will perch on our shoulders to ask about the ancestors. And maybe we’ll take the time to tell them that we knew them, marveled at them, and, some of us at least, loved having them here.

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Troubling a Star

“All things by immortal power
Near or far,
Hiddenly
To each other linked are,
That thou canst not stir a flower
Without troubling of a star.”

— Francis Thompson

Having never been a father, I have to take my Father’s Day thrills where I can get them, and this year they came from helping Nadia save a few aspiring Zebra Swallowtails from being mulched.

Zebra Swallowtail

Zebra Swallowtail

While trimming a very ambitious grapevine back from engulfing a persimmon AND a paw-paw tree, I managed to damage a couple healthy branches.  So I trimmed them off and tossed them in the back of the pickup with the rest of the yard trimmings destined to be next year’s mulch.  Not long after, I noted a flurry of activity in the back of said truck and called Nadia over to witness the antics of two Zebras flitting purposefully among the debris.

“They’re laying eggs!” she announced, in obvious alarm, and she was correct.  A butterfly flickered over a paw-paw leaf, leaving behind perfect little spheres of future lepidopterans, spaced out prudently.  No-eggs-in-one-basket butterflies here.

Zebra Swallowtail Egg on Paw-paw Leaf

Zebra Swallowtail Egg on Paw-paw Leaf

We could not foresee a productive future for these mulch-bound eggs, so Nadia began shooing away the Zebras, who were so intent on sending their DNA down the line that they pretty much ignored her, even when she tried to grab them.  These insects were on a mission and the raw materials were at hand.  They had no clue where these leaves were bound—they were green and juicy and smelled right, and that was enough.  We finally covered up the plants with whatever was available, which ended up including a large sheet of cardboard, a hastily ripped open empty plastic bag that had contained compost, and one of our dog’s blankets.

That did the trick.  Off they went.

I suppose the eggs that were already laid on the mulch-bound leaves are doomed, but the rest—the ones that actually got placed on a living branch—should have a fighting chance.

Zebra Swallowtail Egg on Paw-paw Leaf

This one might make it!

So, on this Father’s Day I helped make a little contribution to posterity.  They will never need the keys to the car or drain the bank to go to college, but who knows what effect the Zebra Swallowtails of our yard will have on the future affairs of the world?  If the physicists and mystics are right, and all things are truly and intimately connected, we may have had a profound impact on what is to come.  I mean, if a flower can trouble a star, just imagine what a thundering herd of Zebra Swallowtails might accomplish?

P.S. And Happy Father’s Day to all you REAL Dads!  Like mine!

Randy

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The Sand Prairie of the Bootheel

Some things just don’t seem to fit in at first glance, showing up unexpectedly where one wouldn’t expect them to be.  However, having been accused of that type of behavior myself, I have grown increasingly tolerant of it in other things.  It can lead to fascinating discoveries.

I still remember being startled during an undergraduate botany field trip to Giant City State Park in deep Southern Illinois, when the instructor pointed out some scraggly-looking cacti growing on a sunny rock outcropping in the humid Shawnee National Forest.  “Prickly pear”, he said.

“Surely that can’t be native,” I responded, to which he replied, “Why not?” and proceeded to introduce us to the concept of microhabitats.  At least he introduced me to it, since I suspect many of my fellow seekers already had an inkling about it.  He explained that, even though the overall climate of the area was moderately wet, this-rock-right-here might as well be a desert as far as its inhabitants were concerned—-very hot and very dry.

Well, we now have a few prickly pears in our own little micohabitat and some recently bloomed.

Opuntia flowers in our backyard

Prickly Pear flowers in our backyard.

Although they grow around here, these particular specimens of Opuntia humifusa came from the Missouri Bootheel, itself seeming a bit out of place in the overall scheme of our state.  A mostly flat region of intensive agriculture that sometimes feels deeper south than midwest, there are areas of very sandy soils and one protected specimen of a rare ecosystem called a “sand prairie”.

Sand Prairie Conservation Area

Hard to find, but worth the search.

Sand Prairie Conservation Area can be tricky to find.  This is partly on purpose, I suspect, since it is a vulnerable spot and hosts endangered and threatened species, such as a beleaguered  hognose snake.

Snake trail in the sand

Snake (hognose?) trail in the sand

But it is well worth the search.  Exploring it was a little like being back in southern New Mexico, minus the ubiquitous cattle wandering everywhere on public lands, where Nadia and I spent a brief interlude of our lives years back.  Sand, dunes, desert-like vegetation (including lots of prickly pear!), and heat, at least the day we were there.

