I sit at the end of a blade of grass under a blistering 98-degree sun. I wait. The humidity is thick. I wait. The breeze is dead. I wait.
I wait for you.
I wait all day, still as a stone. When I feel your breath, your heat or your footsteps, I throw open my front legs like a spring-loaded trap the snaps open instead of closed when triggered. I wave my legs around eager to grab you. The hooks at the ends of my legs make sure to snag your hair, your clothes, your skin.
I am the tick, and I have waited for you all day.
What our eight-legged friend* describes above is the questing behavior of ticks. They sit at the edge of leaves or grass patiently waiting for you or your dog or a deer or a raccoon to walk by. I admire their patience and their clever behavior.
I took the photos below in my backyard after looking for black dots at the ends of grass blades and seed heads. The tick is the Lonestar tick, Amblyomma americanum. Once you know what to look for, it’s amazing, and terrifying, how many ticks you can find riding on the tips of grass blades. Even scarier is the number of ticks you can’t see.
*Ticks are arachnids, like spiders and scorpions and mites. They are not insects.
Here is a great video put together by the New York Timesexplaining how female fiddler crabs not only prefer males with larger claws, but also with claws that wave faster. This is based on work by Australian researcherswho used robot claws to wave faster or slower. Waving is part of fiddler-crab courtship. So remember, the next time you’re in a bar or the grocery store and you see someone you’d like to court, wave your little claw off!
It rained all day yesterday and the snowdrops are now dappled with raindrops. A splat of moss that has made its home on a slate of stone is without shame and has flashed its naked gametophytes (gam-meat-o-fights), sporophytes (spore-o-fights), and sporangium (spore-anj-e-um) for anyone to see. Don’t worry if you don’t understand the sex life of the mosses. I don’t either. So long as the mosses have it figured out, we shouldn’t worry. Throughout the neighborhood, the daffodils have put up their green swords ready to charge into spring. But they charge blindly because they yet to reveal their crowned heads. But I can’t criticize, when I blindly stuck my head out this morning I had to retreat and put on a knit hat. Spring may be coming, but it is winter that is here.
*****If you enjoyed this post then please consider donating to your local food bank. Even if you didn’t enjoy it, consider donating anyway.
Seven inches of snow, soft as a cottontail, came to Williamsburg and gently closed all the roads, schools, and businesses. The snow was too dry to turn my yard into a gallery of lopsided snowpeople, so I took the time to enjoy winter’s artwork.
It’s 3:00 P.M. on Thanksgiving Day and I’m bored and slightly cold. We will eat at 4:30 P.M. I’m not sure what to do with myself so I’m sitting behind the couch using the box for the cat’s scratching pad as a mouse pad and writing a blog while my mother reads and my mother-in-law vacuums.
What to write about? Snails. A good go-to for me.
Two days ago when it was 60 F, I laid on the red-brick patio and watch a snail that I had dislodged from a planter that I moved. It had been hiding under there, probably to overwinter. But I brought it out into the open. It was nice just to watch the snail without any sort of agenda. So often in my science I’m making observations so I can scribble them down, analyze them, write a grant, get rejected by the grant, write another grant and finally give up and move on to another subject. Just like a football coach who points out the errors in the defensive line of a team he doesn’t coach, I can’t help but analyze Nature instead of just enjoying the game. My head instead asks, What species is it? How old was it? How big? How many are in the yard? What predators does it fear? But I let myself relax. I watched and I enjoyed. I watched the slide of its stomach-foot over the electric green moss that cushions the red bricks. While I didn’t take any data, I did take pictures.
And what will this snail eat for it’s Thanksgiving meal? It’s 43 F here today so it may be too cold for it to eat, but if it does feast, it will be on rotting leaves, mushrooms, and if it finds its way to my compost pile – the carcass of a Halloween pumpkin. Some meals don’t require basting.
By the way, if you haven’t read the beautiful book The Sound of Wild Snail Eatingyou should. It’s a wonderfully written book about a bed-ridden woman who befriends a woodland snail.
Instead of keeping an eye on my 2-year-old son* at the playground, I watched a jumping spider walk on and jump between a pair of abandoned sandals. It was as though the spider was testing the springiness of insoles as potential launchpads for catching flies. I tried to take his picture, but the spider was shy and launched himself into the grass.
Jumping spiders are in the family Salticidae (sal-tis-uh-day), which sounds like a rejected day of the week. The name refers to the spider’s leaping skills. The movements of animals that jump are described as saltatorial (animals that dig – like moles – are fossorial). The word ‘saltate’ come from the Latin, saltus, which means to leap or dance. Do you saltate up and down with joy when you find one more M&M in the bag when thought they were all gone? I do, too. The saltatorial grasshopper, frog, kangaroo and jumping spider all jump and dance in the grass, the pond, the Australian outback, and on the playground sandal.
What happened to the woman who was in the sandals? Maybe a spider sat down beside her and she jumped clean out of them. And given that many of us saltate when we see a spider – regardless if it jumps or not – there may be a spider writing a blog somewhere about the ‘jumping human’ and its saltations.
*My son is fairly careful and let’s off an alarm that brings judging parents from miles around when he’s anywhere close to danger. He also still requires a hand to hold when he saltates (no M&M’s required).
It has been a busy summer for my lab. Here is a taste of the beauty that I get to see when I sample the marsh. Most of the pictures below are from the Great Marsh in Massachusetts unless stated otherwise. What a gorgeous ecosystem sparkling with life.
A plant bug sits atop a muddy fiddler crab (female, Uca pugnax)