Prickly Pear Cactus

Prickly Pear Cactus at Sand Prairie Conservation Area

Right next to the tiny parking lot, it was clear that somebody was using the area as a shooting-range: pieces of clay pigeons and spent shotgun shells littered the area.  A few steps farther on and most signs of people disappeared, and it would be easy to convince yourself that you were far, far away from Missouri and the midwest.  It just doesn’t seem to fit, somehow, this odd child of glaciers and the Father of Waters, even though it is a tiny remnant of a once widespread ecosystem.

And something even more odd—-just beneath our feet was water.  Lots of it, in this year of flooding.  A friendly family right next to the prairie sold fresh eggs, so we stopped in to buy some, and the husband showed us a hole he had dug to see how far down the water really was.  He had hardly broken a sweat.  It was about 14 inches below the surface of the sand.

Remember the song “A Horse with No Name” by the group America?  Part of it went,  “The ocean is a desert, with its life underground, and a perfect disguise above.”.  Well, what do we have here, but a desert on top with a veritable ocean beneath, an ocean that popped out frequently in the landscape as standing water in fields along the country roads. There’s a microhabitat for you:  a blend of aridity with an abundance of water.  I’d guess sometimes the water table is high enough to make life a little uncomfortable for the plants that love dryness and at other times it’s out of the reach of plants that prefer a more hydrated life.  Between these extremes, or because of them, survives this remnant ecosystem.  I decided I really liked this hot, little oddball prairie.

Sand prairie landscape

Sand prairie in the spring

I don’t know why, but I have always been drawn to the dry places of the world.  For some reason, I never feel out of place in them, like I sometimes do in other places.  They often appear austere and stark, but that’s mostly illusion upon looking more closely.  There is plenty there to engage with, but little that clamors loudly for attention.  I think it is no coincidence that at least three of the worlds greatest religions were desert-born.  These are places where you can get down to basics.  These are places where quiet and simplicity are the rule, not things to be desperately avoided. These are places where misfits can retreat.  And thrive.

Patterns in the sand

Patterns in the sand

Note: The prickly pears in our backyard came from the sandy front yard of a friend in Haywood City, not far away from the sand prairie.  She was happy to give us some, and they seem happy here with us.  Out of place?  I guess no more so than our little patch of wildness in the land of lawn services.

 

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The Great Southern Brood

Cicadas mating on a milkweed.

The Great Southern Brood is in our backyard, playing out a small part of its epic history here during these hot, oppressive days of late May, early June—-days more reminiscent of July and August than of this supposed pre-summer interlude.  Brood 19, clawing its way out of the earth and into the air, shedding suits of armor from 13 years of clinging to underground roots and launching into a short, but noisy and boisterous existence of sex and song in the trees.

Brood 19 cicada molting after emergence.

Some folks comment about their “short lives”.  That they live “just a couple weeks or so.”  It’s almost like the dark, moist years out of sight in the soil don’t count, although they make up by far the major part of the existence of these insects.  If arthropods brood (sorry) over their time on earth, I wonder how a cicada feels about the idea that only the time of soaring and singing counts as life?  They sort of reverse our habit of making whoopee early on, then latching on to working-world roots to suck the juice from for the next 30-40 years.  I don’t want to stretch that awkward analogy too far, but I think many of us actually do define ourselves by that brief, shining time of youth and adventure—at least for those of us lucky enough to have that, but would Magicicada feel that way?

These buzzing celebrants save the best for the end.  They get the drudgery out of the way, then go out in grand style. This bunch hatched, burrowed and went to work in 1998, the year before Nadia and I arrived here and started hanging around our (their?) backyard.  They were quietly underfoot this whole time, occasionally showing up in a shovelful of dirt as we dug a garden bed or planted a shrub.  At least I think many of those juicy-looking grubs were cicadas.  We always tried to put them back in the soil, hoping that our interruption into their affairs was not a fatal one.

We witnessed another great hatch once, back in our Southern Illinois days.  We would walk out at night amongst the trees near Giant City State Park and by the light of a flashlight watch the emerging insects crawl up any vertical support they could find, a category that included us.  They craved altitude, maybe to help with their first launch into the air after they pried their way out of their old clothes.  We could see their wings slowly expand, as they filled with cicada fluid and began to dry.  Looking down, we would find them on our legs, prickling as they climbed toward the sky and their big fling.  They had done their years of dull duty, and it was now, by God, time to party!

We are now having the privilege of seeing a second eruption of boisterous cicadean life, and if we are still around these parts in 2024, we will say hello to the children of today’s choir.  I might even have some pictures of the old folks to show around, frolicking and finding romance in our backyard.

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